Am I grumpy? I might be. But I think maybe sometimes it’s misinterpreted.—Harrison Ford
[one_half padding=”4px 10px 0 4px”]I don’t think of myself as a smoker. I don’t like cigarettes at all; can’t stand the damn things. I light my pipe when the situation around me is frustrating and I need to detach and focus on something that doesn’t involve sending my blood pressure further into the stratosphere. Surprisingly, the need to do so doesn’t occur as often as one might think. And yeah, I know it’s better to use a match than a lighter, but hey, expediency was important, not the quality of the smoke. If you’re going to bitch at me, go away. I’m grumpy.
It was determined long ago, before I was even 30, that I would eventually become a Grumpy Old Man. How that was evident at such a young age, I don’t know. Perhaps I’ve always been fussy. I do know that I’ve always had a short fuse and very little tolerance for stupidity, which seems to have grown dramatically. In fact, I’m willing to bet that the world’s overly abundant ignorance is another contributing factor to my blood pressure issues. The universe should be paying for my medicine. Grumpy Old Man status has been achieved and the morons of the world, all seven billion of them, are to blame.
What I wouldn’t have guessed some 30 years ago is that there would be so very much Grumpy Old Man fodder; it’s everywhere. Let’s start with the idiots in the neighborhood who apparently don’t recognize a stop sign when they see it. The signs for the all-way stop are not hidden behind trees or difficult to see from a distance. No, the people running them are just completely selfish assholes who don’t give a damn about anyone’s safety, including their own. I may have been seen standing out in the street yelling at them more than once, hoping their cars blow up. Why? Because I’m a Grumpy Old Man.[/one_half]
[one_half_last padding=”4px 4px 0 10px”]I was recently complaining about the fools running the stop signs and someone referenced the character of Mr. Wilson from Hank Ketcham’s cartoon, Dennis the Menace. I can support that comparison. Mr. Wilson was someone who just wanted some peace and quiet in his retirement years, and low-and-behold the Mitchells move in next door and give birth to one of the brattiest little kids to ever don a pair of overalls and carry a slingshot. Understand, Dennis wasn’t even old enough for school. Why the hell did the kid have a slingshot? I can totally understand Mr. Wilson’s frequent frustration.
The world needs grumpy old men. If it weren’t for us, the rest of the world would be grabbing another beer and continually shouting, “Hey, watch this!” How do you think terrorist groups are formed? There obviously were no grumpy old men around to slap the insolent jackasses upside the head when they first suggested killing large numbers of people for the attention. What were they thinking, that the collective peoples of the world would just say, “Oh, you poor thing, here, have a cookie?” No, the world responds by blowing the fucking morons to smithereens. Asswipes.
I am quite content to take on the Grumpy Old Man role; I’m settling into it and it feels as comfortable as an old sweater. At some point, I’m going to need a larger front porch on which I can set a rocking chair so that the visual impact of the role is complete. I’m also going to need a dog that growls at anyone smelling of fancy men’s perfume. Being a Grumpy Old Man is my right, my destiny, and I happily embrace this important social position. Now, hand me my pipe and stay the fuck off my lawn! [/one_half_last]