If there’s one thing I hate more than the fact that even with all the scientists in the world we still can’t come up with a way to make fat-free chips and alcohol (probably because they’re all so busy trying to cure cancer as if THAT will ever help me eat and drink without consequences), it’s ballsy, buggery old people all up in my business.
Respect your elders? PLEASE. These elders aren’t the same as the ones back in the theoretical days of old that I have pieced together in my mind to look a little something like Dr. Quinn: Medicine Woman meets The Karate Kid, where anyone over the age of 55 passes some Buddhist test of wisdom instead of just graduating to high-waisted pants. These magical old saints only spoke to drop philosophical bombs on misguided youth who need to overcome Whooping Cough or the big martial arts match or the post-shame of a first sexual experience.
But now? OH NO. BIG difference. Old people today are a brazen, unruly bunch who seem all too proud to be completely out of touch with social norms – essentially little, grey-haired, wrinkled Lindsay Lohans and Paris Hiltons, running around like they can do whatever they want and forgetting to put on their underwear.
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Case Number – Get-Your-Ass-Out-Of-My-Kitchen: It’s eightish and good friends are over at the house for a night of snacks, drinks, and the newf yelling because his ADHD doesn’t allow for a proper round of Scattergories when all of a sudden the next-door-neighbours, known as the people who sent a ‘Keep Christ In Christmas’ card over to the newf and only the newf, are at our front window insisting we leave the comfort of our living room and sit by a bonfire with them. Fine – sometimes you just have to just suck it up and do something for the same of keeping face on the ole cul de sac*. We could surely handle this…
(*Never again will I put the word ‘face’ that close to anything sounding like ‘sack’. My apologies.)
Flash-forward to an hour-and-a-half later when we’re STILL sitting outside of their house, listening to Christian rock music, and slurred stories about their three-legged dog getting hit by cars. At that point, I excuse us all under the impression that we need to go eat dinner only to hear our neighbour joke, “Great! We’ll see you in half an hour for snacks!”
HA. HA. HA HA HA. Foreshadowing.
Thirty minutes later, he’s fall-down drunk, stumbling into our house without knocking, and drooling food all over our kitchen until MIDNIGHT. Yes – I was staring my college years in the face of a fifty-year-old man and I didn’t like it one bit. Not to mention the fact that this pious drunk was resting his hand mere inches from where the very explicit Clone-a-Cock kit that I won from Toy With Me in Vegas was resting on the kitchen counter.
What? When you have one of those it tends to come out during parties. I mean, c’mon. You can make a vibrating dildo out of anyone’s junk!
The verdict: One charge of ruining my night, one charge of making me listen to music involving the lyrics: ‘Our God is an awesome God’, one charge of Clone-a-Cock-Blocking the flow that could have led to having a hysterically inappropriate centerpiece for the kitchen table, and eighteen charges of making me far too OCD about locking all doors and windows.
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Case Number – The-Gays-Need-24-hours-notice-prior-to-photo-taking: It’s a weeknight and I am in the middle of nowhere eating at a seafood specialty place whose vegetarian option is the no-name brand of whatever Chef Boyardee throws up after an all-night bender spent wooing hoes with Beeferoni money.
While trying to make the best of it by focusing on the $20 bottles of wine and the fact that my dad was footing the bill, I almost forgot that I was sitting in a room of old people who very well may be leeching my life force through the air whilst they suck back lobster carrion. This blissful ignorance almost got me through the whole experience until it was interrupted by the flash of a camera being held by some crazy old woman RANDOMLY TAKING A PICTURE OF OUR FAMILY FUCKING DINNER BEFORE SLINKING BACK TO HER OLD PERSON TABLE TO SHOW HER OLD PERSON FRIENDS.
And it wasn’t even taken while the newf was pretending to be an X-Man which I could at least have understood…
Really, old people? If you’re going to take pictures of strangers at least do it with a camera phone by awkwardly pretending to check a text message from your grandkid or funeral home director while holding it in mid-air, awkwardly tilted in someone’s direction as if people don’t notice when iPhones are pointing directly at their fashion don’ts and gunts. Honestly…have some class.
The Verdict: One charge of being superridiculouscreepy and giving me nightmares about how she uses that picture to pretend she has a family while her own family hides in the witness protection program from what can be assumed is a dangerous menace to society. That, or she’s some strange paparazzo for Lonely Women’s Weekly under the pen-name Blanche, Pearl, or Hyacinth.
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