Old As Dirt

I used to believe that growing older is a privilege denied to many, but I’ve changed my mind.

Let’s face it, your brain slowly fries like an egg. You forget everything and you repeat everything. You repeat everything, you repeat everything, eh?

Your joints hurt like hell, and your limbs become as weak as a boarding-house cup of tea. You fall on the floor trying to put on your clothes and you can’t get up. Ah…and dammit, the life alert is laying on the freakin’ couch. You’re left ugly-naked on the floor for a few days until somebody eventually finds you half dead on the decoratively patterned carpet.

Cooking becomes an impossible challenge. You slop tomato soup all over your cupboards and linoleum tiling like a homicidal murder scene.

You can’t see a damn thing anymore and your eyes sting so bad they’re like two fighting blowfish.

Eventually your hair turns grey and naturally backcombs itself into a witchy pooh bouffant.

You apply makeup like Tammy Faye Baker on your face that looks like a bulldog chewing on a wasp. Your imperfect pencilled in eyebrows look like two caterpillars contemplating suicide.

The day finally arrives when your body loses complete control. You explosive diarrhea and piss all over yourself like a sewage troll while you scream at everyone to fuck off.

Ah yes, the golden years.

Happy Easter, folks.

Yours truly, Smartie Sprinkles.

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