Sweet Irony

Last night while listening to Lydia Brownfield sing at The Old Bag Of Nails in Grandview, I was gorging myself on fish and chips like some meaty walrus with a tapeworm. As the frenzy went into full swing, bits of fish and breading were being frantically tossed into my gullet with no regard for human health or safety. As I ran out of fish pieces (or they cut me off), and the grease began to slow my reaction time to that of a napping infant, a late-night epiphany came to me. I used to BAG on my dad for getting shit all over his shirt, pants, seat, shoes, ear hair...the back of his neck...while eating. Here I was, age thirty six, and I had enough ketchup on my downhill jersey to qualify me as a stunt double in a murder scene for RAMBO 7.

















No, she didn't get that on herself while eating...that's actually the pattern on the clothes themselves..wow.












What the hell happens to us? Is it just me? Am I the only one noticing the effects of early-onset dipshitness? I will be lucky to even dress myself by Christmas. The last time anything degraded this quickly, it was in a place called Chernobyl. How is it that a once talented ingester of food offerings must ashamedly admit that the interface from lip to fork no longer adequately stems the flow of food to what will someday be my chest? I notice coffee stains in my lap now (and by the way, where does your lap GO when you stand up?), and bits of fried chicken sandwich-lettuce in my shoes and shirt. WTF? Am I doomed to wearing "Lonnie's Lobster Hut" bibs for every meal? Should I just have it all blended into a fried-fish-smoothie and pour it through a hose? Somewhere, some old bastard is sitting in a chair with an entire pizza on his shirt and in his lap, pointing to Columbus and laughing his ass off.

































My only hope is that as senility sets in, I just won't care. Kinda' like letting your nose hair grow