I’m middle-aged and grumpy. I watch football, eat red meat, probably cancel your vote most elections, smoke, drink, screw, gamble, curse, used to own guns prior to that tragic boating accident, and otherwise enjoy being thoroughly, unabashedly male and heterosexual. Got me a riding lawnmower, weedeater, leaf blower, hammers, axes, shovels, tents, knives, fishing poles, big ass TV, and just a plain old big ass.
Ask whatever you want, but stay off my damn lawn. And turn that shakey-booty music down.
It’s much worse. The world is a cold, harsh place that will chew you up and spit you out. Or rattle your windows with loud Boom-Boom music from those damn kids.
Did you miss the part about me being thoroughly, unabashedly male and heterosexual? Hippie chicks tend to be…exceptionally talented when accessed horizontally. To piss me off, you’re gonna have to do something like knock on my door during a football game, collecting money for some silly cause.
Meat: Rare, or medium rare.
Charcoal by choice, whatever is handy if I’m hungry.
Handguns: S&W .357 magnum, double action
Rifles: 1894 Winchester replica, chambered for .357 magnum. I like a semi-long gun and a handgun with the same round. 30-06 if I’m sniping.
Cars: manual, as it was meant to be
I get it. You are old and forgetful. That doesn’t excuse you not answering what kind of beer you drink. Unless you are embarassed to admit that you love some fru fru microbrew?
No. I tend to speed a bit. I’m macho and reckless like that.
This sounds suspiciously like a quote from something modern. <growls ominously>
Glory Days, which have now passed me by. Dammit. But I used to have a decent heater.
Neither individual actually exists in my world, unless they’re singing the National Anthem or doing the halftime show, which grants immunity to 'nad kicking as long as they aren’t in the stadium once the game is over.
Dear Middle-Aged Curmudgeon. I have two questions for you.
How old do you have to be before you are no longer either, a. curmudgeonly, or, b. middle-aged?
If a person aims for a fair amount of elderly curmudgeonliness and thinks they may be falling short, what exercises would you recommend to sharpen the edge? (I’m asking for a friend.)
I missed the beer question because some damn kid was driving down the street with the boom boom music, and I had to go write down his tag number. Almost spilled my beer in the process, which really woulda pissed me off.
I don’t consume anything light or diet, except cigarettes. Getting soft in my middle age.
Curmudgeonhood is earned. Once you achieve it, you never lose it.
The best training ground is your local mall. Especially if it has a record store. The gum-smacking teeny-bopper at the register won’t know what a record is, and will look at you funny when you refer to albums. She will also attempt to steer you to the store’s 3 dusty Frank Sinatra cds, way in the back, because she and all her coworkers have a pool for anybody that ever sells one. Worse, they think they discovered Janis Freakin Joplin and Tye-Dye.
That wouldn’t work out so well for me. My mailbox is across the rural highway from my house. And for the really dippy ones, the impaled corpses of their predecessors seem to make little impression. If Darwin was right, in 10 generations a bunch of cats will be running the planet.
