I Hate Everyone...Starting With Me (5 page)

I hate old men who have no hair left on their legs and their calves look like pieces of wax fruit.
Smooth legs on a man is creepy. When I’m playing footsie late at night I shouldn’t be the one in the bed with the stubble.

I hate old men who have hair in their ears.
A widower whose eustachian tubes look like a rain forest is not a turn-on. Instead of Q-tips he needs a super mop. I knew one guy who had such a jungle in his ears I expected Dian Fossey to come waltzing out with a couple of her prized gorillas, Tojo and Millie.

I hate old men who wear their pants hiked up to their nipples.
It pulls their balls up so high it looks like they’re smuggling children in their diapers.

I hate old people and phlegm.
Old people are obsessed with phlegm. All day long they’re gagging and hacking and coughing.… They spend more time with yellow goop in their mouths than a hooker in Chinatown.

I hate old men who try to act jaunty and flirt.

He says, “I like to pleasure my women.”

And I’m thinking,
Yeah? Then pick up the check.

He says, “Here’s my gal.”

I think,
I’d rather be mauled by a Bengal tiger than let anyone think I’m “your gal.”

He says, “I’m with the two prettiest girls in the room!”

I think,
If you could see, you old moron, you’d know there are only two girls in the room to start with.

I hate old people who won’t make concessions to age.
If you can’t see over the steering wheel or know there’s a stroller pinned under your car’s bumper you shouldn’t be driving anymore.

“No, no, I can still drive!”

“Grandpa, there’s a Buick in the kitchen. No, you can’t.”

I hate old people who dangle carrots:

“You know, you’re in my will.”

“That doesn’t cut it, Granny. I’ve seen your apartment. You’ve got nothing I want. I’ve never liked Hummel.”

I love going through my high school yearbook with a highlighter, x-ing out the ones who are dead.
I’m happy to report that as of this writing, pages twenty-eight through forty-six, inclusive, are gone.

Out of the blue my sister called and asked, “Did you hear that Jacob Schwartz, the guy who stood you up at the prom, died?”

I perked right up. “Natural causes?”

“No,” she said. “Suspicious circumstances. Something about a daughter-in-law and a hypodermic needle filled with air.”

I was so happy I could barely contain myself.

The only good thing about age is that sooner or later all of the SOBs who dumped you are going to die.

The words “old people” and “sex” should never be part of the same conversation.
When I hear Granny use the word “multiple” it better be followed by “vitamin” not “orgasm.” I just don’t want to hear Nana talk about sex.

“You know, Joan, my butcher has a cock the size of Cairo.”
Blech!

I don’t need the image of Granny giving head. The only things Granny’s mouth should be used for are chewing and clearing the loose phlegm that keeps accumulating because her lungs are starting to fail.

I hate faking orgasm
with an old man. You work and you work and then the whole thing’s a total waste of time because you forget to moan in his good ear.

And finally, the only good thing about old sex is you never have to suffer the humiliation of a one-night stand, because there’s no such thing. Just to get him out of the car, into the house, up the stairs, on the bed, on you, off of you, down the stairs, rediapered, and back into the car… minimum, four days. That’s not a quickie, that’s a relationship.

They take the batteries out of your “I’ve Fallen and I Can’t Get Up” necklace.

They turn your room into a crafts studio while you are still living in it.

They find your hospice nurse on craigslist.

At Thanksgiving they push you into the oven to check on the turkey.

They replace your Astroglide with Krazy Glue.

Your Secret Santa is Jack Kevorkian’s disciple.

They send you on an all-expense-paid meditation retreat on Three Mile Island.

Everyone dies—except maybe Betty White, and I think its high time someone pushed that bitch in front of a train because I’m sick and tired of losing the “sassy grandma” roles to her. Betty White is ninety million years old. Her first résumé is on a cave wall in France. She put the Sutra in Kama. She read
Beowulf
in installments. She’s been on three hundred TV shows, won a boatload of Emmys and earned a trillion dollars. If I had just one of those things I’d be so happy—or at least a lot less bitter.