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I haven't really been thinking too hard about "Oh Shit I'm 60" yet. Mainly because I am a youthful 59 and we all know that a year lasts for ages and July 12th 2027 is miles away. It's only 2002 now, as well, I assume.
A few ideas have been presenting themselves to me without me thinking too much about them and my body thankfully keeps on giving me serious and less serious conditions to worry about.
Unsurprisingly most of the stuff I have already is penis-based, both because my penis and the penises of all other men have been a lifelong obsession for me, but also the genitals are the area where everything really caves in as you hit late middle age.
And because I am not the only man who has lived a cock-centred existence, the unreliability of the honourable member for Fuckinghamshire becomes an existential nightmare. As I lay in bed last night it struck me that at some point in our life, due to disinclination of ourselves or all potential sexual partners (even ourselves) the penis will no longer have any kind of sexual function at all.
It will be a one-function appendage. Only there to urinate and nothing else.
Which is bad enough, but what's worse is that it can't even do that effectively. Where it was once a fire hose that you could direct at any location within a twenty metre radius and hit that and only that, it has turned into a garden sprinkler, which will hit everything within a twenty metre radius, apart from the one thing you're aiming at. Like that bit in Pulp Fiction where every bullet misses.
And then after you are done and put it away and walked off, it will realise that it had not actually emptied your bladder and suddenly deposit about 25% of the total wee into your pants, without you even having to do anything.
Is it a prank? Or has your penis just become senile and not realised that there was still ammunition in the chamber.
Your multi-functional tool has worn out, most of the blades have snapped off and now you can only do one thing with it. And only barely.
No one really tells you about this and no one wants to hear you talking about it (as evidenced by the fact that zero readers have got this far into this blog) and all your life you've been told that being a man is mostly about having a huge, hard cock, not a novelty practical joke toy for whom the main victim is yourself, or whoever cleans the floor around your toilet and your pants (which should also be yourself).
No wonder so many of us hide in the shed or give up living entirely. Our raison d'etre is gone and we're coated in our own piss. I guess our only hope for a fulfilling life is to become President of the United States and take all these frustrations out on everyone else as a way to avoid admitting that we are flawed and useless human beings. Compensating for our own secret shame by demonstrating our masculinity through nastiness and violence.
Our only contribution to society now is our wisdom. And sadly we spent so many years being led around by our dicks that we totally forgot to accrue any of that.
It's quite rare these days that my brain is racing at bedtime and I come up with ideas, but my age also meant that I couldn't be arsed to turn on the light and find a pen and write this gold down. I just had to hope that I'd remember it, which given my age is far from a certainty.
This morning I remembered I'd thought of something for the show and then struggled to think of what it was. It came back to me, like urine dribbling out of a broken cock and I had to wonder if it had been worth the remembering.
It's a blog at least. Which is something. And luckily a blog doesn't have to be very good.
Enjoy your genitalia, all the many young people who read this. Oh, you are. You bastards.
