Every other day I see another commercial that gets me worried about retirement. Some authoritarian voice tells me how much I need before I can stop working, and I don't need to whip out a calculator to realize I'm far short.

"Multiply your age by 3000. That's the amount of savings you should have in the bank."

Brutal, huh? You thought it was sad when people lied about their ages; buddy, I'm sitting here trying to convince myself that in the right light I could pass for one.

Three thousand dollars saved for every year of your life. It sounds like a preposterous amount of cash, but the commercial defends itself. "Studies have shown that you'll need two million dollars in the bank if you want to retire comfortably."

Two million dollars? To retire? Who did this study, the St. Tropez Societe de Champagne et Caviar? I've been living on maybe ten thousand dollars a year for my entire life, and I don't see myself switching to Dolce & Gabbana undershirts after my chest hair goes white.

To press a little salt in the wound, the commercials offer "advice" on how to save money. "Disconnect that cable box! You'll save a thousand a year." Uh, not if that cord is spliced into the neighbor's cable. "Bring lunch to work once a week. The savings could add up to five thousand dollars a year!" What, is everybody eating at El Mocambo? I'm getting take-out from the Mexican joint by the car wash, where they give me two bucks off the combo platter because I'm dressed worse than they are.

The commercials end, but the mood lingers on. Anger. Frustration. I don't know ANYBODY who's got this kind of money, and I've had my car washed in Connecticut. Where was it all supposed to come from? How were we supposed to get $3,000 a year before we even turned eighteen, especially when every birthday card I've ever gotten had slots to slide nickels in?

Eventually reality sets in, and I realize what the commercials are: bullshit. Because I've read a few conflicting studies. Like, 98% of all Americans have less than eight dollars saved, and that's if they've been to CoinStar recently. These ads aren't run by non-profit foundations: they're sponsored by investment companies that want you to bring in money so they can earn commissions. How can they get you to save more if they don't make you feel inches away from homelessness first?

As much as I despise these ads, I desperately want to follow their advice. The problem, though, is I CAN'T, and I'm not sure anybody can. The days are gone when we could walk into our boss's office, demand more responsibility and ten percent more take-home pay. The days are gone when we strolled down Sixth Avenue past all the millinery shops and said, "Dash the rent! Sweetie, I'm buying you that fabulous hat!"

No, the only splurge I make is paying full price for the newspaper instead of waiting for people in Starbucks to use the restroom and then running off with theirs. There's a reason the New York Times prints articles like "How to Make Dinner Using Food From the Ninety-Nine Cent Store," though I'm relatively sure it's really a humor piece aimed at the city's society debs and stockbrokers.

Still, in the end I'm not really worried. Sure, I could have more money. Maybe I could even save more. But I remind myself that I'm pretty well covered by the Hot Gay Guy's Retirement Plan.

Take your penis length. Multiply it by 10.

That's the probability that somebody else will be paying the bills when you turn 65.