As a kid, you get to know things as “normal” because you do them all the time. My mom cooked canned green beans with a little bacon fat and a little sugar. I didn’t know what a fresh green bean tasted like until I was in high school and I didn’t learn to like them until much later.

So when I went to my friend’s house and got this alien green bean almondine, I politely ate a bite and a half and thought, “I’m never coming here for dinner again. These people are insane.”

Of course, the way I live my life now would have been just as insane to 8-year-old me. Sleeping without a night light? Wearing a tie? Eating macaroni and cheese that isn’t straight out the box? That kid would have an aneurysm.

But I’ve come to view the arguments I made as childish, which isn’t surprising, because I was a child. Sadly, too many people still make those arguments now, and they’re supposed to be adults.

Normal is whatever you are. Normal is however you live your life, because normal is relative. There are things I do that would seen foreign to lots of you and vice versa. But guess what? You don’t have to live my life. You have your own. Live it however you see fit.

A co-worker told me today that she doesn’t have a TV at home. I couldn’t live like that, I told her, but if she can survive with two kids and a husband and no idiot box, go for it. Who am I to judge? I probably watch too much TV. But that’s how I choose to live my life and I like it just fine.

But since Congress is busy screwing up healthcare and scientists are busy coming up with “the new cigarette,” we have to take steps of our own to sort this mess out.

That is why I think we need to condense. Let’s take all of this pop culture ephemera and blend it together — like a smoothie, but useless celebrities and stupid fads in place of yogurt and berries.

For instance, there are vampires everywhere now. There are literally more vampires on TV shows right now than there are high school kids pretending to be vampires.

And with vampires comes all the other MGM movie monsters, so we have to deal with wolfmen and mummies and zombies and Frankenstein’s monsters.

At the same time, we have far too many useless “celebrities” who are famous for a) sex tapes, b) having too many kids and c) being rich and stupid.

I can’t keep up with them all, nor should I have to. So let’s mash the crap out of this stuff and get what we really want — an undead Jon Gosselin with a harem of middle-aged, not-particularly-attractive vampire ladies, while his shrieking ex Kate walks around screaming, “Fire bad! Jon bad! Fire bad Jon!” And, I don’t know, maybe the kids are zombies? They certainly will be soon enough.

Paris Hilton? She should be a mummy. And that’s more for our safety than anything. In fact, let’s wrap all the Kardashians up in bandages, too. If you have a “celebrity” sex tape, you need your brain removed through your nose. (As if most of these people still have brains.)

Tune in next week as I cram together the confusing plotlines of “Lost,” “Flashforward” and “The Sopranos” with the Washington political elite!

It’s not that I have anything against children in theory. They learn things and say cute malapropisms and sometimes they sleep. But the practice of having kids seems…ugly.

There’s poop, for one thing. And crying and snot and sometimes they don’t sleep. And you get in trouble if you leave one alone for a few days at a time because they “can’t feed themselves” or “roll over.”

And kids in general tend to have unhappy consequences on things I love. Like pictures of inappropriate nudity. And ribald humor. And alcohol.

People are always saying, “Think about the children!” And I do think about them. I think, “Why are these children screwing up a good time?”

But if I had to nail down my biggest objection to my wife having a kid, it’s that I don’t want her sleeping with some other guy. I mean, she can’t possibly be thinking about having a kid with me. Let’s be honest, nobody is eager to have my genes polluting the pool for generations to come.

I’m like Hitler and Tila Tequila rolled into one. I’m history’s greatest monster. A smaller version of me won’t do anybody any good.

And, most of all, are they reading? Because if they are, slap the book out of their hands! Reading is the most dangerous activity around!

It’s just like the parents in Norman told me — reading is destructive and awful. Well, they didn’t “tell” me that so much as they showed it to me by keeping author Ellen Hopkins away from their school.

After all, Hopkins wrote a book about her teen-age daughter who got hooked on meth and ruined her life. This isn’t the sort of thing for teen-agers to read about! What if those printed words about the evils of drug use somehow got into their brains, but the kids were confused and started using drugs?

Better to keep them away from all books, I think. The parents at Whittier Middle School know best. Kids who read do drugs, or something. Stick those kids in front of the TV set instead where they can learn from doctors (like on “House, M.D.”) or police officers (like on “The Shield”) about right and wrong.

In other news, I’m pretty sure the Internet is bad for you, too. And since it used to be transmitted by telephone lines, it’s a safe bet we shouldn’t use phones either. I’m not sold on houses, for that matter.

Just so we’re agreed — we’ll live in caves, not communicate, ban reading and just watch TV. That’s how you strengthen America!

Turning 31 was not as big a deal as turning 30 was, which was (in turn) not as big a deal as 29 had been.

Thirty-one is no 21 or 25, that’s for sure. Those years held some significance, if only because they held new opportunities for me. At 21 I could (legally) drink. At 25, I got married.

At 30, I worried a bit about my reaction to turning 30, not realizing that my worrying was the reaction.

It was 29 that punched me between the eyes. That was when I started to panic that I would not, in the last year before 30, accomplish all those things that I thought I would do. And my panicking was well thought out, as I proceeded to not accomplish anything.

It’s a tradition I’ve kept up ever since. I’m reading no great novels, nor writing any. I’m certainly not trying any harder at this job. My back lawn is still a mess (and no, that’s not a euphemism) and I can’t grow a tomato to save my life.

And so, another year. Here’s to mediocrity! Wooooo–*cough*cough* ooo!

…another year.

(Editor’s note: Then how do you explain the rest of the crap you write?)

With that in mind, I hope you enjoy this video of a Texas deposition. WARNING: Some of the language in this video is foul and very, very humorous.

I know they have two pro football teams and access to the Gulf of Mexico, but I think this video puts Oklahoma and Texas about even. (They may still be a little ahead of us if you count Rep. Sally Kern.)

But another way you might be like me is that the current health care debate has you bored out of your skull. And that is because you, like me, are not dying of anything at this particular moment.

I’m sure if I had cancer or AIDS or a burning desire to teach interpretive dance to Hell’s Angels, I would care about universal health care. Those people care because they need it. But we’re young and invincible — we’ll never need a doctor or surgery or a flu vaccine.

And so we can’t be blamed for ignorance and apathy — well, we CAN be blamed, we just don’t care enough to do anything about it — because that’s for somebody else to worry about.

So, you know, let’s let old people decide. I mean, surely they’ll be as invested in keeping us healthy as they are in getting hip replacements and being kept alive by increasingly expensive machines.

Or let’s leave it up to rich people. Certainly they care more about making sure we can get health coverage despite a pre-existing condition than they do about saving a few bucks on their taxes. I mean, there’s no question, right?

And don’t forget the religious nutbags! We shouldn’t worry that they’ll try to collapse the whole thing because it doesn’t outlaw abortion — which the U.S. Supreme Court has ruled is legal — because they care so much more about helping the poor.

Everybody cares about poor people. It’s why their lives are so great.

No, if you’re like me, you’re just going to sit back and enjoy “More to Love,” the fat-friendly “Bachelor” rip-off with a big pint of ice cream and a bucket of corndogs.

Because we’re young and invincible. I’m sure everybody else is looking out for us. Right?

Now, I like dance and pop music as much (or even much, much less) than the average guy, but lately I’ve found my radio dial tuned to pounding synth and constant remix channel that is KJ103. Why? Because everything else is so damned depressing.

Everybody complains that there’s too much bad news in the world and the newspapers and TV stations only ever report bad things. Which is complete and total bull, but that’s because nobody is actually reading newspapers or watching TV news — they just need something to say when people talk to them.

But I will admit, I have been getting very depressed when listening to the news lately. Not that the news is so bad, just that all the people involved in the news are so stupid.

For example:

Health Care Reform — It’s going to cost a bunch of money! But people need health care! Can we blame it on the immigrants? No? Let’s scream about it being partisan, then! PARTISAN, PARTISAN, PARTISAN!

The California Economy — There’s no money! Wait, there is money, but we don’t want to take it! Taxes are bad! Services are good! Nobody can make a decision! Can we blame it on the immigrants?

Michael Jackson — Still dead! Can we keep talking about him some more? He had kids! He might have molested children! Who gets the money? He was broke! Let’s blame it on the immigrants!

I want to listen to NPR. I want to be informed. But I just cannot stand to listen to another “balanced” story that involved two people talking back and forth about how the other guy is wrong about everything. And apparently, people still don’t like immigration. Big surprise.

So I’m listening to KJ103. It’s like pouring a milkshake over third-degree burns. I’m sure it’s not doing much to help, but at least it feels good for a little while.

These famous people are all dead. And what can their deaths teach us? Don’t have radical plastic surgery and then spend years eating nothing but narcotics-grade horse tranqs? Don’t have  a crazy mistress? Don’t get old?

No. Those are lessons you learn from your parents.

The real thing to learn from this trio and the legion of minor-to-mid-level stars who have passed away recently is this: Don’t Be Famous.

Think of every famous person you’ve ever heard of. Guess what? They’re all dead. Yeah. And you’re killing them just by knowing who they are.

As a science-fabulist, I can tell you that awareness emits a toxin that is both photo- and aural-sensitive. When we know of celebrities, we force their brains to release this toxin. The more people who know about them, the more the toxin gets into their system.

Alone this is bad news, but when combined with other symptoms of fame — excessive picture taking, screaming fans — suddenly, the toxin becomes deadly.

Ever wonder why famous writers live so much longer than famous actors or sports stars? It’s because they only get their picture taken once for the book jacket. Plus, the only screaming they hear comes not from fans, but from dissatisfied spouses.

Of course there are a few celebs who are immune. Paris Hilton has miraculously survived, as have Heidi and Spencer. There’s a theory in the science-fabulist community that being well-known but loathed provides a blood-brain barrier to the toxin. That also explains Kobe Bryant.

So what can you do? For your own safety, remain as un-famous as possible. If you do gain some small measure of fame, do like Joe the Plumber and be as annoying and unloved as possible.

And for the celebrities you do love, the best thing you can do is to stop loving them. Stop watching TMZ. Stop buying OK! magazine. It’s the only way to keep old what’s-her-name and that one dude from dying. You know who I’m talking about.

While I’ve never eaten a McRib, even on its many comeback tours after playing Europe, Asia and Australia, I have fallen prey to the delicious “limited time” offers from some of our more dubious food sources.

Lately, I’ve been trying to eat better. Partially to AVOID DEATH, but also because I’m a vain, vain man. (How vain? I think this song is about me.)

As such, my fast food intake has dropped precipitously. And when I do get something delivered via drive-thru, it’s a special treat. My wife, knowing how much I love spicy foodstuffs, suggested a trip to Taco Bell for one of their Volcano Burritos.

Let me tell you a funny short story about that: No.

OK, now I’ll expound. I did not eat the Volcano Burrito. Because it’s not a Volcano Bean Burrito or a Volcano Chicken Burrito or even a Volcano Beef Burrito. No, it’s a Volcano DOUBLE BEEF Burrito. And it packs 800 calories and 42 grams of fat.

And when I used to go to Taco Bell, I wouldn’t just get one of those, I’d also get a couple of tacos, maybe a bean burrito and a Coke. Yum. So let’s just go ahead and double those numbers, at least.

Everybody is pushing some new crap these days. McDonald’s has the McCafe drinks, which are just like coffee, except with lots of sugary syrup and whipped cream on top. Burger King has mini-burgers, so you can eat 14 of them! Wendy’s keeps putting bacon on things. KFC has decided to market the “Krusher,” which is a milkshake with a weight problem.

Can you eat these things and still be healthy? Absolutely. You just have to make sure your other meals that day consist of water, spinach and dirt.

Which makes you wonder, what kind of companies would market these products to us? Check with a lawyer, because either Taco Bell thinks you live like a monk EXCEPT when you visit their restaurants, or they have a life insurance policy out on you and they’re trying to make it pay off sooner than later.

Judging by Pizza Hut’s new Pork-n-Cheese crust with gravy inside, my vote is for the latter.