(Posted from my old webspace)

As summer draws near a close, thoughts of my time on earth changing numbers suddenly start to populate my thoughts.

I am but a mere mortal. The aches and pains I now feel every morning are a testament to how mortal I truly am.  If only I were omnipotent! That’d be so cool. I could order the universe to my own liking, achieve world peace, graft John Oats 80’s face and Bruce Willis’s 80’s body onto my rapidly decaying frame… maybe even adopt a few hundred stray cats to sweeten the deal.

Perchance to wallow in such flights of fancy.

What I am is an aging Pocket Bear. It’s the definition used for shorter bearish (think Willy Mays from the Oxyclean commercials, the Tammy Faye Baker of beardom, now sadly dead from all the icing sugar he put up his snout) men, furry and rounded.

The odd part of my getting more decrepit is that the uglier and more haggard I get, the more asses I grow, the more popular I seem to be. I don’t get it. When I was twenty, all dewy and still physically intact, I couldn’t get arrested.

Now that I’m reaching the age of Methuselah. I couldn’t be more popular. I just don’t understand where it’s coming from. Must be my mouthwash.

The one thing I miss about being young and supple is my ass. I turn and chase my tail like some deranged kitten, trying to catch a glimpse of what collateral damage sits back there, but I never can get a clear view of much more than my “Rocky Mountain Thigh” (thank you John Denver for the opp. to make such a cheesy guffaw!). Perhaps it’s best I don’t know, ‘cos when I lift my pants up here and there to see if there’s lint on the back of them, I start to convulse and fade out of conciousness with what I see.

When did I suddenly require that much fabric to cover my assets!

I could theoretically reupholster the easy chair in the living room with that much denim, and still have a ton of selvage to spare.

I have a friend that recently joined something called “Bear Yoga”. I thought, what a good idea. Wish they had something like that here. I’d join it happily. I mean, it might make me limber enough to finally meet up cheek to cheek with my fat furry arse.

Question is, do I really wanna go there?

I once made the mistake of looking down into a mirror, from the stomach, right up to my hairdo, and was severely traumatized for the effort. So, knowing what I know from that instance in my legend, would I seek to repeat the offense?

Well, this “Don’t ass-Don’t smell” thing is a good rule, but for some reason, I cannot leave sleeping butts lie.

I just gotta know. Fortunately for me, my days as a student of Caligula are long behind me. The fact that I can still see my toes is enough for me at this point in time.

It’d be interesting to see what would happen if I did crash head on into my own bumper.

Would we be friends?

Would we want to exchange knowing glances at one another?

Or would I be given a pain in my chest, followed by a numb left arm for my efforts.

A wise person once uttered “Aging is not for wimps”.

I tend to agree.

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