My Poor Old Bowels

 

(Getting old really sucks.)

Yesterday, Nurse Ken cooked supper on the grill. Steaks, to be exact. I had purchased them about a week ago with my EBT card.

He said, “Dad, should I put some butter on yours?”

“No, I’m not a butter guy.”

Mom shot Ken the stink eye. “Why do you put butter on everything? It’s not good for your cholesterol.”

“I do it for the calories. I’m trying to gain weight.”

My oldest son is nearly six and a half feet tall. Yet the poor kid is paper thin. I used to be very skinny when I was his age, but now I’m a flabby old man.

Anyway, I ate two large pieces of meat before changing into my uniform. However, a few minutes later, I had to take off my apron and Waffle-House shirt so that I could take a massive shit. Now that I’m an AARP geezer, I no longer have control over my bowels. In fact, one of my biggest fears is that I’ll soil myself in public. Pray for me.

I got to work at 8:45 p.m. and ran into the district manager by the dumpster. He was puffing away on a generic cigarette…even though he probably makes about 100 grand a year. But he didn’t stay long. He was simply there to change out the cash register.

He said, “I had no idea that you’re a filthy smoker. You never struck me as the type.”

I said, “I quit the habit for ten years, but I blew up to 270 pounds. So I started smoking again for the sake of my health.”

He laughed out loud for a few seconds and shook his head. “You just can’t win, can you?”

“Nope. Life is definitely a loser’s game.”

By the way, that’s I how witness Christ to all the pagans I run across. I tell them that we’re all completely screwed without Jesus. Sadly, I have no gravitas. Nobody ever believes a word that comes out of my mouth.

Anyway, my co-workers were Pork-Chop Jane and Othello the Spaniard. I love to watch Pork-Chop Jane. The first thing she did upon her arrival was ask Dwayne the Dwarf to cook her a BLT. Then she sat on her big, beautiful ass as she chomped away on her sandwich.

After that, she walked outside to meet Weepy Wanda by the dumpster. They proceeded to smoke weed for the next fifteen minutes.

She returned with glazed eyes and a big goofy smile on her face.

I said, “You should work at Waffle House forever. This is the greatest job for a girl like you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Who else is going to let you eat for free and get high on the clock? You’ve found your calling, girlfriend.”

“You’re the biggest hater in the world.”

“I don’t hate you, Jane. On the contrary. I love you to death. Keep on being you.”

And I wasn’t lying. I wish I had the balls to collect a paycheck while getting stoned every night. Yet my fucking conscious won’t let me do it. I’ve always broken my balls at work…even when I was a 12-year-old paperboy delivering the Hartford Courant to all the assholes in my neighborhood. I need to start having some fun before I die.

The place was busy all night long. Yet we had to split the tables between the three of us…which cuts down on the tip money. But I did OK. I made 225 dollars for the ten-hour shift.