It’s occurred to me whilst traveling home on the bus today that I’ve reached the “some rust but still has plenty of horsepower” point in my existence.

As any kid can tell you, old people smell funny.  I used to think they smelled like liniment and mothballs soaked in Chantilly or Old Spice.  How funny it was today I detected that same theme upon myself as I rubbed Tiger Balm all over my joints.

You see. Arthur Itis has come to visit, and he’s not leaving, ever.  As anyone dealing with such a fun and interesting character can tell you, damp or cold pisses him right off! He’s apparently gone postal on me.  My knees snap like Barbie doll legs, my “thumbs up” is no longer something done deliberately, and my shoulder sings “Ave Maria” in the key of  “kitty in a fan-belt”.  The joys of watching my warranty expire as the mileage accrues.  Welcome to Xanadu!

As I type this, my fingers ache. My knees ache. Hell, my hair aches. All this, and Aspirin too!

Who ordered up this old bastard I’m seeing in my mirror. Who permitted the Tommyknockers pulling my stuff down south for a permanent holiday. Who said I deserved to look like the dwarf from “Lord Of The Rings”.

Apparently, my gene pool did. And so did Father Time. I hope he laughs heartily. Shithead!

Witnessing the mass exodus of spry, nimble movement from my once sturdy limbs is bad enough. Watching my fur frost over while my face contorts into some grievously horrible relief map of Calcutta just isn’t something I’m ready to deal with. Bad enough I have to wear tourniquets for socks now, I’m just waiting until my jugs (and make no mistake, my chest now rates this) fall down so far I’ll need an extra manly brassière to keep them from hitting my nards when I walk.

I once wondered what old people thought. I now know. They think about beating the living crap out of the shitheel that morphed them into this parody of their once dewy sun-kissed selves. They think about how badly they’re going to pay for eating that three bean salad. They think about what the hell they were thinking about before they lost what they were looking for while standing in the middle of the room, completely bewildered and self admonishing. And…they think about bringing an umbrella, ‘cos their damned knee has become a screeching banshee of throbbing, blazing hell on earth.

I’m convinced they eventually stop thinking about is how much like a medicine cabinet they now reek of when someone young walks by and scurries to get away from the scent of moldering desiccation that has become their living decaying selves. I’m becoming familiar with the process, sadly.

I’m only grateful there is no more Geritol to ponder over. I’ve no fear of tuning into Lawrence Welk, thank you very much. I’d rather point and laugh at the unmoving Botox junkies that were my source of musical amusement, forever twenty, forever Norma Desmond!

Hail Kylie Minogue and the forehead filled with more botulism than an expired can of Libby’s beans. Let us pay homage to the woman who once pranced around in conical brassieres and g strings for our entertainment. She’s now relegated to the likes of carnival tent inhabitants; as lurid as the ancient girly shows, yet twice as dreadful in the light of day.  Make welcome the once Teddy huggable Kenny Rogers, a man who’s literally changed his race with a few too many slices and pulls. He could be singing “Sukiyaki” and no one would question how he suddenly became so “Oriented”.

My knees may snap, but my mind hasn’t! Give me liniment, or give me death! There’s nothing wrong with aging disgracefully, so long as your mind goes a little at a time. It makes it easier to pretend that Ben Gay is Hugo Boss!

Stay sexai

Da Taz!

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