The Slow Rot of this Useless Bastard

No one tells you this. No one wants to admit it. Shit happens to your body as you grow old.

This afternoon, I sat outside, soaking up the sunlight like some dumb lizard, hoping for vitamin D to sink into my fat, white, pasty skin. At least the sun is free, even if everything else is subject to inflation.

I sat down on the cement, and right away, there was a little discomfort in my right armpit. No, not the kind of pain that sends you to the hospital, just an annoying, skin-pinching, hair-yanking sort of thing. It felt like my pit hairs had gotten caught in the fold between my arm and my pit, a new and exciting development in the ongoing disaster that is my body.

Ten minutes later, a fresh hell: a sudden, sharp tickling in the crotch. More specifically, the head of my cock. A sensation like tiny needles, like ants with razors for feet. I jumped up, trying to shake it off, and just like that—it was gone.

My dick, I mean.

The damned thing just sucked itself in like a scared turtle retreating into the fleshy folds of its miserable existence. So, it turns out that if I sit too long on a hard surface, things other than my ass start to go numb.

A new fucking trick for this old dog.

And what the fuck else is coming? What other lovely surprises does this traitorous sack of bones and meat have in store? How much more is there to discover? New pains, new indignities, new reasons to wish for a stroke in my sleep.

And where the hell are the self-help books for this? Those survival guides for old, fat bastards? Nowhere. Society’s moved on. Let the wreckage pile up. Let the useless ones rot.

Fine. But at least tell me if my balls are about to fall the fuck off.