It was one of those, horrendous, milestone events. The type which shakes you to your core and you remember forever, because it is so traumatic.
And it all started so pleasantly. I met my good friend Michael for breakfast at, what used to be, my favorite restaurant. We had just started perusing the menu, when Michael said:
“Hey Don, look, you qualify for their senior specials!”
I quickly lowered my menu and gave Michael my best “what chu talkin’ bout Willis” glare.
“See right here on back”, he said as he reached over and turned my menu around.
And there they were, six entrees discounted for those customers, not 65 and older, like most places. No, these discounts applied to people age 55 and older.
That’s right, some stupid sonavabitch in corporate marketing thought it would be a swell idea to start their senior discounts at a lower age than the competition. What a stupid, stupid, sonavabitch. He’s probably one of those “millennials” who drives a Prius. I bet he doesn’t even wear a tie. What a horrible idea by this stupid sonavabitch restaurant. I wanted to bolt out of the place right then.
I didn’t even look at these “special” dishes. Not that I was afraid I would actually want one, absolutely not. I assumed that all of them came with a big glass of prune juice and I’m certainly not interested in that.
I am not going to order some “senior-discounted” meal because I am not “old” by any means or by any standard. I am still a vibrant, virile, man; full of life and making a meaningful, relevant, impact on my world. By no means do I need any help whatsoever paying for my £#>*ing breakfast!
I can’t image why the sonavabitch restaurant thinks I would need one of these geriatric specials. Do they include stuff like creamed oatmeal to make it easier for geezers to chew and digest? Well, that might give the old people less gas and I certainly don’t have that problem … okay forget I even talked about that. Maybe the foods are high in fiber, because I’ve heard that elderly people have problems pooping. I certainly don’t need that because I take fiber pills. Oh yeah, I know many old people use Metamucil, but I don’t take it because I’m old. I only use it because it helps certain health conditions that have built up over the many years … okay, forget I even mentioned that.
“Are you going to get one those specials?” Michael asked enthusiastically, not realizing he was really fizzing me off.
“No, I’m not”, I calmly replied. “Are you?” (said with a bit of irritation)
“Well unfortunately, I don’t qualify for the discount”, he said with just a touch of smugness and a smirk.
Now I’m really fizzed off. I want to scream “Michael, shut your pancake hole about these d@%m specials. You stupid, stupid, sonavabitch.” But he’s my friend, so I let it go.
Fortunately, our perky, chicky-babe, waitress bounces over to take our order. But after Michael orders, she turns to me and says excitedly:
“Sir, did you see our senior specials?!!!!!!!!!"
Thought, but not said: Yes, you cheerful bitch, thanks to that sonavabitch Michael. I know all about your stupid specials.
And “Sir”, really? Once the young hot chicks start calling you “sir” you have crossed a line that hurts you deeply. I wanted to tell her that even though I am middle-aged, I could still be a stud muffin, like Sean Connery, for example. Well maybe a younger Sean Connery, who was able to play James Bond and frolic with the “Bond Girls” into his 50’s.
I wanted to tell her that I was still capable of ringing her bell. Of course, I would need 60 minutes’ notice in order for my blue pill to kick in. Obviously I don’t really need this drug, only old guys really need it. I just use it for a little help. Wait, I don’t mean anything is actually that little. I’m just making sure, as the commercial says, it’s very beneficial for guys as they age …. okay, let’s forget I ever brought this up, err, I mean, mentioned it.
My fantasy was rudely interrupted by the waitress joyfully asking:
“Did you see our new Prune-tastic Platter? It’s like a shrimp platter you get at a seafood place, only with prunes! There are stewed prunes, dried prunes, pureed prunes, prune casserole and a prune muffin. You also get a large glass of prune juice to wash it all down!” (Prune juice! – I freakin’ knew it!)
I looked at her incredulously and was at a loss for words.
She then continued, “Don’t worry about eating that many prunes. Since we added this to the menu, we’ve stocked the restrooms with 3-ply, super-soft, toilet paper.” Then lowering her voice to a whisper and leaning towards me she added, “Because some people who order this have hemorrhoid issues.” Of course I do have hemorrhoid problems, but not because I’m old. It’s just from sitting on my butt in cushy office jobs for many, many, ye…. okay, forget I mentioned this also.
This breakfast had gone totally wrong. The waitress is supposed to be flirting with me in hopes of getting a big tip. I am supposed to flirt back, because that’s how this game is played. But now, all the waitress cares about is making me poop and assuring that it is an enjoyable experience. I now feel like I am 90 years old.
I said defiantly, “I will have the Atomic Bacon Blast with a side order of bacon and I will wash it all down with a couple of raw eggs. And I want my bacon, shaken, not stirred”.
I do this to prove to the chicky-babe that I have the arteries (among other things) of a much younger man. Which of course I don’t. My doctor is treating me for high cholesterol, not because I’m old, but because that gunk just builds up in your arteries over an extended time … ugh .. forget I said anything about this too.
I was finally able to enjoy my breakfast, as I stuff my face with over a pound of delicious bacon. I leave the waitress a huge tip to prove I didn’t need their insulting discount. I proudly walk past the restroom and its soft, 3-ply paper, on the way out. However, as I reach the parking lot I do experience some strong chest pains, but I think it may have just been gas. Maybe I should have ordered the creamed oatmeal after all.