On Old Men

       Those dying remnants of our nicotine-stained planet, sporting their fir-brimmed derbies- minds lost in the '50's- explaining to you how woman is made out of sawdust, out of cardboard. How she has not a single nerve in her body. "I kissed her because she was the only other person in town with lips. And, 'cause I wanted to repay her for borrowing her Chap Stick." Donning suspenders and Bermuda shorts, clad like a munchkin- only thing missing is the lollipop. Basset hound cheeks, salt and pepper 'stache teeming with the remnants of a pimento loaf sandwich. Strange aroma of fecal matter and English Leather surrounds him, juicy turd in a plastic sack rests at his feet (or perhaps it's a pickle?). Always armed with his catchphrase ("That guy's got more bad ideas than Hitler!") or willing to muse on about children living in traffic. Dentured-overbite- straw-like hair flowing off of his back, out of his ears. Concave glutes.
       That bevy of Ed Asners leering at you from across the room, sneering at youth- ogling Puerto Rican girls in your neighborhood, uttering- "Oh if only I were 20 years younger..." as the ladies stroll by. Issuing outdated racial epithets post-laugh off. This one tells you he would always give them three when they'd ask for two, he'd give them five when asked for three, he would hand over seven when asked for five, and he'd always present 11 when they requested seven. But you have no idea what these numbers signify. Stopping you in the middle of the walkway to gawk at a pigeon carcass, to discuss how he sees rats everywhere he goes. Attempting to form a Mutual Depreciation Society. Saluting squirrels and strays- praising Victorian morals. Brandishing cane, a pair of knuckledusters- yet still the man might be blown over by a strong gust of wind.
       Soon all such fellows shall pass. And as the demons flay them, roasting their corpuses on kebab- despite the beasts' well-developed tolerances- even they shall become nauseated by the stench.