PAY IT FORWARD: Bank Account
Jan 12
Twelve days into the new year, and I’m hittin’ you up with a PAY IT FORWARD, Internet. Don’t say I never gave you anything!
Except for all those months when I didn’t post any PAY IT FORWARDs. You can say I never gave you anything then.
Looking through my designated PAY IT FORWARD folder in my email, I am sad to say that some of the best ones contain image links that are now broken, meaning that they have gone to that great inbox in the sky, which looks a bit like this:
Most of the now-defunct forwards were given to me courtesy of Wog (not her real name), so, Wog, if you’re reading (and you remember that you told me to give you that nickname to protect your identity), I’m sorry. And sad. And hoping you are currently doing something much better with your time than reading this.
I also haven’t forgotten about the rest of you who’ve sent me forwards, as they are all still lovingly filed away and waiting patiently to annoy the ever-loving shit out of us. Today’s installment comes to us courtesy of Caitie, who submitted it over a year ago. Caitie! You still there?
Hey — if there’s going to be embarrassing silence, it might as well be super neat-o keen.
Today’s forward is one that involves quaint old people and the sage advice they give us. Before we get to that, though, I’d like to take a moment to share with you how tired I get of people pretending that being really old is peaceful and Zen and gives you some sort of other-worldly insight to bestow upon others like so many Werther’s Originals. Sure, old people have gleaned a whole lifetime of knowledge, but my friends, getting old sucks. It is no kind of reward for anything, really, unless your idea of a reward is forgetting your grandkids’ names and losing the ability to digest meat. There are those incredibly lucky olds who manage to cheat the system and are still relatively healthy and living independently at the age of 95 or whatever, and in fact, I knew one of them when I was young. She was a friend of the family who lived all alone in a giant old Victorian rowhouse, filling her days with cooking, gardening, and bird-watching. And then she had a massive stroke that killed her ability to do all of that, and she died not too long afterwards (from what I can’t remember, but I imagine it was something along the lines of BEING ROYALLY PISSED THAT SHE HAD SUCCESSFULLY ENDURED SO MANY YEARS ONLY TO BE SUBJECTED TO SPONGE BATHS BY A CRABBY ORDERLY).
Anyhoo. That’s how I feel about aging. You can still do it gracefully, sure, but let’s call a spade a spade and stop pretending like it’s some sort of awesome pot of gold at the end of the life rainbow, or whatever. See?! I’m only thirty-five and already I’ve lost my ability to craft a decent fucking metaphor. Of course, I could never really do it in the first place. Whatever! Where the fuck are my hard candies?!
Inspired by my grandmother, my only goal for old age is to have a constant supply of Brach’s on hand.
Onward to the forward!
Yeah, because if there’s one thing old people do really well, it’s wait patiently. Christ — have you ever seen old people waiting for a table in a restaurant? No? That’s because they don’t. And if you’ve ever been a server, you know you’d best be bringing them their food 4.2 seconds after they order it. The clock’s a-tickin’ for the elderly, folks, and they don’t have time to mess around.
Also, way to go with the sentence structure up there, forward: he had his hair fashionably combed AND shaved each morning? Man, he WAS well-poised.
Oh, and just in case you were naive enough to believe otherwise, no, this is not and never will be “AWESOME.”
So…he was really excited for about 20 minutes and then whined around and made excuses when it actually came time to take responsibility?
Also, what kind of shithole is this? Sheets on the windows? I guess you need something to obscure the garish view of the DirectTV dish hanging from the fire escape.
Ignoring for a moment the distraction of the randomly placed apostrophes, I can say with certainty that I admire this sentiment. I can also say with certainty that no creaky old person in the history of the universe has ever felt this way, unless there’s some secret joy to having a colostomy bag that I’m unfamiliar with.
So…I guess the old guy is still talking? And we’re supposed to believe that, at 92, he can remember even half of the shit that’s happened to him in his life? Well, have fun sipping on tea and recounting all those awesome times during the Depression, dude. And don’t forget the race riots. Those were sweet.
Oh! All those ignorant people who’ve been filling their old age accounts with Alzheimer’s and incontinence! FOOLS!
Ugh. Fuck you, forward.
OK, I’m confused. He’s talking about jerking off now, right?
Number 5 FTW!
Sorry. I didn’t hear what you just said.
So, just when I was about to say that this forward wasn’t too horribly bad, it pulls a triple whammy in the last few sentences. Terrible grammar? CHECK. Empty bullshit predictions? CHECK. Snotty-ass sentiment to tie it all together? CHECKITY FUCKING CHECK.
And just so you know, yes, forward, I do have other plans.
The Hodgepodge Society is back! On April 16th, we’d be beyond delighted if you’d join us at our first show in WAY too long. It’s going to be our biggest show yet and we can’t wait to see you there.
