The juxtaposition could not be more perfect: one article about a 27 year old woman worried that she might be ageist for not going out on a date with a man nearly sixty years her senior, another about a customer threatening to reveal her ultimate form and wreck a fast food worker. The eighty-plus year old man has already revealed his ultimate form, and the threatening customer is probably a weird and disappointing date.
[Microsoft Start bring up news items which it thinks the user might like. Sometimes it's spot on. Today it wasn't.]
You'll be glad to know that A) this blogger is nowhere near eighty plus, and B) there is no 27 year old in my life, worried about my ultimate form or otherwise.
Sixty years is too large an age difference.
Thirty is just about right.
[Blog author now ducks, runs, and hides.]
"Mom, Dad, this is the man I am going to marry. His name is Imhotep."
When I am old and knackered and in a wheelchair, someone will have to push me out to the designated municipal smoking area near the landfill or the salt marsh, far away from schools and hospitals, for my periodic enjoyment of a fine briar filled with a mature Virginia tobacco compound. Preferably someone who herself enjoys a puff, as well as the company of an adult individual (crusty old fart), and won't abandon me for the seagulls to peck at.
See, it's a well-thought out plan.
Finely tuned, with no holes.
Damn' near perfect.
The right woman is still missing, but I'm sure she's out there.
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2 comments:
I’d like to think there is indeed someone special out there for us aging goyim.
Preferably NOT a nurse Ratchett type, nor a Hello Kitty airhead. Though the first would have the stamina to push the wheelchair two or three miles through the tidal marshes to the designated municipal smoking area, and the second would probably be oblivious to our horrid habits while picking her nose and tweezing her eye brows.
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