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Grampa’s Gonna Hop on the Good Foot and Do the Bad Thing. Yeah, Baby!

That blog you keep reading… I do not think it means what you think it means.

Seen while driving in Brookline at around noon today:

One of those enormous, hulking, has-its-own-zip-code Oldsmobile sedans, piloted by an elderly gentlemen in a dapper tweed jacket, and sporting the license plate:

RANDY-4

“He’s the Polydent Pimp, the Don Juan of Depends, a Ben Gay bitch magnet.”

Now, of course, I’m guessing that there’s nothing shagadelic going on here. After all, the guy at the wheel looked more likely to be hangin’ with folks who put the Grrr in dowager rather than swinger, baby. I’m inclined to believe that the chap’s name is ‘Randy’, and that the vehicle in question was his fourth. Pretty vanilla stuff.

Still, I can’t help wondering if there’s something else afoot.

(Or acrotch, if you prefer — and who wouldn’t?)

I mean, the chronologically challenged need love, too, right? As they like to say in Budapest, ‘Nothin’ says lovin’ like some gummin’ while you’re hummin’.’ Or words to that effect. It loses a bit in the translation, I’m afraid.

So maybe the guy’s name is really Joe, or Fred, or something, and he wants you to come up and ask, ‘So what exactly are you randy for, anyway?‘ Maybe it’s the dirty old man version of those vapid ‘Ask me about my grandkids‘ bumper stickers. A come-on line for the canes-and-walkers crowd. Perhaps he’s really an octagenarian Austin Powers of sorts, only he didn’t get frozen, and just sat around aging all those years. Well, aging and banging, of course, banging and aging, and now here he is, with his mojo intact and a trunkload of Viagra.

He’s the Polydent Pimp, the Don Juan of Depends, a Ben Gay bitch magnet. He’s workin’ Old Folks’ Homes up and down New England, shagging spinsters and wagglin’ his wrinkly walleye at every widow from Windham to Woonsocket. Yes. Yes, I’m sure of it now. And I say, more power to him. He may have some miles on his tires and a hitch in his giddy-up, but if he can still find the bat, then he deserves a turn at the plate, just like everyone else. I for one salute you, old horny dude! Rock on!

So if you see my new hero, give a holla. Beep your horn, wave to the old guy. Ladies, blow him a kiss. We should be so lucky to be in his condition at that age. But don’t go overboard, unless you’ve got a soft spot for… well, soft spots, I imagine, and liver spots, as well. See, my man’s a playah, and if you open the door too wide, you might just discover the answer to the question posed earlier: our crotchedy Cassanova is RANDY-4U.