Because I don't have a porch any more. Do you think every retirement home apartment has a porch? Or a lawn? Or kids to yell at? Well listen up good, bucko, because they don't. Mine sure doesn't. And my one condition for moving into this morgue was that my great-granddaughter Becky would make me a blog. (That's her on the left.)
And you know what? It's just not the same. For starters, I don't even know if you're on my blog or not. Second, I also have no idea when you leave. Third, I don't know if you're leaving because of me or not. But you know what? Life's a shit sandwich, and sometimes you just gotta take a big bite.
You don't think I'd rather be yelling at you in person? Of course I would. I'd make fun of your baggy clothes and your piercings and your disrespect for everything I fought for back in WWI. (Yes, I'm 110 years old. No, I don't know how I'm alive either.) Maybe later you'd try to sneak into my yard and steal my antique bird-feeder. On the way out you'd trigger the booby trap and have to be treated for mustard gas poisoning. You'd almost die and I'd get sued and get put in a retirement home. Come to think of it, I'm pretty sure that's what did happen.
The point is, Randal, you might be upset at being hospitalized for light burns on your legs, but I'm pretty pissed about only being able to yell at you through the internet.
Honestly, telling you to get off my lawn was the only thing that got me up in the morning. Do you realize that you and your friends were the only people I talked to on a regular basis? You don't have to tell me it's sad, I know it's sad!
Randal, I don't know where you are. Maybe you're still in the hospital. Maybe you got my flowers. (They're lilies and the card says "Feel better soon and stay the hell off my lawn!" I hope you like them.)
Maybe you aren't thinking about me at all. I don't know. But if you are, maybe you'll have time to pick up your iPhone with your bandaged hands and go to this blog. If that's the case, I just want you to know...
To stay the hell off of my blog!
The Old Man
PS All you other kids can also get the hell off my blog. No good, baggy clothes-wearin' hooligans, can't even handle a little mustard gas, I'll show them...