As a trump card, it is hardly the equivalent of an ace up the sleeve.
Even I recognise its lameness.
It is unsurprising the offspring are unimpressed.
Desperate times have never stopped the dreamer, however, and every now and then I hear myself trotting out "I haven't lived 55 years on this earth without learning a thing or two about how things work."
They know the truth is that I muddle through life being as baffled as anybody else.
Any notion of wisdom says more about my self delusion than anything else.
Once we might have found people hurtling relentlessly to their twilight years embarrassing because they were fuddy duddies, as they descended into a world of slippers, sensible shoes, misshapen cardies, braces, support hose, trousers ridiculously hiked up to necklines and skirts which dipped and drooped.
Today's embarrassments are more likely to dress like teenagers, take on a tasteless tattoo to commemorate a significant birthday, drink too much and believe that male impotence, cellulite, breast size and wrinkles are serious medical issues.
Any aspirations I might have to sagacity (not to be confused with saggy city, which has clearly already taken root) are not helped by the behaviour of some high-profile 50-somethings who appear to be stuck in a fourth-form time warp.
How can oldies remain straight-faced in their criticism of the excesses of the young when faced with the fifties follies evident in such luminaries as Pam Corkery, Michael Laws and Rodney Hide?
Pam deserves plaudits for giving up the demon drink for a year, but how many of her sober brain cells were working when she dreamed up the idea of a brothel for women?
It may be there is a small market for the tacky service she is talking about, although I would have thought women might prefer a discreet visitor in their own home rather than risk a more public setting.
Of course there are women who want sex and who do not have it.
But is candyfloss sex the answer when you are not in a live-in relationship? What about intimacy, the many literally touching moments, the pre-sleep snuggle on a cold night, the daily farewell or welcome kiss, and the "everything will be all right" hug?
Don't women want to be seen as desirable?
What would be exciting about knowing the chosen chap is only with you because he's being paid and is pumped full of Viagra for the occasion?
How is that less demeaning than a free one-night stand with someone who in the cold light of day you would cross the road to avoid?
Isn't there something infantile about all this?
It reminds me of a child in a lolly shop stamping its feet and insisting it must have everything in the store, while clutching a 10c piece.
It seems to me there's something of that child in Michael Laws' behaviour too.
Hearing about his intoxication with the unusual background of an ex- prozzie and P addict doing home detention makes me wonder if he'd be better getting his kicks by drinking the booze Pam's given up.
Hell's bells, Michael - you're old enough to recognise lust and give it its real name, aren't you?
And while I am on the subject of attention-seeking cringe-meisters, what about Rodney Hide's recent performances?
There is a limit to how far you can take the people in by flashing a mouthful of porcelain veneers or dazzling them with the reflection off your fake tan.
Perhaps to give us and their family and friends a much needed break from news of their latest follies and foibles, Rodney, Pam and Michael need to spend some time out of the limelight.
What I am suggesting is a reality TV show without the TV involving sending the threesome to any remote island suitable for quarantine.
We would allow them food and shelter, but no contact with the outside world.
Their only extra entertainment would be my $10 50 Silly Songs CD set.
Whenever they were in danger of taking themselves seriously, they could play such classics as "May The Bird of Paradise Fly Up Your Nose", "Minnie the Moocher" and "My Canary has Circles Under its Eyes".
As there would be no cameras or recording equipment, we would never have to hear about Michael's bowel movements, Pam's menopausal state or Rodney squirming out of his latest political faux pas.
If there was dancing, sex or even cannibalism, we would mercifully be spared the gory details.
Their re-entry into real life would only be allowed if they promised to avoid all future media contact.
Quite how long it might take to get them ( to quote Rodders) "back on track", I don't know.
I don't really care.
I have a dream.
Elspeth McLean is a Dunedin writer.
