Getting old

My parents came out from Florida to visit me a little while ago, and a good time was had by all, but my Mom did something that got me thinking. My Dad is 72 years old, and my Mom saw fit to give him some shit about what he’d ordered in a restaurant one night. Y’know, “Bob, you don’t need any red meat!”, that kinda thing. I don’t think I’m gonna live that long, but if I make it to my seventies, I figure all bets are off. No more worries about trying to live longer, because by that age, every time you get into a car, you have to be seeing the Grim Reaper in the back seat, twiddling his bony thumbs, sharpening his scythe, just waiting. “Yes, you have time to go into Wal-Mart, but I shouldn’t dawdle, if I were you.”

At that age, ther should be no more worrying about consequences. At 70, I’m gonna be living on fried chicken skin, and cigars, and Mad Dog 20/20, y’know? I might even pick up a soothing heroin habit, just for the hell of it. And, assuming I haven’t been blindsided by Alzheimer’s, I am gonna mess with everyone! I'll do and say whatever I want to anyone. Anytime I catch a kid playing in my yard, I’m not gonna yell, I’m just gonna run out and hit him in the head with a shovel. And when the cops ask me why, I’m just gonna say, “I thought he was a squirrel.”

I’m gonna go to a store and call over people to help me, and when they come, I'll say, “This isn’t my underwear!”

“Sir, this is a Blockbuster’s, so…we’re not really, well, set up to help you find your, y’know, underwear.”

“But I told you, this isn’t my underwear!”

“Well, how can I help you with that, sir?”

“I want you to admit that this isn’t my underwear!”

“You’re absolutely right, sir. That isn’t your underwear.”

“Thank you…” and then I’ll just wander off, muttering quietly. And the guy will spend the rest of the day going, “You ain’t gonna believe what this old guy did today…”

I’m also gonna take a couple of Viagra and wander around the mall, smiling at all the ladies. “Hello, young woman! Isn’t a lovely day? Makes me feel 65 again!” I’m gonna hand out little tubes of Preparation H at Halloween, and call the cops to complain that my neighbors tree is dropping leaves in my yard, and drive 30 in the fast lane with my left turn signal on, and pull my pants up to my nipples. I’m gonna sit on my front porch, drinking and reading ‘Juggs’ in an undershirt at 10:30 in the morning. If I can work it, I’m gonna live with one of my kids, and corrupt a grandchild. “Quick, kid, while you mother’s busy, take a sip of this Rye. It’ll make a man out of you. What’s your name again? Sally? What the hell kinda fag name is that for a boy?”

Even when this stuff catches up to me, and I get put away, the fun will continue. “Nurse, my diaper seems to have reached capacity. Could you clean me please?” Of course, it’ll end with one of the nurses smothering me with a pillow after I grab her ass for the 500th time, but it’ll be worth it. Yes, it will.