The Biggest Mistake of My Life

 

 

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The biggest mistake of my life was leaving Ocatillo Wells and coming back to Texas. I was suffering from the delusion of God, family, and apple pie. God, of course is eternal and if Jesus will co-sign for me I may be able to rent a small apartment in heaven, and they’ll let me work in the kitchen. Of late there is no more apple pie. Oh there are reasonable facsimiles thereof but the flavors come from chemicals whose names I cannot spell, and the apples are plastic. So, there’s that! Family? Don’t get me started. First off, if you have four kids and thirteen grandkids run the DNA and prepare to be surprised. Now run the DNA on your dog.

I have long talks with my dog. One son of a bitch to another and he gives me pretty good advice. Of course, he don’t talk as much since I quit drinking, but he gives those penetrating “dog” looks, and I fill in the blanks. I don’t know if this is the result of my sobriety or his. Yeah yeah yeah, he drank too. Deal with it. Anyway, when I quit, he quit too because Specs couldn’t sell to him because he’s underage.

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But you know, when you pass seventy or so you have ideas of children bringing you your slippers by the fireplace and listening to you impart wisdom to them gleaned from your years of experience with the world. Well, in the words of the Prophet, Willie Nelson, “It’s all going to pot, and we’re sure gonna miss it a lot!”

Grandchildren ain’t worth the CPS Caseworker who’d pick them up! Their music would piss the Devil off. K-Pop! Give me a break. Bunch of Korean pretty boys who know just enough English to say, “Wakey Wakey over and over again while your granddaughter soils herself laugh. He’s sooooo FUNNY! That girl is never gonna have any kids, and we should thank God for it. And the boys, if they can be called boys, all gangsters or gay. Oh yeah. Gay is in. Gay is great. Everything is gay. Shoes, gay. Movie, gay. Pink Salmon, GAY! And pan-sexual. Ever hear of that? They have so many genders to choose from they have to be up for anything. They’ve been soaked with so many hormones from their artificial milk that they his puberty around eight or nine. Back in my day girls didn’t hit that until after their first divorce.

And your kids. Their parents. Well, you know the nut doesn’t fall far from the tree, but these nuts caught a wind and ended up in the next county. You’d better check the DNA on them for sure. Don’t you just hate their spouse? I do. They call you “dad” and always talking to you about “assisted living. Medication time. Medication time. Always talking over you using oxygen other people need. And when they speak loud and slow. “DO . . . YOU. . . LIKE . . . YOUR. . . OATMEAL? Why yes! Perhaps you should stick some up your butt because you are obviously constipated!

And phones. Talk to each other at dinner with texts. Dinner! That’s a laugh. They don’t sit down for dinner. They had dinner on the way home out of a sack. Then they get all bent out of shape when some sawbones puts an article out telling them what they just ate. Look! It digests, don’t it? They complain about your cigarettes while vaping all over the house.

As you gain more age, the sands of Ocatillo get farther and farther away. You really are an old man and every time you leave your chair to go to the bathroom someone asks you about your prostrate. What the hell do I need a prostrate for? You dedicated your youth raising these ungrateful pricks, expecting to relax on a porch in the sunset of your life and then these people showed up! I think God puts is through these times to make you realize your mistakes. And you consider and reconsider and you imagine a bus, a case of Jim Beam, and a University of Texas coed who's flunking out, all on the bus on the way to Ocatillo.