OP-ED: I’m Old, Here’s My Advice

I was born on May 23rd, 1945. I grew up in a paradise. We didn’t lock our doors because we didn’t even have doors. That’s right, the Johnson family went through some hard times. So we stitched together a few dirty pairs of my father’s pants and hung that up as our protection from the elements. The smell alone would deter any would-be invaders. But boy, would the wind howl through those thin little things. And wouldn’t you know? We used sheets of plywood as blankets! Mother didn’t get the idea to switch the two around until 1982, and she used my father’s pants as a blanket until she passed in ‘93.

In middle school, me and a few of the neighborhood boys put our heads together and got the idea to deliver the morning papers. We were getting to the age where we needed spending cash and it was a decent gig for the time, paying about 50 dollars an hour in today’s money. At first we shelled out on candy and pop, then movie theater tickets for us and our girlfriends, then on X-rated magazines. The sad few of us eventually used the last of our change on hookers and booze. Still, my cushy salary didn’t make up for the fact that I had the worst route of all. I delivered the paper to Mrs. Klintin’s house. Both her dog AND her son would chase me down the block and bite at my ankles. And wouldn’t you know? The boy landed more bites than the dog! He works for the Philadelphia Department of Sanitation now. They make him chew the cans that don’t get crushed by the compactor. 

I was in Vietnam and I’ll tell you what the others won’t: it was horrible. I mean, an absolute bloodbath. I did and saw things I wouldn’t do or watch get done to a chicken. Everyone tells me it’s a lovely place now, but when I was there in ‘08 it wasn’t so nice. Ever heard of Bali Belly? It’s nothing compared to Ho Chi Minh City Belly! Oh, I was also there in my twenties too, I guess. Not much to report, but war’s a bitch. Don’t listen to those damn Marines, even if that pull up bar is sitting next to a baker’s dozen of Krispy Kreme donuts. That’s how they roped me in at Flat Point High School. Damn donuts. 

But what’s the point of this article? I forgot. I don’t know. You want some advice from an old guy like me? Never marry your second wife. Just skip right to the third.