There comes a time in every person’s life when he has to face his own mortality. It could be something as simple as a gray hair, or maybe the hot young waitress calling you “Sir.” My sign was more of an assault and robbery. Age kicked me in the ribs and took my wallet.

It wasn’t bad enough that I went a week without shaving my head and noticed that large areas weren’t growing back very much, but I also turned 30…on a Monday…in my cubicle. That, however, was just the appetizer. The main course was still to come.

I was shopping online for some new clothes so that I could be cool, hip, and trendy, because that’s what you do when you suddenly feel like the creepy old guy in the room. Thankfully, with my new healthy lifestyle, I can wear the cool gear; before, I was alienated because the cool stuff only came in “Athletic Fit,” which was basically a nice way of saying, “Beat it, Fatty.” Now, I don’t look like sausage stuffed into a too-small casing, but just barely. I am one cupcake away from losing, so I want to enjoy it while I can.

So I was checking out the T-shirts on a popular website (I won’t say the name, because they don’t advertise with me, but it rhymes with Smurban Smoutfitters), and I had added a few things to my cart, and I was feeling great about myself…and just like every other time I feel good about myself, it suddenly all came crashing down.

I saw a shirt listed as “90’s Retro.” It was cool, hip, and trendy, but not because the shirt was cool, but rather because it was ironic…like, “Look at what they used to wear – ha ha.” It was cool because it pointed out how lame people were in the ’90s.

And therein lies the rub. I had this shirt. I LOVED this shirt. If I wouldn’t have outgrown it, I would have still been wearing it. I felt like a crash-test dummy must feel right at the moment of impact. (Well, like they would feel if they were people instead of inanimate objects.)

I realized they were right. It was a lame shirt. Looking back, I was lame. I had always had fond memories of my youth. I thought I was cool, but apparently, I was a dope. That one moment shattered my image of myself.

Thankfully, my opinion was already fairly low, so it wasn’t that far of a fall. When you are at the bottom of the ladder, it doesn’t hurt when you fall.

On another note:  When I started writing this column, it was as Downtown Bruno, and it was political satire. Now, I write it under my real fake name of Sunny Weathers, and the name “Street Beet” doesn’t make as much sense to me.

So what I am looking for from you are suggestions for a new column title for me. If you have one, shoot me an email. The winner probably gets nothing, but might get a nice bottle of liquor from me, but only if you share a glass with me.

NOTE:  Expletive-filled titles won’t work. Also, “Crap,” “Trash,” “Garbage,” and “Junk” are not up for consideration. I want a title, not the truth.