Old Man on a Porch

I’ve been training my entire life for this role. I’m sizing up my rocking chair and AM radio. Beware, neighbors, Grandpa Philsy is coming to a porch near you and he’s not fucking amused by your antics.

Sure, I could choose to be the kind gray fella. I could greet neighbors with their sweet little toddlers. I could go pat a few heads and hand out lollipops. I could baste them in stories of days long gone. I could chat with newlyweds about how wonderful life is here in sunny southern California, with all of our succulents, avocados, and rolling hills.

… or, I could be real.

If I sat on my patio tonight, you know what I’d see? I’d see a neighbor parking nine fucking cars and trucks in his driveway and on the street. I’d hear another neighbor’s yappy little shitbag mutt’s raspy bark from being traumatized sitting outside all day in 100-degree heat while his owner is away at work. I’d be greeted by deluded twats in black slacks, white button-downs, and 60s haircuts donning some idiotic paraphernalia about their cult of stupid. I’d see a pair of toe-headed sugar-high maniacs dart back and forth across the road with their tiny bikes.

Phew. Sorry for the vent.

You know what would make Grandpa be more tolerant and invite people to his lawn? Booze. Lots of fucking booze.

I’ve recently discovered HUGE cans of Estrella Jalisco Mango Michelada. This right here is 25 ounces of the right combination of spice, fruit, and fuck-me-up. If I sit on the the porch with one of these babies, every ounce takes me closer to givenofuckery. Sure, it makes me a bit gassy, but who doesn’t love pulling Pappy’s finger?

Another fine solution is to place my saggy ass on a rocker in my back yard. There’s not much to see there. Well, sure, a few moms and strollers, but I can wrinkle my nose and tolerate those. Occasionally, I see a jogging ding-a-ling pass by. It’s a hundred plus. Why would anyone exercise in such heat? Good luck with your abs, Eli. I’m cracking another Michelada and powering down some salty chips.

Man, I’m just miserable. All backed up in the testes. I need a woman to calm my ass down … or, another beer.

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About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.
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