Did you pour out a little bit of that craft beer for "yo homies"?

Of course not. It'd stain the carpet, and the damn stuff costs $14 for a four-pack. It's worth it, though. It's made with organic hops, fair-trade barley and the zest of Sicilian lemons, and it comes in recycled glass bottles with a pen-and-ink drawing of a lama on the label. Goes good with Sriracha chicken wings and a charcuterie board. A charcuterie board, in case you don't know, is salami dealt out on a piece of wood like a hand of bridge.

G! You ain't no G, not when the craft beer is pouring and the charcuterie is ready to eat-erie.

So, you sat there, flatulent and fat and 45, and watched the Super Bowl halftime show.

And it was hip-hop, the hip-hop of your youth, back when your clothes were G and your mouth was G and your dorm room was 23G and you could see the college library from your window, yo. That red brick dorm building was the closest you ever came to living in public housing.

But when Snoop came out, looking like a big lizard in the face, and started rappin', you felt it. And when 50 Cent came out looking like he'd put on weight, you REALLY felt that.

Flat-bellied Fiddy is gone, yo, and that job you got in IT isn't exactly giving you those fresh-out-of-jail muscles, either.

It's America. The charcuterie just keeps comin'. How is a single-family-home-owning brother supposed to keep his belly melted down to hard rows of cobblestones? You're married for the second time, and you've become invisible to teenage girls, and it's my hope your daughter wasn't in the room when you started rollin' and shakin' it with Mary J. Blige.

Even Eminem looks older. He used to look like a piney woods white boy who just robbed a gas station. Then, he started to like he worked in a gas station. Now, he looks like a guy who owns a gas station.

Age is an oncoming train, and you're tied to the tracks.

It's fine, though, really.

I remember my mom and dad watching Jimmy Durante on "The Ed Sullivan Show," and he was old, and his jokes were hokey, and they moved their lips a little when he sang, remembering some freer time in their lives before my mother began to work in banks and my father became a bartender who hurt his feet working in cheap shoes.

After the game was over, after you went to bed and fell asleep before you could rock your wife's world, yo, after a night's sleep and a shower and shave, after a breakfast burrito at your desk, you and your work homies in the IT department talked about the hip-hop halftime show.

And thank God, thank Jesus, thank Allah, and thank the One Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken, there is still Ron, the one guy in the office who regarded the halftime show as an unflushed toilet of depravity and who insisted the hip-hop isn't "real music." He "would have preferred" some patriotic music, maybe a little baton twirling.

Dayum! You were G once more, and you said to Ron, "Yo! If you know, you know," and you swaggered off to the office Keurig to make yourself a creme brulee-flavored coffee.

And you did it like a boss!

A little later in the day, after Ron said Mary J. showed too much thigh, you called your wife.

"Baby," you said. "Get out the leftover charcuterie. Daddy's comin' home huuungry!"

Yeah. You G.

To find out more about Marc Munroe Dion, and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit www.creators.com. Dion's latest book, a collection of his best columns, is called "Devil's Elbow: Dancing in The Ashes of America." It is available in paperback from Amazon.com, and for Nook, Kindle, and iBooks.