I knew when I was wiping my ass with a coffee filter that it was time to break down and go to the store. I hate shopping for so many reasons, but we were also out of Advil, and since I pop those gel caps like M&M's in tennis season, I knew it was time to shop.I was in, and at the checkout in under a minute. Seconds after reaching the cashier, an ancient relic of a woman lined up behind me. The pint-size geriatric began to bug me as soon as I felt her frail little body invading my personal space. It appeared she had less patience than I do as I heard her death rattle sighs more than a few times. I kept glancing back and down at her, just to let her know that if she were any closer she could give me a rectal exam with her boney, geriatric finger.
I paid for my double rolls of 2-ply and Advil, and as I was taking my bags off the counter, the little senior citizen hefted an industrial-size bag of Depends onto the counter. I caught her beady-eyed glance and thought, geezus, I may be well past my prime but at least I'm not there. Yet.
I bet she was happy to hear the Liberals have included in their million dollar bullshit, a vow to cut back taxes on funerals.
Maybe that's why Paul McCartney and Kiss are coming to Halifax. On the off chance the Liberals stop riding the pine and get elected, and the likelihood that one of the band members may act their age and have a stroke and die onstage – they'll get a nice Nova Scotian tax break.
Which brings me to the other night. Jack was watching the American Idol final, and who rolls out on stage but a withered up Rod Stewart. Jack snickered and said, "who is that!?" As Rod started to warble out Maggie May I said, "That's Rod Stewart. He used to be good." Used to be. He is so skinny and old now Maggie May goes by Margaret and she's buying Depends down at the local Shoppers Drug Mart.
I wouldn't pay $125 to stand in a field and see Gene Simmon's nicotine-stained tongue or Sir Paul's paunch even if John Lennon were to rise from the grave to accompany them. Bad enough to be inundated with politicians in bad suits all spring, spare us the sweaty old men in leather pants. If I had their nest eggs, I'd be drinking Veuve Clicquot and playing wheelchair tennis down in Boca Raton.
Maybe they've all lost a chunk in this financial downturn and they have to go back to work to pay for their adult diapers.
I know I'll be working 20 years after I'm in my incontinent, rock 'n' roll heaven.
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