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 Issuing outdated racial epithets post-laugh off.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.