You asked.

I’m sitting, alone, a preferred manner, at a small, crummy, dive bar around the corner from my office. Just killing a little time before heading home.

There’s a blustery old guy walking up and down asking people if they think he looks seventy-five. People let him have his delusion, probably to lessen their time spent with this smelly old guy flapping his gums at them.

Inevitably, he reaches me. A man quietly sitting there trying to erase his hate of humanity one sip at a time. I’m sure this is going to lengthen that process.

“Hey! Hey! Hey!” He says poking my shoulder with each ‘Hey!’ “Do you think I’m seventy-five?”

The truth is, outside of a semi-useful head of hair, yes! Yes! He looked all of seventy-fucking-five years old.

But that’s not what you should say in a moment like this. I’m also not saying you should say what I did, but it is what I said,

“I don’t know if you’re seventy-five. So let me ask you a question to figure it out.”

“Be my guest.” He says flexing his droopy man-boobs.

“Do your balls touch the water when you take a shit?”

Huh. I guess now I’ll never know how old he is.


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