geezerI announce my surrender to the inevitable. I can no longer avoid the truth.

Ich bin ein Geezer.

I am old and eccentric. It is the only explanation for the fact that I am untouched by Michael Jackson’s death and cannot understand why it is still at the top of the news cycle. He was OK until he just got weird.

I must be a geezer, because while I’m sorry that Billy Mays is dead, I am grateful that I won’t have to listen to him shouting any longer. Louder does not mean, “more believable.”

Only a geezer would like to choke that little prick who does the Free Credit Report.Com ads. As a geezer, I would probably get away with it.

Being a geezer explains why most actors under the age of 30 look alike to me and are equally forgettable.

We geezers don’t  give a rip about who marries whom, as long as we don’t have to buy a gift and attend the reception.

Geezers do not watch romantic comedies. We know from experience that “romance” and “comedy” rarely occur together in real life. Usually it’s “romance” then “mind-numbing ennui” followed by the sweet release of dementia.

Popular culture is mostly a yawn to me yet is thrust in my face at nearly every turn. Therefore, what I cannot change, I must embrace. Not only will I embrace it, I will grab it, grope it, and squeeze it. I will wear my pants up to my armpits, held in place with suspenders and a belt. I will  let hair sprout from my ears, wear plaid shirts with a bow tie, and yell at those kids to stay off my lawn.

And if it takes me longer to pee than it used to, well that’s just part of geezing.  I’ll bet it takes Mick Jagger longer, too.

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