Posted tagged ‘seniors’

The Vikings Versus the Eldâr-KrΦnes, Part I.

November 27, 2009

One sunny day, at the shore of the Northern Sea, by the village of SmelBaäd, young Bjarni noticed a strange disturbance in the water.

“By Loki! “, he exclaimed.   “There seems to be some hideous creature rising from the deep!  What is it?”

“Why…I cannot believe my eyes! ”  his father said.  “I have heard of these….it’s an Eldâr-KrΦne!   Quick, we must run to warn the others!”

Soon afterwards, more and more of the Eldâr-KrΦnes emerged from the sea, and made their way towards the unspecting village village.

And soon they began to take over.

In no time at all, travel became difficult, if not impossible.   The Eldâr-KrΦnes blocked all routes with monstrous carts that they had somehow acquired, which they drove at less than walking speed.

“How am I supposed to invade the Celts on time, with this grandomther in my way?”, grumbled Æskole.

Commerce ground to a halt and children went hungry.  The Eldâr-KrΦnes crowded the local merchants, and took forever to buy something.  And when they did, they insisted on paying with hundreds of almost worthless copper coins.

Village security was at risk.   The Warrior-Men were weak from lack of food, and could not concentrate on their practice-jousting, as they were constantly hissed at to be quiet.

Youngsters were forced to listen to long rambling tales of Yore, and were literally bored to tears.    In exchange, they were offered rancid sweets, which threatened to break their young teeth.

As the Eldâr-KrΦnes continued their ruthless invasion, life in SmelBaäd become more difficult.

The villagers were  concerned, and approached Olaf Thunderfröck, the Chieftain.

“These grayish being are making life unbearable!”, they cried.    “Cannot you do something about it?”

“I say, burn and pillage them!   Send them to Valhalla!”, said Fjolkman the Fishmonger.

“No, better yet!  Let us make drinking goblets out of their skulls!!!” screamed Bjorgolf the Bererker, and let out a mighty “…NYARGGHH!”

“I would gladly do so, but you know we cannot”, explained Olaf.   “These demon-creatures…they have special powers.  They are cunning, yet they dodder and appear frail and old.   And our Viking Code thus prevents us from harming them. ”

“But they disrupt our village, torment our children, and tell us to keep off our own grasses and fields! ”

“Agreed, but what would you have me do?”, asked Olaf.  “We  cannot use force…we are powerless against their evil magic”.

Suddenly, a young voice cried out:

“But look what they did to Ursaäl!”

It was young Bjarni, pointing to the Village Bear.

“They knitted that horrid outfit, forced Ursaäl to wear it, and now they’ve made him CRY!”

“Noooo!”, someone gasped.

“The horror!”, a mother exclaimed.

Bjorgolf the Bererker was furious.   “Clearly, those cursed Eldâr-KrΦnes have gone too far!  No one messes with the Village Bear, except us!   …NO ONE!”

“Aye…Viking Code or not, this brings the battle to a whole new level”, Olaf agreed.

“Clearly, we’re going to have to take drastic measure to rid the village for these Gray Ones, once and for all.   But first, I must seek counsel…”



What will Olaf do?
How will the Vikings get rid of the Eldâr-KrΦnes?
Will poor Ursaäl need therapy?


Things I Look Forward to Doing When I Get Old

November 10, 2009

Drive Less Than the Speed Limit
And not one iota faster.    If the other drivers don’t like it, tough.  I’ll have paid my taxes, I’ll use this road and drive any speed I want, God-dammit.a

Forget How to Park
Goes hand-in-hand with the above.


Cut in Line at Fast-Food Restaurants.
There is an art to this.  The secret is to wander up front to the counter, while doddering and looking just confused enough that people feel sorry for you.  Then all of the sudden, you regain your mental faculties, and place your order ahead of everyone.  (HAH!   Suckers…!)

This can apply to any line, actually.
Wear Abominable Golf Clothes
I already have my wardrobe picked out for the Back Nine.   Lime-green pants with white belt, cinched up under my arm-pits.  Chartreuse golf shirt, black socks and white sandals.

Not to mention the big white hat with matching lime-green pom-pom.     Golfing is optional.

Learn Senior Profanity
As a Senior, the F-bomb just won’t cut it anymore.   Now I’ll be encouraged (nay, expected) to use profanity only the over-80 crowd can get away with.    I can’t wait to use curse-words like  “Land Sakes”,  “My Word”, and “Consarn it”.   And let’s not forget the timeless classic:  “Jumping Jehoshaphat”.

Pay with Exact Change
Apparently, it’s against the law for Seniors to break bills as long as they possess coins.     But the bonus is that they get to watch the young people get all flustered and annoyed, while they fish for exact change from their patented Gray-Head™ Change-Purse.   I can just imagine the entertainment I’ll get holding up the line (which I’ll have already cut into in the first place).

Shop only at Lunch and at 5:00 PM
Never mind that I’ll be retired and can shop anytime I want.    No, I’m gonna fun and mess with the young folks some more, and I’ll coincide my errands with their lunch break and when they just get off work.   All while cutting in line and paying with exact change, of course.

Be Opinionated as Hell with Impunity.
I learned this from my Dad.   After he turned 65, his attitude was:  “If people don’t like what I say, they can go to Hell.  It’s their problem, not mine.”

It’s true.   When you’re that old, you can say politically incorrect things that would have otherwise gotten you punched out if you were 25.   But now, people will just accept it and sigh: Well, he’s OLD…”

65 is when it starts.   And the older you get, the more you can get away with.a

Fear and Loathe the New Technology
Sometime, 30 years from now, there will be the next newest gizmo, the equivalent of the latest i-Phone or Guitar-Hero.   It will be really easy to operate,  maybe requiring you to press just two buttons.

And I won’t be able to use it, because I can’t learn how.    (Or won’t learn how).

Mistrust Teenagers
I’m only 45, but already, they’re starting to annoy me.

That’s how it all begins, I suppose…

Things I WON’T do, when I retire.

March 25, 2009


Hose down my driveway.
Note to seniors:  a driveway means cars can DRIVE on it.   It is outside…it is ALLOWED to get dirty.


Become a Lawn-Nazi
An obsessive-compulsive perfectly-groomed lawn (along with a hosed-down driveway) is a sure sign that someone has way, WAY too much free time on their hands.

If I ever get to that point, I’ll watch Oprah.  Or volunteer.  Or something.

I dunno…maybe bake Braille cookies for the blind.  Or knit sweaters for homeless chihuahuas….ANYTHING but groom my lawn.


Hang out at the office where I used to work.
If I’m going to pal around any former co-workers, it won’t be with the whole damned group, it will be with a few selected best friends.    And it will be at home, at the pub, or at Tim Horton’s…whatever.

One thing I can tell you…it will certainly NOT be in the dingy basement cafeteria where we all used to work.

(Do the words “GET A LIFE” mean anything to anyone?)


Buy a FLY and drive in a caravan with all the other FLY’s
(FLY = F**king Land Yacht = those monster RV’s that are so damned big, they have their own Zip Code.)

Oh, don’t get me started!  I can’t even begin to list all the reasons I hate these gas-guzzling behemoths.  (It will probably have to be a separate blog post in itself).

But let’s say experienced severe head trauma, and I somehow changed my mind and eventually DID own a big Land Yacht.

Then least I’d get off the beaten path, and I’d explore the scenic back-roads my own.

The LAST thing I’d want to do is play follow-the-leader at 35 mph on the Interstate….with a herd of other FLY-driving Greyheads doing exactly the same thing.


Fear new technology
I had a relative who had all her marbles right to the very end, and she was a very smart woman.   She survived Nazi occupation, and immigrated to Canada and successfully raised a family.

But she just had this one mental block in her old age:  she could not operate a tape deck.

She’d play her audio book till the tape ended. Then would literally wait hours for someone to come home, so they could take the tape out and flip it over to the B-side.

I don’t understand.   I mean……a three-year- old can do this!

I think it was more of a case of “would not”, rather than “could not”.    I hope I never get like that.


Participate in lame-ass activities  just because that’s what all other retirees seniors do.
I can see myself enjoying fishing, curling, or golf or camping.   These are activities that everyone enjoys, both young and old.

But it’s the other pastimes  I don’t understand:  bingo, square-dancing, tai-chi for seniors, etc…

Nobody EVER did these when they were in their 20’s.   So what’s the story here?

When you turn 70, does the “Old-Fart” switch go off in your head and suddenly you decide you WANT to lawn-bowl?


Continue Investing in High-Risk Equities
You constantly hear stories about seniors losing their retirement fund, because they had invested in stocks and the market crashed.

Well, I’m sorry…but DUHHHH!!    WHAT were you thinking? (Especially in today’s market!)

When you come down to it, it’s basically all about greed….these people had a nest egg, and they wanted it bigger.

On a scale of 10, as a financial expert, I rate maybe a 1.2.   But even a doofus like me knows that when you approach your golden years, you’re supposed to transfer your investments into low-risk funds and bonds, and not gamble your life savings.

(Sorry, I don’t plan on buying cat food, when I don’t own a cat.)


Work shitty jobs
OMG…if I’m 70 years old, and I’m a Wall-Mart Greeter, or I’m flipping hamburgers at McD’s with the other 16-year-olds, then I’ve FAILED at life.

If I work these $7.00/hr jobs because I HAVE to, then I’m totally screwed up my retirement planning (see above) and I’m one step away from eating Whiskas to stay alive.

If I work these jobs because I WANT to…then maybe its’ time to change my Depends, and put me in a home.  Because I’m no longer competent and responsible for my own actions.


Gloat to the Younger Generation
I promise, I will NOT tell young people how great it is that I no longer have take part in the Rat Race.  I will NOT tell them how the company’s changed, and how I’m so glad I don’t’ have to work at that place any more.

Those poor bastards will feel bad enough as it is,  knowing they have to put in another 25 years at the Factory.  Why make them feel worse?


Make Recreational Activities Sounds like Work.
I will refuse to tell everyone how “hectic ” my life is, because I’m busy playing golf and visiting friends.

(Sorry, this is what working people do for FUN, after they’ve put in their 8 hour work-day).


Talk about Death
Typical Senior conversation:

“Did you hear about Bill Garnaggle? He got cancer of his big toe-nail…it went into his kidneys, and he died on the golf-course when his spleen exploded.”

“Oh, really?  What a shame.  Did you hear about Betty Garfarkle down the road…it’s sad, really..they found her lying in a pool of her own excrement….”

As for me, when I get old, this will be my approach:

“LA-LA-LA (covering my ears), I can’t hear you, Death, LA-LA-LA.”


Make excuses for procrastination

Doncha love it when retirees miss an important deadline for something,  and their excuse is they were “too busy?”

Sorry…you DON’T WORK anymore.   You are NOT too busy.   You didn’t  do it, because you didn’t WANT TO.

At least admit it, and be honest about it!


Start liking bag-pipe music
I have zero Scottish ancestry, and I don’t like bag-pipes now.   I can’t ever see myself changing my mind about the subject, even 40 years from now.

(Unless it’s because that  “Old-Fart” switch suddenly gets activated…)


Holding up the line, cashing in 34 winning lottery tickets at $2.00 each.

Playing the lottery once in a while is fun.   But I won’t be blowing half my old-age pension check every week on the chance of winning the Big One.

(What…?  So I can win money and retire AGAIN?)


Go to Early-Bird specials

Sorry, 4:30 PM is a late lunch.  NOT an early supper.


Obsess over the daily newspaper
I feel sorry for the Type-A’s who never did anything with their lives but work.   Now they they don’t know what to do with themselves.

For a lot of them, reading the paper becomes  the highlight of their day.  They get upset when it doesn’t arrive on time.   They get upset when other people touch it before they do.   And they’ll spend 3 hours reading it (followed by the evening news on TV, in case they’ve missed anything since reading the paper).

That’s just SAD.    GET a hobby.

(No, wait…that’s the problem.  They never learned HOW).


Continue to do the present job I’m doing right now, as a retiree on contract.

If I’m in my 70’s…and I’m still doing the same work…then why don’t you just put a bullet in my head right now, because I deserve to be put down!

Who are the People in Your Neighborhood?

August 21, 2008

There’s this meme going around, where you’re supposed to describe yourself by answering simple questions.

I don’t know who started it.   But the first I heard of it was from Steph.   Then Monika.

Of course, I couldn’t leave well enough alone.   I had to make my own version:


I am:      Olaf the ThunderFröck, son of AelFrùd the Horrible.
I think:   It’s time to invade England.
I know:  Those Englishmen have a stash of booty hidden in their church, somewhere.
I have:   A broad-sword, and a battle-axe.  (Who among you, shall challenge me ?)
I hate:   Englishmen
I love:   Thumping and pummeling Englishmen.
I miss:  The Vinland
I fear:    (???)  I don’t understand.   What’s this word mean?
I hear:   The battle cries!….HNYARGGH!  Excuse me.  I must go burn and pillage now.


I am:      Caillou, that whiny little cartoon character.
I think:    I’m an accident.
I know:   Mommy has a drinking problem, and Daddy’s been having an affair with the social worker.
I have:    A remarkably spherical head.
I miss:    Riding the Little School Bus with my Special-Ed classmates.
I hate: Making boom-boom in my Pull-Ups (like I just did now).
I love: Sippy cups, cheerios stuck up my nose, and cartoon characters even more obnoxious than me.
I fear: My lack of hair.   (Why am I bald?  Is it chemo?  Am I going to die?)
I hear: Mom and Dad arguing in the next room, over who gets stuck with me in the custody battle.


I am: Tippy, a hyper-active Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever.
I think: I’d like to retrieve a BALL right now.
I know: There must be a BALL stashed around the house somewhere.
I have: A nose that can detect the odor of a rubber BALL, to within one part per billion.
I miss: When nobody is around to play with me and throw the BALL.
I hate: Cats, vacuum cleaners, and fireworks.
I love:   Swimming, and retrieving.  (Did I tell you I like to retrieve?)
I fear:    I have lost the BALL.  Wherezit?  Where?  Where?  OMG!  I must FIND IT FIND IT FIND IT.
I hear:   My masters’ car, ten miles away.  He’ll be here soon.  Maybe he’ll throw the BALL.  YAP! YAP! YAP! YAP! YAP! YAP! YAP! YAP!


I am:       Old Man McGillicuddy, the cranky old guy down the street. (That’s MISTER McGillicuddy, to you!)
I think:    Today’s young folks have it easy.  Not like WE had it, back in our day….
I know:   That I’m smarter than all you young folks think you are. .
I have: Way too much time on my hands.
I miss: MattLock.  Big Band Music.   Getting it up.
I hate:    Today’s music.  Today’s values.  Those damned kids who won’t stay off my manicured grass.
I love:    Hosing down my driveway.  Old-man hats.  Werther Originals.  Canary-colored golf pants.
I fear:     ATM’s.   Anything electronic.  And especially, driving more than 30 mph.
I hear:    Eh?   What’s that?  EH?


I am:      Chinese Olympic Medalist.
I think: I better just do what I’m told
I know:   I would be in the salt mines, right now, if I hadn’t have won.
I have:    A gold medal.  Anything less would be unacceptable.
I miss:    My family.  But they promise I can see them again, now that I’ve won.
I hate:    Failure.   Like getting Silver, and being second-best in the world.
I love:     My country and winning and representing China (at least, that’s what I tell them).
I fear:     My coach.
I hear:    They’re looking for gymnastics coaches in the U.S.


I am:      A Canadian Olympic discus thrower.
I think: I should just enjoy this while it lasts.
I know:  Nobody will remember me, after this is all over.
I have:   A positive attitude.  After all, isn’t the Olympics about doing your best and having fun? (I keep telling myself this).
I miss:    Tim Horton’s.
I hate:    Coming in 38th.   (Last Olympics, I made it at least as far as 36th).
I love:    Being able to get away from the crummy summer we’re having in Canada, and experiencing some warm weather for a change.
I fear:     That if talk too loudly about wanting to win, my fellow Canadians will scold me and accuse me of flag-waving.
I hear:    They’re hiring at Tim Horton’s.


I am:      Fallopia Moonchild
I think:   Like, if we would just stop judging everyone, and accept each other’s energies and karma,  the world would be a better place, you know?
I know:  That the Republicans are large corporations are conspiring together to create global warming, to cause the extinction of the whales.
I have:   Multiple tattoos and face piercings.   And lots of free time on my hands.  (Even more than Old Man McGillicuddy).
I hate:    Stereotypes, racism, and negativity.   And also spiders in the bathtub.
I love:    All of humanity.   The vibrations of the Universe.  And granola.  Sweet crunchy granola.
I miss:   The sixties. (Too bad I was born in ’82).
I fear:    Having to shave my legs, and getting a job.
I hear:   The sound of my own inner drummer, beating to the pulse of Mother Earth.


I am:      The Friar:  full-time engineer, part time smart-ass (or is it the other way around?)
I think:   I’m hungry.   When do we eat?
I know:   Shit floats,  you can’t push a rope, and water flows downhill.  Aside from that…not much else.
I have:    An attitude problem. (Seriously…someone ought to give me a good talking to.)
I miss:    Playground swing-sets before they got all fucked up and were made too “safe”.
I hate:    Lima beans.   Asshole squirrels.  And the Berenstain Bears.
I love: Red meat.  Southpark.  Large-mouth bass.   And making hamburger out of sacred cows.
I fear:    Evil Cirque de Soleil clowns (Shudder).

Only in Splat Creek Ontario (*)…

July 31, 2008

(*) Note:  Based on an earlier post.

…Can you go to a picnic area after work, and meet two drunken yahoos who invite you to drink beer with them, fire BB pellets at cans, and teach you how to throw a hunting knife at trees so that the blade sticks in.

…Will the only major Burger King within 30 miles refuse to sell you hamburgers, because their “grill is broken”.

…Can you personally email a restaurant manager about the poor service you received, and the next day get scolded by people all over town, who tell you that you “oughtn’t to have complained like that”.

…Will fellow fishermen act so friendly at the dock, that they’re not the least bit shy about taking a piss where they’re standing, three feet away from you.

…Will the only donut franchise on a 100 mile stretch of highway run out of DONUTS after 8:00 PM.

…Will the only Chip Wagon (located next to the main park and soccer field) close at 6:00 PM during peak summer hours.  (Actually, I heard if you showed up at 5:50 PM, the owner would grumble at you about it being almost closing time).

…Will the Town Library stay open all day, but close between 5:00 PM-7:00 PM,  just when everyone is getting home from work.

…Can you buy Baby Formula at the Cheezi-Mart, but when your kids are weaned and you stop buying it, the store manager gives you shit. (Because you should have TOLD him…now he has stuff back-ordered.)

…Will you find a video store that sorts its movies chronologically rather than alphabetically.   (Good luck trying to find a movie unless you know what year it was made in.)

…Will the local restaurant refuses to give you a table for the buffet because you didn’t “reserve”, even though the place is 90% empty and nobody is waiting in line.

…Can people living in a small town of 4,000 feel superior to the people living in the adjacent village of 900.

…Can you drive through the bush, and meet a Grizzly Adams look-alike wearing combat pants and hunting boots, who invites you to his shack for supper, offers you beer, and (if you want), some weed.

…Can you write a Letter to the Editor to the local paper, and then have some old retired fart harass you on the phone, and try to come by your house to talk to you, because he doesn’t agree with what you said.

Friar’s Random Rants (Part II)

July 16, 2008


When the Bad Guy on TV ties up the Damsel-in-Distress, he always does a lousy job.  But she’ll still sit there helplessly for hours.

And when the Good Guy comes to the rescue, it takes him maybe 2 seconds to loosen the ropes.

Makes you wonder:  was she even TRYING to get free on her own?

Shittiest.  Escape artist.  Ever.


To sound like a stereotypical native-American in the movies, just state the blatantly obvious, and use animal references to make it sound like ancient wisdom.

For example:

“When the wolf feels hunger, it will hunt and eat.   When it has eaten its fill, it will hunger no more”.

Try it.

It helps if you speak slowly, and pause thoughtfully as you say it.


If Bill Gates is such a gazillionaire, why can’t he hire someone to give him a decent hair cut?

He looks like turtle, for Chrissakes.


Forget the genetically-modified corn, radishes, carrots.

Show me plants that can grow pizza, cheeseburgers and chicken wings.


On the cartoon Superfriends, it takes them so much longer to explain how to deal with an on-coming threat, than the time it takes for the actual threat to occur.

Great Mechanical Horrors, Batman!  Those giant robotic horses are galloping straight at us at full speed.  They’ll be here within seconds!  We’ll be trampled!”

“Not if I can help it, Robin.  I’ll tie the Bat-Electromagnet on the end of the Bat-Lasso, and try to magnetize those rail-road tracks over there, which will hopefully cause an electric field that will short-circuit the Horse-robots”

While you’re at it, Batman, why don’t you issue a memo in triplicate?

Shouldn’t those robots have KILLED YOU by now?


The same exact dialogue over heard on every TV fishing show:

– Hey,  Bubba!   I got one!

– Oh, wow. NICE FISH.

– Yeah.  Wow!   That’s a NICE FISH!

– Woo-hooo!  Look at him jump.   What a NICE FISH.

– Get the net ready..there he is…NICE FISH!

– (Picking it up).  Hoooo-Weee.  NICE FISH!

If we ever removed the words “Nice Fish”  from the English language, those shows would perish.


On Star Trek they have transporters that allow them to beam themselves all across the Universe.

Imagine how else they could apply this technology?

What about some kind of biomedical implant that goes in the digestive tract, that collects your waste and beams it somewhere else?

Think about it.  Never having to go to the bathroom again.

Never having to pull over on the side of the road, or getting up in the middle of the night to do your business.

That would be AWESOME.

But where would they transport the waste to ?

Jersey, maybe…?


Quick.  Think of a woman named “Bertha”.

Are you picturing someone slim and attractive?

I didn’t think so.

Me either.


Polly wanna cracker?

Yes.   What a wonderful natural food for a captive bird.

They used to eat crackers in the tropical rain forest EVERYWHERE.


Ladies, at wedding receptions, when the DJ plays that infernal song “Hot Hot Hot “…

And you try to get everyone to join a Conga line…


For the love of God.


DO NOT force us men to participate !!!



The laws of entropy dictate that sandwiches lose their taste the second you leave the house.

Try it.  Make a fresh sandwich.  Bring it outside your front door for 2 seconds.   Now walk back inside and take a bite.

You might as well be eating cardboard.

Fuck.   This is why I hate brown-bagging my lunch.


If there was a mutant fungus or plant virus that attacked Lima bean crops world-wide, causing this nasty legume to become extinct…

…well, I wouldn’t exactly be heart-broken, would I?


Oscar the Grouch:  TV’s first homeless person.

No wonder he was in such a pissy mood all the time.


On Three’s Company,  how many times does Janet asks Jack:

“Can I see you in the kitchen for a moment?”

And they go inside and have a big noisy discussion?

And the person in the next room 10 feet away is oblivious and can’t  hear a thing being said?

Geez.  Where can I get an fantastic sound-proof swinging kitchen door like that?


Nobody on Star Trek (The Next Generation) ever talks the way normal people do in everyday life.

The dialogue is so stilted and fake, you might as well be watching a play.

Instead of asking:

“Hey, guys, let’s go down to the pub and pound back a few brewskis.”,

Captain Picard would say something like:

“Number One, Data.  It would delight me if you would accompany me to the Refreshment Facility and partake in a beverage.”

Umm, no thanks.   I think I’d rather read go Plato or something.


I don’t know what’s scarier to look at.

The chimpanzee-pelt hairpiece on top of Donald Trump’s Head.

Or Rosie O’Donnell’s head, all by itself?

(Good Lord, have you seen the SIZE of that thing?)


I’d gladly pay big bucks to see a good entertainer perform live, in concert.

For a mediocre entertainer, I wouldn’t pay money, but if you gave me a free ticket, I’d probably go.

For someone I can’t stand, you would not only have to give me a free ticket, but you’d also have to PAY ME to go see them.

I put Céline Dion into that last category.


Note to the guy at the gym:


Working out with your baseball cap on backwards DOES NOT make you look bigger.

But it does drop your IQ by twenty points.


If what the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation (CBC) tells me is true, no sit-com or drama is worth airing on TV unless it:

a) is British
b) takes place before 1930
c) involves Natives somehow.


Every orthopedic surgeon, by default, must have a shitty bed-side manner.   It’s a prerequisite for med school.

I refer to my last knee specialist as  “Dr. Toaster-Oven”.

Because he had all the warmth and personality of an electrical appliance.


You know those horn-rimmed glasses, that are attached around the neck by a chain?

They give those out to Librarians.

But only after menopause.


Yes, Aquaman.  I realize that you can communicate with fish, and that you’re a respected super-hero…

…but what have you done for me LATELY?


Where did the French-Candian name Réjean come from?

Maybe someone had a baby boy named Jean, and they liked the name so much they decided to re-cycle it when they had a 2nd kid.


If you can somehow manage to eat an entire pound of butter, without drinking any water, the worst you can do is gain one pound.


If you don’t believe me, then don’t believe in the Law of Conservation of Mass, either.


I challenge you to find a woman named “Pearl” or “Blanche” who is less than 65 years old.

I challenge you.


On the Sound of Music,  my favorite part is when that dorky Von Trapp boy sings:

“Adieu, Adieu, to Yieu, and Yieu, and Yieu-eu”

I’ll watch the entire saccharine-sweet movie, just to see that scene.


On Gilligan’s Island, if the Professor wasn’t such a tool, and didn’t have his nose buried in his books so much, I bet you he’d have a chance with Ginger.


Nuns were never little girls or teenagers.

No. They emerged as middle-aged women, when they hatched from Nun-Eggs at the Convent Incubator.

Mother Superior uses her ruler to break the egg shells to help them get out.


When you’re an infant, each additional year is the equivalent of a whole other lifetime.

But when you’re older, each additional year now only represents a small fraction of your life.

So you see, the relative progress of time accelerates as you get older.   Events and milestones will appear to occur more often.

Maybe this explains why Seniors drive so God-damned slowly.


More Things Old People Like

July 8, 2008

Big Cars
Have you ever driven a Buick or a Lincoln Continental?   The slightest touch on the gas pedal will have the car zooming at 75 mph without you even realizing it.   These cars are a dream for cruising down freeways at high speed.

Well, seniors just LOVE these cars.  (Mainly, because they’re the only ones that can afford them!)  But unfortunately, Grampa Jebediah or Old Aunt Gladys never drive these cars the way they’re supposed to be driven.

Instead, they proceed at a turtle’s pace.   No wonder we call these cars “Boats”.

What a freaking waste of engine power.

I have a suggestion to the car manufacturers:  Get rid of the V6 200-Horsepower engine, and replace it with a tiny putt-putt motor instead.

You’ll save a bundle on production costs, and your customers will never notice the difference.

All-you-can-eat Buffets
The Old Ladies especially get into this.

First, they’ll hover over all the different trays and admire the presentation and arrangement of the steaming food.

Next, they’ll debate over what to eat.   After about 10 minutes they’ll finally start to painfully pick and chose every food morsel as if it was Christ’s Last Supper.

What next?   Dear me, that pasta noodle looks good.   I think I will try an olive next….Hmm…shall I have a meat ball?

These old biddies always seem to place themselves in front of the hungriest customer in the restaurant (namely….ME!).

I swear it’s deliberate.

When I can finally get around these culinary ding-dongs,  it takes me about 5 seconds to slap the food on my plate and return to my seat.

By the time I’m done eating and going back for seconds, the Food-Gawkers could still be trying to fill up their first plate.

Short Hair
When women get to a certain age, they often get the classic O.B. haircut (O.B. being short for Old Bat)

You know the style.  The hair is so short it’s almost a Marine brush-cut.    For a slight trace of femininity, the top of the scalp might reluctantly be allowed to have a few curls.

For God’s sakes, WHY would anyone want to deliberately look this way?

My theory is that once a woman gets old enough, they achieve BAT status and no longer have to worry about dolling themselves up to look good.  They’re too old to date and/or their husband is too old to be unfaithful and leave them.

So instead of messing with curls and bangs every day, they opt for the hairstyle that takes zero maintenance.

The Old-Bat cut is especially popular with the larger women.

Nothing like a closely-cropped scalp to make the head appear smaller and make the body look even more huge than it already is.

It’s only a matter of time before they start to shave themselves bald (and won’t the grand-kids just love THAT?)

My mother once pointed out the “Polyester Ladies” to me as a kid.  (Thanks, Mom!)

Once women reach that certain body mass, they’ll opt for the loose, comfortable clothing that fits all sizes.  And Polyester, being that wonderful petroleum-based fabric,  comes in all kinds of bright pastel colors.

It’s the perfect accessory to wear with the O.B. cut.

Wearing them is mandatory.   Especially when driving.

You can see men start to do this in their 50’s.  Once their aggressive driving days are behind them, they’ll start sporting a leather cap with a visor.

That’s the “Apprentice Hat” which they’re required to wear for several years while they gradually reduce their driving speed.

Once they’re the slowest driver on the street (and they’ve physically shrunken to the point where you only see their knuckles grabbing the steering wheel), they become a full-fledged Gray Head driver.   At that point, they’re allowed to wear a full Fedora.

Someone too old to drive has attained Senior Gray Head status.    They’re relegated to the back seat and as a sign of respect they no longer have to wear the hat.

They just coach the more junior Grey-Heads up front who are still driving.

Stories about Sickness and Death
When seniors approach their twilight years, they’re increasingly aware of their own mortality and hence feel the need to share their fears with you.   Which basically involves endless misery stories about unfortunate people you don’t know and will never meet.

“I was taking to Mrs. McGillicuddy down the street…her cousin’s mailman had leprosy of the bowel. It was an horrible surgery, he was in the hospital for 16 weeks, and now he’s in a wheelchair and can only go to the bathroom  while standing on his head and playing the accordion…

….but his daughter takes care of him.  But then she got Jungle-Rot fever of the brain, and it ate our her eyes.   So now she walks around the house with a seeing eye-dog, with empty sockets where her eyes used to be, trying to care of her poor father.     But then the dog had to be put down because it strangled on the colostomy bag hose.     It’s very sad, actually…”

(Okay!  Okay!….I GET it!….Life sucks and we’re all going to DIE!….can I please go kill myself now?)

Sandal and Socks
The quintessential old-man stereotype:  expensive leather sandals with black knee-length socks.

I’m trying to figure out where this came from.   When did people EVER dress this way?  Even back in the 1930’s …was this style EVER fashionable and cool?

I’m guessing…NOT.

In fact, I suspect that is was NEVER cool to wear sandals and socks together.

NEVER in the history of the whole planet.

It must be a phenomenon seniors invented.   Because they could.

Small Dogs
The smaller. the better.    And make they’re hyper and nippy, and hate everyone except the owner.

Bonus points, if it’s a wussy dog that needs to sweater to go outside.

The Mandatory Pilgrimage to Alaska
Okay, imagine every RV in the Lower 48, from Alabama to Wyoming, traveling up north.

Now imagine all these RV’s funneled together onto the only paved road within 500 miles.

Welcome to Alaska in July.

This Grey Invasion takes over the whole state.   The average tourist age is about 72, because it’s mainly the elderly who who can afford the time off to travel up there.

The only 20-year-olds you’ll see are the ones working 15 hours a day in the restaurants and tourist traps, to serve the RV-crowd the Blue-Plate specials and Senior Discount Coffee.

If you want to visit Alaska un-crowded, my advice is to head up there in mid-August.   By then, the nights will have started getting a bit chilly, and the Vast Grey Exodus reverses itself, as everyone starts heading south again.

Gigantic Sun-Glasses.
You know, the really big ones.  That wrap almost all the way around the head, and cover half the face.

For Chrissakes.   Why don’t you just get a welder’s mask, at this point?

At a certain age, it’s like a dormant switch gets turned on:

“I’m old…Gee, it’s time I started liking the Bag-Pipes”.

This caterwauling sound tends to make all Seniors nostalgic and misty-eyed.   Even the ones who never fought in a war, or who have no trace of Scottish blood, whatsoever.

If I ever start liking bag-pipes, you’ll know it’s time to put me down.

Seriously.  Have you EVER seen anyone under 75 lawn-bowl?

Again, I think the age-related switch gets suddenly turned on, and people suddenly feel the urge to take up the game.

Same thing applies to square dancing…

If there’s one thing seniors don’t mess around with, it’s Number Two.

I used to stock shelves in a drug store.    Believe me, this product was a big hit with the over-65 crowd.

(Anyway, I know my Grandma loved it).