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This Blaze of Glory Is Gonna Be Deep-Fried, Baby

You know what my problem is?

(No, not incontinence. Not dementia, chronic flatulence, or impotence, either. Those are problems, certainly — just not my problems. My problem is different.

Oh, and while I can prove fairly conclusively that I don’t have most of those problems, I’m only assuming that I’m not clinically impotent. But even if I were, that’s not really a problem. All the sex I want without worrying about fathering some little bratty snot? What’s the problem?

Come to think of it, I need to get my crotch next to microwaves and X-ray machines more often. Never hurts to help these sorts of things along.)

Anyway, back to my problem. My problem is that I’m old, but I’m not recognized as old. I’m not getting my props for being an old fart.

See, I’m technically thirty-three years old. Technically. But they say that ‘you’re only as old as you feel’, right? Well, dammit, my back hurts, my knees ache, I hate getting out of bed in the morning, I’m crabby, grumpy, and crotchety, and I can’t stand the crap that the kids listen to these days and call ‘music’.

In other words, I’m old. I’ve got one foot and most of a swollen, wrinkly, liver-spotted ankle in the grave, metaphorically speaking. But chronologically speaking, I’m in the prime of life. Hell, some of my best years might even be ahead of me. Theoretically, of course. I’m not buying it. It’s been all downhill from age nineteen or so; why the hell should I expect the bus to hell to suddenly stop and turn around?

So I’ve got to believe that this is as good as it’s ever going to get. And tomorrow, I’ll pine for the ‘good old days’. I’ll just wish I could get back to the annoying, painful shit I put up with today. And the day after that, I’ll wish even harder. Assuming I can still remember such things by then. This little brain of mine isn’t any spring damned chicken, either, you know.

So I think it’s safe to say I’ve hit the downhill slope already. I’ve peaked — if you can call it that — and I’m careening toward whatever’s on the other side of that ‘hill’ I’ve just gone over.

(Probably Punji sticks in a sea of Bactine, if my luck holds, but that’s not important right now.)

But no one seems to realize how geezery I’ve become. I get none of the respect — or more importantly, the perks — of being a curmudgeonly old dickhead. All I get is the aches and pains and the gloomy outlook on life. Oh happy fucking day. Bleh.

Where’s my dollar off at Denny’s, huh? Why can’t I ride the damned busses around here for half-price? Who’s hogging all the damned Metamucil coupons? This blows friggin’ chunks, man.

I can cope with that shit, though. I’ve done without and paid full price most of my life; I can handle that. But you know what I really want? I want to have that ‘Yeah, what the hell does it matter?‘ moment with my doctor. That would be sweet.

You know the moment I’m talking about. Some decrepit wrinkly old bastard will shuffle into the doc’s office, and confess that he’s living on nothing but Hostess Twinkies and shots of Stoli, or he’s smoking six dozen unfiltered cigs a day, or he’s having anonymous, unprotected sex through a hole in a bathroom stall at the local Wal-Mart store. Then the old guy asks what he should do about it, and whether it might affect his health. That’s when the doctor checks the records, sees that the old dude is pushing triple digits, and says,

‘Hey, fuck it, man — knock yourself out. A fall in the shower is as likely to take you down as this shit. Party on.‘

Now that’s a perk, boys and girls. Medically-sanctioned permission to turn your shrine of a body into a greasy, sleazy flop house. If that’s not worth getting a few liver spots and some memory loss over, then I don’t know what the hell is.

But do I get that sort of respect? No. Not by a longshot. I go to the doctor, and it’s all ‘Don’t eat that‘, and ‘Start exercising this‘, and ‘Yeah, you probably want to keep your dick out of that‘. Picky goddamned bastard. When do I get to go nuts and let it all hang out? (Literally and figuratively.) When I’m seventy, or eighty, and barely able to enjoy my wanton hedonistic license to do whatever I damned well please? Fuck that! Hell, I might not make it to half of eighty — why should I have to wait that long to get my freak on? I’m old now, dammit!

So that’s my issue du jour. All I want is to go out with a cholesterol-soaked, boozy, lubed-up bang. Is that so much to ask? A little more Jimi Hendrix, and less Brian Wilson — who wouldn’t want that?

Now all I need is a doctor’s note giving me permission, and I am so there. Tequila and pork rinds, anyone?