IF YOU CAN’T LAUNCH ’EM, JOIN ’EM by Chris Joseph The film "Failure to Launch" has brought to light a hidden malady that is squeezing the life out of American families like a 50-foot-long umbilical cord with a python complex: the increasing number of "adults" who think it’s still okay to live at home, even after they turn 30. Parents, let’s face it–the only way these overgrown latchkey kids will ever fly the coop is if they doze off while smoking one of their funny cigarettes and the house burns down.
Fortunately, there are ways you can cope, without having to brandish a firearm. As a public service, I’ll attempt to answer some of the more common questions that may arise... My 42-year-old son Timmy hasn’t left the basement since his high school graduation. All he does is watch "Star Trek" reruns day and night. How can I get him to come up for air? Our basement is starting to smell like an aging gym sock. It appears that Timmy is suffering from PSTRS-Perpetual Star Trek Rerun Syndrome. Try telling him that the Klingons are planning to invade his putrid sofa bed (wearing gas masks, no doubt) and he needs to evacuate. If that doesn’t work, mention that you heard there’s a Trekkie convention down at the unemployment office. But you must act quickly. Ahead warp factor one! Jasper, my 37-year-old, is constantly bringing his trashy girlfriends home for dinner. How can I get him to stop? This calls for some humiliation. First, dig out Jasper’s old split pea-stained bib and slip it around his neck as he sits down, while cooing, "There, that’s a big boy!" Then, break out the Flintstones Chewables and offer one to his date. If still no luck, she’ll surely be frightened off by the evening’s menu: zwieback toast, strained apricots with tapioca (be sure to spoonfeed while making annoying "choo-choo" sounds), and lime Kool-Aid served in a sippy cup. My son Seymour is 43 and hasn’t had a job since he retired from his grass-cutting career at age 14. How can I acclimate him to today’s working world? This will be tough, since I’m guessing Seymour has the job skills of a Harvard beet. I recommend a career in journalism. Just pack up his Scooby-Doo lunchbox, reattach the basket to his 1973 Schwinn Pea Picker, and send him off to the newspaper office. They’ll have plenty of routes available. After much debate, I’ve finally agreed to raise my son Lester’s allowance from 75 cents to a dollar. I know I’m spoiling him, but he’s still my baby, even if he is 48. Did I do the right thing? Hey there, big spender. No need to feel guilty about helping your child. That extra quarter each week should go a long way toward changing Lester’s lifestyle. He might start investing in no-load mutual funds or speculating in real estate. Or maybe you could teach him to do his own laundry. I mean, a quarter must be worth 20 minutes of quality dryer time down at the Suds ’n Spin. My 36-year-old daughter Babette wants to invite some girlfriends over for a slumber party, but I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. All that giggling and squealing might keep me up all night. What should I do? I see no harm in letting Babette have her party. Look at it this way: If she’s still having female friends spend the night at her age, I doubt if you’ll be paying for a wedding anytime soon. As for the giggling and squealing, aren’t you a little old to be acting that way?
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