went to the market on the corner today. I wanted to buy some Fig Newton's, but I came back with a Snickers, one box of twinkies and one of Hostess cupcakes, and a brownie. Oh, and some sour straws. Anyway, while I was waiting in line at the market there was this grizzled old woman behind me. She was buying a pint of vanilla ice cream and a four-pack of toilet paper. Single ply. Probably all she could afford. Probably tore her aged asshole up something fierce. Probably should get back to the story. As I was paying for all the crap I picked up, she dropped her cheap-o toilet paper on my foot. I looked down and, being a nice guy and thoughtful pirate, I picked her misplaced product up from the gound and set it on the counter, smiling fake-politely at her. "I'm sorry," she said. I was about to say, "Arr, no problem, ye olde lass. Arr." But before I could get the first 'arr' out, she continued:

"It's just that I couldn't hold the toilet paper on account of my arm," she held out a bandaged, arthritic arm for me to inspect. It smelt of Bengay and sterile gauze. "You see? As I'm old," she went on, "I'm getting weak, but then I fell and I broke the bone." She pointed at the bandaged forearm with her good arm. By good arm I simply mean it had no bandage. Instead, it was riddled with liver spots and the fingers bent at awkward angles. On and on and on she talked, as though we were good friends, as though I understood the words coming out of her mouth, as though I cared, "this was a year ago yesterday. I've broken it before and that made it weak, as the doctor says." Shut up! You're old, lady. I don't want to hear your goddamn sob stories. I swear, old people must get some kind of enjoyment out of complaining. That's all they do. They seem to think that because they've lived a shittier life than I, I would want to know about how they haven't been able to take a shit in three months or that they can no longer chew solid food or that their dong has fallen off from disuse. Just kill yourself already; you have outlived your usefulness to society.

"But what about you, PD? You're going to get old soon won't you?" Well, contrary to popular belief, I am immortal. I will never grow old. I am privileged to be a supple twenty-two year old until the end of reality, at which time I will become a god. Then the fun really begins. Even if I weren't ageless, by the time I got old, I'm sure scientists would have developed a cure for aging. Otherwise, I'd kill myself at 35 like in Logan's Run. Michael York should have killed himself after his portrayal of the title character, you can't go anywhere but down after a performance like that. Bastard.

I propose that we kill all the old people in the world. Except maybe Sean Connery, he's not so bad. Not only would killing all the old people solve the social security problem, and remove thousands of dangerous drivers from our roads, but it eliminates the need for health care (healthy young people don't need doctors) and I wouldn't have to smell those angina-ridden geriatrics all the time. I hate old person smell. Babies smell funny too, but we can't kill them. They're an excellent source of essential vitamins and minerals, and a part of my complete breakfast.

Think about it: All old folks do is sit around, wet themselves, and tell long stories no one wants to hear, but no one says anything because they're too goddamn polite. Pussies. Well, I've had it; I'm fed up. I'm speaking out: you smell funny and stop shitting your pants. I don't care if you fought in the war, you apparently didn't fight hard enough. You didn't die. Either way, that's no excuse for being old. You want to do a service to God and country? Die already.

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