On getting old

I saw something today that I found disturbing. That, in itself, is disturbing.

I saw two older people (I’m sorry. I meant to say ‘seasoned citizens.) , I would guess they were in their 70s, making out like a couple of teenagers at a kegger. They were all over each other, swapping spit and playing tonsil hockey right there in front of God and everybody.

I actually saw the guy grab a handful of wrinkled rump.

I would guess you could say they were in love. It was at least lust, or maybe just an OD on the latest trendy erectile dysfunction remedy. It doesn’t matter.

I realized that I wanted to be one of those people.

No. Nonononono, I am not saying that I want to make out with some 70 year-old man or woman. I am saying I want to be that interested in making out when I am that old.

After I feeb out, I want to be interested enough to try to talk Mrs. Troll into a ‘Baby take your teeth out’ kinda evening, bumping uglies and doing it like we used to when we were making out in the back of my hippie van.

If not, then I would just be happy to still be alive and thinking about it.

Oh, to hell with it, if I make to 70 I will be happy to be alive. If my pecker still works at all it will be a bonus.

And I won’t have to squat to pee.