A week ago, I was expecting to start collecting Social Security at age 70, or maybe 65 if I got lucky. Now, thanks to George's version of The Golden Years, I probably won't see a dime till I'm 90.
One day, George is the epitome of successful career transition, a father figure for all of us, a stouthearted huggy bear.
The next day, he turns our lives inside out by making middle age look viable, if not thoroughly macho.
One day, George is a respected missionary and Christian role model.
The next day, he is my personal demon.
Now, courtesy of George, every man 45 or older is going to be expected to take out the trash, shovel the snow, maybe even be sexually functional - on demand.
Foreman is not only a menace in the ring now but a serious threat to the well-being of middle-aged America.
Just when we get used to enduring digital prostate exams and seeing floaters; just when we get comfortable being seen in public wearing relaxed-fit jeans, along comes George.
He turns 45, sheds a couple of hundred pounds and knocks out the WBA and IBF heavyweight champion before the rest of us can knock off half a six-pack.
He not only KO'd Michael Moorer but gonged a perfectly good lifestyle built around home-delivered pizza, pay-per-view sports and Lawn Doctor.
Now every has-been harrier and 50ish, ligamentless softball shortstop is going to be out there wreaking havoc in the coronary-care industry.
Who's going to go out and scrape up all those crumpled 45-year-old hulks from the jogging paths?
They'll have to start teaching CPR in kindergarten.
The guys you used to see in their cars waiting to pull up to the Blockbuster drop box you'll now see waiting in line at Toys 'R' Us - to buy jump ropes.
You think you'll ever again see George in one of those hilarious Oscar Mayer's Big & Juicy hot dog commercials with his cute little Georges Junior?
Forget it.
He'll probably turn up in no time flitting through airports as the replacement pitchman for rental cars. Only George will do Avis, "because nothing Hertz Foreman."
You thought George was good for muffler marketing, wait 'til you see him pitching heavy hands and trail mix and Promise margarine. They'll give him his own line of XXXL PowerBars; he'll be official spokesman for Chevy trucks: "Like a rock!"
Advil and Flex-All 454 commercials are for geezers like Nolan Ryan and Joe Namath.
Not for George.
It won't be long before he turns up in a GQ center spread for No Excuses jeans.
Or posing in his new line of sexy shorts: "Guess What By Georgio."
I hate him.
What Jim Palmer did for briefs, George can now be expected to do for boxers.
