January 2008 Archives

Yesterday was my birthday. I was born January 27, 1920. For the idiots that can't add, that makes me 88 years old.

Over my miserable long life I've seen a lot of things.

I've seen kids spit, wipe dog shit, throw gum, throw toilet paper, smear shaving cream, splatter pig's hearts, spin the wheels of their cars - you name it and I've seen THOSE DAMN KIDS do it to my lawn. (There is some comfort in knowing one day I will kill them all.)

I've seen men get their brains blown out by Germans, Russians, Koreans, Brits, Americans, French, Canadians and French Canadians.

I've seen men blow their own brains out several times.

I've seen people suffer through depressions, recessions, and assassinations.

I've seen people die of lung cancer, stomach cancer, brain cancer, liver cancer, skin cancer and ass cancer.

I've seen my beloved Michigan devastated by floods, tornadoes, blizzards and the worst goddamned boating disaster in the U.S. history.

I've seen 15 U.S. Presidents tell me that life was going to be better in the future.

I've seen 15 U.S. Presidents lie to me every time.

I've seen Haley's Comet - twice.

One thing I haven't seen... my son on my birthday ever since he and his wife moved to California.

I'll talk at you next week...

Lester Aldrich is a freelance columnist for Octogenarian Magazine.  Manka Bros. Studios is not responsible for any action by our freelance writers.  If Mr. Aldrich actually kills someone, that's his problem. Manka Bros. cannot be held accountable.

It has snowed a foot here in middle Michigan over the last couple days which means one thing: THOSE DAMN KIDS are out of school.  I can always tell when school has been canceled by the sound of Mrs. Aldrich screaming after being hit by a barrage of snowballs thrown by those little fuckholes.

After a good snow, Mrs. Aldrich likes to get out and shovel the driveway early but this time she stopped halfway through complaining of back pain.  I needed to get my car out of the garage somehow for a lunch down at the VFW, but snow was blocking the Goddamned door and the Mrs. just sat on her ass watching television, popping pills.

I was trapped.

Then the doorbell rang.

Well, well, well, if it isn't Snotty Scotty and his little prick band of driveway shovelers.

"Shovel your driveway, mister?"

"If it ain't free, you can fuck yourselves."

"Five dollars."

"Five dollars?!  Are you mentally retarded?  Did a grenade explode next to your brain?  You're a Goddamned punk just like your old man!  Get out of here!"

"Well, how much would you give us."

"A dollar and a quarter.  That was enough for me when I was a kid.  It's enough for you."

"There's a foot of snow."

"I slept in four feet of snow in the sewers of Belgium.  I drank mud and feces on Thanksgiving 1944.  What have you done with your miserable life?"

"Forget it, asshole."

Kids today.  No respect!

"Don't come back!" I screamed.

I slammed the door.

"Mrs. Aldrich, has the headache powder kicked in?  I need to get down to the VFW Hall!"

She nodded and got up, like any decent person would, and shoveled that Goddamned driveway faster than ever.

That's a good woman.  The way a woman should act.

I'll talk at you next week...

Lester Aldrich is a freelance columnist for Octogenarian Magazine.  Manka Bros. Studios is not responsible for any action by our freelance writers.  If Mr. Aldrich actually kills someone, that's his problem. Manka Bros. cannot be held accountable.

A bird got caught in Mrs. Aldrich's hair yesterday.  It's been unseasonably warm here in Michigan and these dumb ass birds think it's April.  She didn't really notice the bird until Snotty Scotty (DAMN KID #1 IN MY BOOK) from across the street tried to knock it out of her hair with a rock.  Thank the Lord he missed.

Once she knew the bird was in there, it became a standard procedure for her.  See, this is not the first time something like this has happened.

Ever since they invented Aqua Net, she's gotten all kinds of stuff stuck in her hair - leaves, sticks, gum, all kinds of food - it's like her hair is made out of Kevlar.  I could probably fire my gun at her hair and the bullet would stick in there like a bulletproof vest.

The standard procedure for getting a bird out her wash and set is to first let the little thing beat its wings awhile until it gets tired.  Then I get a bucket and put some grass in it.  She has this lotion that softens up that Goddamned helmet of hair a bit that makes it easier to navigate through.

If the bird is still alive at this point, its legs start to get a little looser.  That's when that thing really starts to panic. Mrs. Aldrich bends her head over the bucket and gently dumps the bird from her hair onto the grass.  The bird always manages to take a little of Mrs. Aldrich's hair with it (and sometimes a little of Mrs. Aldrich's scalp).  I then cover the bucket with a big pot lid.

After a few minutes, when the bird has calmed down, we check it for injuries.  If all is okay, we take it out back and let it fly up into the trees.  For a while there I thought about tagging them so we could keep track of how they're doing, but decided against it.

Since 1954, we've only lost two birds out of hundreds.

I'll talk at you next week...

Lester Aldrich is a freelance columnist for Octogenarian Magazine.  Manka Bros. Studios is not responsible for any action by our freelance writers.  If Mr. Aldrich actually kills someone, that's his problem.  Manka Bros. cannot be held accountable.