Hey, sweet! My Grandpa Carson just did the unthinkable! After 82 years of his wretched existence sullying this planet, he finally cleaned himself up for four years and plowed through a bachelor’s of science degree in business at the local bullshit community college. La-de-fucking dah.
Now maybe he can start paying off my mom’s medical bills. Or maybe showing up to my fucking birthday party once in a while. Or maybe stop feeding that mangy dog of his out at the trailer park leftover McDonald’s trash.
Yah, Gramps, you did well. We’re all happy this time you’re appearing in the local Courier it’s with a mortarboard and big smile. Not like the last time when your hair frizzled up all Nick Nolte-style holding a series of court-appointed numbers for, what was it, your 45th DUI? Yep. Aced that course, didn’t ya, fuckwad.
No, but seriously. We all enjoyed your party. The cake. The lemonade. Your new 30-year-the-younger girlfriend’s speech about you serving in Korea, working nights at the Pawn Shop, how you could somehow swallow two boiled eggs and down a PBR at the bar in 15 seconds and that’s why she first let you lay hands on her, etc…We’re all real proud, Old-Balls-Always-Gotta-Be-Center-of-Attention-and-Show-Up-Drunk-to-My-First-Communion-and-Spill-the-Punch-on-Crotch-of-Your-Khakis-and-Make-Lewd-Comments-in-Front-of-the-Priest.
And it was a real sweet story the college’s public relations firm did on you. The president shaking your hand. Saying the new American economy will be built upon the backs of grave-diggers like you who never know when to quit and/or shower. And that puff piece in the latest AARP newsletter talking about how you’re rewriting stereotypes Americans have about senior citizens. Yeah, right. So you could stay awake and not piss yourself during a few econ lectures? CONGRATS. Funny that article failed to mention the time you gave me a quarter if I told Mom your pants weren’t down in the backseat of the Lumina when we drove you to Sunday brunch for my brother’s baptism. Thank God that rag runs an anonymous online comment section. Yep! The Shyster Octogenerian’s Pipsqueak Friend is me.
So, anyway, hopefully you can now start contributing to society. Get a job. Give back to the rest of us, like, who waited at Grandma’s wake the entire night to see if you’d darken the doors but only get a phone call later that you were seen driving the back-nine out at the country club stark-raving naked wearing a sombrero.
Assface. Always a day late, a dollar short. I hope you live long enough to pay off your god-damned loans. Then get smoked off by a feed truck out on the highway. You pathetic, lecherous old bag of bones.
Photo courtesy SwedishCarina