I know you don’t like things wordy, so happy birthday! You’re now 30.
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You know what would be in your best interest: If you celebrate separately with your wife and mistress.
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Now that you are 30, it should be illegal for your clothes to be that dirty.
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You don’t have to be a loser just because you hit 30. You can also be a boozer and simply quit working.
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I don’t want to be uncouth, but it’s shame that you did nothing with your youth. Old age crept up on you, and fame slept right on through.
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Don’t expect the waitresses to be flirty, because they all know you’re turning 30.
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I hear that the moment you turn 30, everything in your body just starts hurting. All that you thought was a sure thing is what time tricked you into skirting.
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30 will place a greater emphasis on affection, mainly because your life now needs a course correction.
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This is the end of standing sturdy. It all falls apart at 30. Now, you’re only lame and nerdy.
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At 30, the girls will no longer bother. You’re old enough to be a grandfather.
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30 is the graduation from being cool. Now, you are an out of touch fool. Don’t act like you’re bringing it old school. Not to be cruel, but it just makes you look like drool. No, I don’t want to duel; you’ll just fall off your bar stool.
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I know your memory will get really blurry when you hear all the things I said about you turning 30.
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30 means you have fallen off society’s meter now, and your notoriety will start to peter out. Wear nothing but wife beaters now, and watch as your belly makes you teeter down to the ground without a sound.
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30 is not a birthday, it’s a funeral. The only cake you get is one in the urinal.
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Being 30 makes it okay to be a fatty, but you got a head start on that one daddy.
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Did you just crash your Bentley when you realized this was the end of your twenties?
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30 is the end of your story; from now on, you’ll only be revisiting glory. Everything else will be boring. Prepare for a life of mourning. Living this long was your last victory. Go ahead and say it, “Poor me!”
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Your life at the office has only just begun, even though being 30 makes you want it to be done. That’s why I didn’t buy you a gun.
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30 is a real kick in the shorts; prepare for abandonment by all your cohorts. Watch as you can no longer play sports when your muscularity collapses and contorts. The whole world will sell you short, and your reputation will be laughed at by the court. Women will undermine you in your fort, and you may even find a surprise wart. All I can say is you might want to get away. Here is a map to the nearest port and plane tickets if that mission needs to abort; but first, pack plenty of tort!