While my wife curses TurboTax in the kitchen, I find myself listening to Billy Joel’s “Great Suburban Showdown” and thinking that, if I ever get the chance to grow old and crotchety, I’m going to wear black socks with shorts and sandals in public just so that younger married men can use me as an object lesson to reinforce their tenuous and largely illusory self-images.
Because—as you all know—I’m a giver.
I might also take to carrying around with me a jar of herring and a week’s old bratwurst sandwich in a Ziplock bag—and call anyone under 40 “those damn hooligans” —but that I’d do just for me.
So.
turbo tax! they double charged me this year for some reason, dammit.
and the black socks – ACK. At least pick a color. The black ones always look smellier.
The herring – creamed or in wine sauce?
In my golden years I’m going to strike up long conversations with the checker in the ten-items-or-less isle ignoring the six patrons behind me and pushing the limits of the checker’s social graces.
Mixed. Just to curdle it.
As a self employed person who can’t afford to mess up on his taxes, I’m paying an my accountant 1500 smackeroos to do my taxes and provide financial planning. I’d Turbo Tax it, if I were brave like you.
If you feel you require distraction, the Residents provide it…
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3n3MbVoLYns
But they are hooligans.
And burrhog, it is also important to act surprised they actually want money for the purchase, and wait until they give you the total to open your purse or pull out your wallet and begin assembling the exact change in as small denominations as possible.
And while I am on the subject, where do people who always pay in exact change get the change to start with?
I am an old guy. I act exactly like I did when I was a young guy. Only difference, back then I used to get the crap beat out of me on a regular basis, now they chuckle and say “what a cute little old man”.
observation of my neighborhood indicates you’ll also need a very small dog. bonus points if you can get matching raincoats.
When I’m old I’m going to get a beer gut and a Speedo to make sure I never feel crowded at the beach.
You really need to wear beige socks and wing tips with the speedo.
Another fine trick is to get a speedo with no elasticity so your wrinkled dick hangs out down your chicken legged thigh.
And fart whenever the mood strikes lest anyone forget you are a sage.
You actually can’t buy real black socks unless you’re a Catholic Priest. You see, ordinary shops sell what look like black socks, but if you look closely, you’ll see that they’re very, very, very, very, very, very, very dark blue.
Never buy black socks from a normal shop. They shaft you every time!
When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple.
And a hat that doesn’t suit me.
A studly, young fireman’s hat, for example.
An appreciative, studly, young fireman’s hat, in the best of all possible worlds.
Actually, it’s kind of nice to get to that age where you can wear black sox with brown wingtips and Madras shorts, and not worry about whether those 20-something chicklettes look on you as a sex object. Because, let’s face it, they never did anyway..
HT: I’m too old to play23. (I tell ya, that thing is amazing!)
When I’m older, it’ll be the scrotum that’ll need the lack of elasticity in the Speedo, if you know what I mean.
Wingtips? Nyaah. Saddle shoes a la Bert, blindingly bright white socks to contrast my lizard-skin tan, the shocking blue Speedo, and a wife-beater tanline up top would make the crowds part in my path.
TW: old78. I’m worried that Rove is behind it.
Make sure the waistband of those shorts are at the level of your armpit, else you will be ruining the look.
Don’t be afraid to tease out that ear hair as well. A nice full eyebrow can also give a certain je ne sais quoi in the right light and wind.
Darn you Swen, you got to the Madras shorts ahead of me.
I tried to talk to an old guy one time, and he had on the world’s godawfulest pair of golf pants in some sort of mutant, Clan Ginsberg plaid.
He said something and I told him, “I can’t hear you, your pants are too loud.”
Isn’t the Billy Joel enough?
Heh. I HAVE reached the age that I can pull off the Madras Bermudas, black socks, and sandals look—and after that crack SWMBO made about my chicken legs the other night, I just may go for it.
But I’m gonna carry a cane. It’s useful for taking my time while jaywalking, and also for tripping up the little bastards on their skateboards.
And what, exactly, is wrong about that outfit?
Other than it can cause a skunk to gag at 200 feet…nothing, really.
The Indian hat and his insistence that he be called “Mr. Jack” will set Jeff apart.
I’m planning on spending most of my retirement being the homeless dude on the park bench that all the young punks want to pummel and then put the video on the internet for their homies. Unfortuneately for them,I’ll be the homeless dude packing heat, and the internet video will be of them trying to re-insert their liver.
Yeah, Bronson is a god.
If I had hands like Bronson in his prime, I’d go around smacking people just for the fuck of it.
That’s why a cane comes in handy. Hickory is best.
Hey! I demand the right to be called a damn hooligan. Just because I’m over 40 doesn’t make me a non-hooligan, you know.
The fact I don’t go around smacking people just for the fuck of it might—but I do go around smacking people just because they don’t call me a damn hooligan, which should be enough.
This is one of my favourite posts of all time. Damn, but you’re funny.
tw: word18
Except watch out for the islamic “youths” who will be infesting our cities after the surrender takes effect. They’ll be packing heat, too.
By this measure, I’ve been a senior citizen since my teens.
When I’m a really old guy .. “OMG, I can’t fucking believe you’re still alive Texas Turkey”, I’ll still shake my head at the Humanized Horse guy story.
You don’t want hickory. You want a cane made out of something with a little spring in to really give it “snap”. Personally I’m sticking with my ASP baton.
While vacationing on a distant shore.
My wife and I spent a morning waiting on our mad max bus driver with the tarantula shift knob to come careening down out of the mountains.
This gave me time to observe a very elderly gentleman, white patten leather shoes, sport coat, and a dapper moustache, about 80 years plodding through the hotel lobby.
The intresting thing was that on each elbow was a 20ish young woman in spike heels and an almost none extant yellow neoprene mini.
They were heading for the elevator. I told my wife then and there that were she to go before me I full well intended to return here to die. Blank socks and bermuda shorts, be damned I going for the neoprene.