Important Stuff and the Imaginary Rulemakers
The Paul Truesdell Podcast
Principal Storyteller and Analyst:
Paul Grant Truesdell, J.D., AIF, CLU, ChFC, RFC
Founder & CEO of The Truesdell Companies
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Rough Notes
Important Stuff and the Imaginary Rulemakers
By Paul Truesdell
Good morning, afternoon, or evening, ladies and germs; in reference to those of us who successfully refused DNA altering, myocarditis, enhancing, genetic, modifying liquids. In other words, the germy super spreaders responsible for the collapse of the world’s population five years ago.
Where was I? Let’s see, I digressed with my welcome. Now, where was I going before I lost it?
Oh yeah, now I remember, I had a boomer moment.
Ready?
Let’s get real for a second. We are living in a world governed by imaginary people with imaginary rules who somehow got real power. You know who I mean—the clipboard people. The rule whisperers. The bureaucratic sorcerers behind the curtain, like that little twerp in The Wizard of Oz. Except he got caught. Today’s rulemakers? They never get caught. They just keep moving the finish line and asking if you brought the right form—on recycled paper, single-sided, in triplicate, notarized, and oh, by the way, do you have your Social Security card?
My Social Security card.
Sir, do you have it? No, I do not. I have not seen that thing since Reagan was in office and MTV played music. Maybe—just maybe—it is in the box. You know the one. The mythical important stuff box. We all have one. It is probably in a garage, or in a closet, or in a rental storage unit you forgot you still pay for. Somewhere, there is a cardboard sarcophagus filled with W-2s from 1979, expired passports, a child’s tooth in a ziplock, and a floppy disk labeled “TAXES.”
You lose stuff. I lose stuff. We all lose stuff. Because there is too much damn stuff. The older you get, the more stuff you accumulate. And here is the kicker: the older the stuff, the more likely someone will eventually call it “essential.”
“Do you have a copy of the original mortgage from your first house?”
Do I look like I carry papyrus scrolls? No, I do not have that. I barely have receipts from last week.
But you know what? There should be a universal symbol—something sacred—for important stuff. Like a neon sticker that says, “HEY MORON—DO NOT LOSE THIS.”
We have symbols for everything else. STOP signs. YIELD signs. Biohazard warnings. They even put a symbol on shampoo bottles so you do not drink it.
But when it comes to your birth certificate, your Social Security card, or the title to your car? Just a sad, faded piece of paper that looks like it got sneezed on by a government mimeograph machine in 1953.
And the DMV—oh, the DMV.
“Sir, this document is not valid.”
Why?
“It is laminated.”
Well, I laminated it because it was falling apart!
“That voids it.”
So preserving it destroys it. Got it. Same logic as a tax refund.
Now let us talk about passports. Finally someone with a clue. At least it is a book. Pages, binding, cover—the whole nine yards. When you hold it, it feels important. You flip through it, and other countries stamp it. They judge you. And that is the best part. Judging based on paper. Because nothing says modern civilization like being judged by ink impressions from countries with active volcanoes and zero indoor plumbing.
But hey, I lost mine. Again.
“Do you have your birth certificate to get a new one?”
My birth certificate? The document created the day I got here—before I even knew what paper was?
You are asking me to produce a fragile 8½ x 11” relic from the Eisenhower administration?
That is like asking me for the original receipt from my circumcision.
And do not forget the rule: if you do not have the original, you can request a certified copy—but only if you have… the original.
Let that sink in.
And while we are here, can we all agree on something? Paperless society—my ass.
We were promised less paper.
But now it is just your paper, their paper, and six different cloud storage accounts you forgot the passwords to.
You sign up for one thing online—bam—ten paper statements arrive next week, plus a letter asking why you did not go green.
Let me tell you, I have seen the promised land—and it is full of expired usernames and documents with creases so deep they qualify as topographic maps.
Important stuff, folks. Important stuff.
Meanwhile, we are living in a system where everything is urgent—but nothing is organized.
A nation of baby boomers fighting for a seat in the waiting room with a man named Carl who brought every document he ever owned… in a garbage bag.
God bless Carl. He is prepared. Too prepared.
But he cannot find the one page he needs because it is wedged between a 1974 Polaroid and a life insurance policy from a company that went out of business in 1993.
And just once, just once, I want to walk into an office and be asked for something I actually have.
“Sir, do you have an expired Blockbuster card, a prescription from 1986, and a small paperclip bent into the shape of Tennessee?”
YES I DO!
But ask me for proof of insurance, I will hand you a yogurt lid and say, “This feels important.”
You see, the system does not care what you have.
It only cares if you have it now.
And if you do not, well, you can go home and cry into your copy of For Whom the Bell Tolls. That is if you can find it. It is probably next to the Magna Carta and a bottle of White-Out.
So here is the truth:
We are not navigating life—we are navigating a maze built by lunatics, lined with red tape, and managed by people who think “filing” means “putting stuff in a drawer and slamming it shut with rage.”
And you wonder why I am sarcastic?
I am not mad. I am just exhausted from pretending that this all makes sense.
So I leave you with this, my fellow boomers:
If you ever find your Social Security card, your birth ce...
