Monday, August 21, 2006

In-valid geezers

Fuck's sake, what is wrong with people that they cannot take care of their old people and keep them off the streets?

People complain about all the young hoodlums being out on the streets, and rightly so, but they are nowhere near as bad as geezers. With the kids, you have the hope that eventually they will wise the fuck up, and learn to stop shitting themselves, but old people are useless; their best days are over. They now spend their time trying to remember what the fuck they have done with their teeth, and drooling on themselves.

Americans do not spend any money on taking care of their old people, and rightly so, as they do not get any value for their money. Old people are everywhere these days, and I do not think that the government is throwing enough money at the problem of keeping them out of the public eye. This is not valid. These people have already taken a number in God's waiting room, and they don't even know it, because they are far more out of it than any stoned teenager. You get all kinds of PSA's reminding parents to look after their kids, but what we really need is an agency that keeps geezers off the streets.

It's all well and good to be worrying about teenagers doing drugs, but stoned teenagers are amusing, at least. They ride their skateboards around, and then trip and fall in front of me, which sets me up nicely to say witty things like, "I always wanted men to fall at my feet, but you're a bit young." They cannot appreciate my marvelous and clever repartee, but it's hard to get a good audience. You get what you pay for.

The Fledgling Sparrow and I were out shopping the other night, as night is the only decent time to go shopping when it is hotter than the face of the fucking sun during the daytime; it is so hot that when people in Africa are told how hot it is here in So Cal, they say "Nung m'gubu !kleh pak!" which is African for, "Fuck me, but that is hot!"

We had just finished our shopping at the place I fondly refer to as "Wal-Fuck," and there, at the street corner, was a geezer. Now, it was 9 o' clock at night, no decent time for old people to be out; like the commercials say, "Do you know where your geezer is?" This geezer was right there at the crossing, in a wheelchair, and he was muttering something incoherently, and waving his arm in the general direction of the crossing button, as if he wanted to cross. I cannot understand why he would need someone to push the button for him, as he was only a foot from it, and if he could not manage to push the button, how on earth was he going to make it across the street? If he was that helpless, how did he manage to get there, anyway?

I certainly was not going to help him push the button, or push him across the street, because I have helped old people before, and they will fuck you over every time. I just know that if I had helped him cross the street, he would have wanted me to continue pushing him the four miles uphill to get him back to the place he rolled out of. What am I, a gift? I don't think so. If there is one thing my readers know (all 3 of them, I can hear you out there, breathing) it is that I am no fucking Girl Scout. Girl Scouts put advisories on their cookie boxes to warn other people about people like me.

I walked on, as we had 2 miles still to go before we were home, and Wal-Fuck seriously does my head in. I wanted some peace and quiet in the cool, polluted night air, so I put as much distance between us and the geezer as quickly as possible. The Fledgling Sparrow immediately began to give me crap for not helping the gimpy geezer, as I am always telling her to be a good person, help others, and so on. That's the kind of shit you tell kids. But my daughter is finally reaching the age where I can begin telling her about some of the ugly truths in life, geezers being one of them, so I told her the story of The Cautionary Tale of The Old Bat. It was an appropriate time to tell the story, as it was a dark and spooky night, as are most nights in our ghetto; a good time for a ghost story.

It should be a ghost story, as I seriously hope that old bat is dead by now. I still shiver when I think of it. But it is late, my children, and that story will have to wait for another time.

Fat Sparrow

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