I'm Not Gonna Lie by George Lopez

drink is the giveaway. It’s always an old guy’s drink, a Manhattan or a highball or some cocktail the twenty-five-year-old bartender doesn’t even know how to make. The world is zipping by and this poor guy is standing still. You see him fingering his iPhone, trying to figure out how to send an Instagram. Not his fault. Technology comes at you in a blink. There’s always something new you have to learn, and our fifty-year-old brains don’t move as fast as they used to. Ten years ago he would’ve been able to handle Instagram, no problem. Now he’s sitting in a bar and he’s clueless, holding the thing upside down and sideways, shaking it, trying to get it to work.
    When you turn fifty, you have to learn to accept the natural flow of life. You must accept who you are.
    And, brothers, you have to accept your penis.
    If you live long enough to get to the point that your penis doesn’t work, so be it. Allow it to stay flaccid, in honor of its previous service. You should not force it to stand at attention. Let’s celebrate this honorable member. It’s fine. And don’t worry about taking the little blue pill. Women understand. If a woman would refuse a fake Louis Vuitton purse, she should refuse a fake erection.
    BROTHERS, YOU HAVE TO ACCEPT YOUR PENIS.

    A lot of dudes use enhancement—call it Hamburger Helper, well, Hot Dog Helper, I guess—and they don’t tell their wives. The wife thinks, “Oh, my God, he’s as vibrant at fifty-four as he was at twenty-four. Of course, he always seems to need an hour notice.”
    Just accept it. Be man enough to say to your wife, “My penis worked for forty years; we had some great times; we traveled; we made love all over the world. So let’s shake hands, get the same haircut, and move on.”
    I’m into younger women. It has nothing to do with their supple, hard bodies. Well . . .
    They’re more open to new things. They’re not set as cement in their ways. Older women come with too much baggage. In the relationship with my current girlfriend, I think it’s so much better that I’m the one with the baggage. I don’t have a big enough place for two people’s baggage.
    At this point, the relationship with my girlfriend is pretty new. I have yet to experience that feeling of dread that comes over you when you wake up in the morning, turn over, see this person sound asleep next to you, and say to yourself, “Look at her. So beautiful, so peaceful. I wish she would leave.”
    I’ve not felt that way. Not yet.
    We’re pretty compatible. She’s young, likes to stay up late and sleep in. I’m old; I like to get up early and play golf. This is ideal. Although like most women, she hates golf.
    I can’t figure out why that is.
    I just know that when a woman sees her husband or boyfriend heading out the door with his clubs, she says, “You’re not playing golf, are you?”
    â€œWell, yes, I am.”
    â€œAgain?”
    â€œI play every Sunday; you know that—”
    â€œFine. Go. Have fun.
Enjoy.
”
    I don’t get it. What did we do? We’re going to a golf course, not to a strip club.
    For some crazy reason women feel threatened by golf. It’s almost as if golf is another woman. Or worse: They think our relationship to golf matters more than our relationship with them. Or maybe it’s this simple: Women see that we have a good time playing golf, which means we’re not having a good time with them. They can’t stand the thought that we might actually have some fun without them. Maybe if we lied.
    â€œGeorge, where are you going? You look miserable.”
    â€œI feel miserable. I have to play
golf
.”
    â€œAgain?”
    â€œI know, right? What a pain in the ass. If I didn’t have to do this, I wouldn’t. You know that. I’d much rather have brunch with you and then go shopping for