Embracing My Inner (and Outer) Grumpy Old Man

Tap; tap; tap. Is this thing on? How do you work these gosh darn worldwide interwebs thingies?  Tap; tap; tap. Useless newfangled contraptions. Whatever happened to good, old-fashioned pen and paper? Those were the days, I tell ya. It’s not easy being a grumpy old man.

Evidence that not all men become grumpy old men. At least, not back in the day.
Evidence that not all men become grumpy old men. At least, not back in the day.

Some people accuse me of becoming a grumpy old man. They are wrong. Totally.

Well, alright, maybe not totally wrong. The part about me becoming an old man may be—but only maybe—true.

I say “may be true” because I don’t know the minimum legal age to join the Grumpy Old Man Club. At the time of writing, I’m 66. Does that get me in? If I don’t qualify for full membership, can I at least be admitted on probation?

In truth, I don’t care if I can join their stupid old old-farts club, as long as I still get my seniors’ discounts. Don’t even think of coming between me and my seniors discounts. If you do, when I get to the stage where I need a cane to perambulate I’ll thwack you with it. Hell, I might start carrying a cane solely so I can use it to thwack people who try to deny me my seniors discounts.

Grumpy Old People Club

Come to think of it, forget the Grumpy Old Man Club altogether. I’d much prefer a coed club. Why is it always just grumpy old men? Why not women too? There must be some grumpy old women out there I can hook up with for slow, shuffling walks, romantic dinners of soft foods, and near-endless sessions of wretched whining and grouching. I’m single. Call me.

Grump Old People Club age restrictions aside, what is not true is the part about me becoming grumpy. “Becoming” has nothing to do with it. I’ve always been grumpy.

Grumpy is my middle name, which is rather embarrassing when I have to provide my full name on official forms. I should go through the process of having it legally changed, but I don’t want to expend the time, effort and aggravation of filling in a bunch of ridiculous forms and dealing with a burdensome bureaucracy. Did I mention that I’m grumpy?

Grumpy Old Man Lawn Defence

When people want to be a tad more colourful than calling me a grumpy old man, and much more clichéd, they’ll joke instead that I yell “keep off my grass” a lot. Complete poppycock!

I live in a downtown condo in a major urban area. I don’t have a lawn. At all. I have no occasion to tell people to keep off my grass. Ever.

Off course, if I did have a lawn, I wouldn’t want you trampling my unkempt* grass with your stomping feet. Why would I? It would, after all, be my property. My lawn, my rules. You’ve been warned in case I ever move.

(*Unkempt because I’m a lazy bastard who wouldn’t be bothered to weed, fertilize, regularly cut and do whatever other maintenance is required to maintain a “kempt” lawn. Yeah; yeah. I know. I could hire a gardener to do all of that, but gardeners want to be paid for their work. Money doesn’t grow on trees, you know. <grumble, grumble, grumble>)

By the way, before anyone asks, no. I don’t yell at clouds. Unless, of course, they’re annoying me. And that happens only a few times a day. Thirty times a day, tops.

Grumpy Old Dad Jokes

Some of the people who accuse me of saying “keep off my grass” a lot also mock me for telling “dad” jokes. Nonsense! Don’t be a blathering idiot. I’m childless. How the hell could I possibly tell dad jokes? Wait. I just did, didn’t I? Hmm. I see what they mean. Never mind.

But, still, shut the frig up about the dad jokes. It’s about an eon and a half past becoming a hackneyed mockery of my humour.

Grumpy Old Man Political Observer

I’m not always grumpy. I spend far too much time for my own health following politics in my country, Canada, and particularly in the United States, as well as a bit in the rest of the world too. You might think that would make me even grumpier. Looking at the news, you’d have every cause to believe that. But it’s not so.

I look at the increasingly virulent polarization of politics, not to mention the multilateral ferocious animus, and think, “The good news is, it’s strangely comforting to know for certain that it’ll be over soon. Sure, the literal tearing off of each other’s faces will be painful. But we’ll soon bleed out and be free of it forever as our consciousness winks out into nothingness and our mortal remains begin to decompose into flora fertilizer or food for carrion-eating species.”

Well, that’s all for now. Have an awesome day! As if I care how your day goes. Now, run along, whippersnapper. Unless, of course, you are older than I am. In which case, get off my virtual grass! Grumpy-old-man is my turf!

Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s a cloud that desperately needs yelling at.

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