It's Official

Yes, I'm in the market for some new pajamas, people.

Nothing too complicated, nothing frilly... just something DIGNIFIED.



These young chaps have managed to avoid some of the most common PJ PITFALLS:



DAY-UMN, looka that ASS! Yep, totally spotted that wide load a mile away. This is what a life time of Twinkies, pot roast and the cozy feeling of flannel pajamas on skin will do to you. You become complacent, sure that life is filled only with joy, puppies, moonbeams and honeydew melons... it expands your ass beyond belief. I myself have only ever eaten one Twinkie. It was on the first (and only) real date I ever went on. Let me tell you this, fellas: a Twinkie will not get you to first base. A Twinkie will not even get you into the gates of the stadium. A Twinkie will leave you outside, across the road in the scary bar where the guys who have been kicked out of the bleachers are forced to go to watch the game, eating pig's feet and scratching their crabs-ridden crotches.... whoa. Mem'ries, eh? Ha! The folly of youth.

Where was I? Ohhh, right:

PJ Pitfalls:



What else do bad pajamas do? They make you OLD! And when you are old life is HELL. Old-on-old crime! Look at that shit. She might as well be lashing that poor old lady with a whip! Tender, papery old person skin, torn by the wrath of organised calisthenics! Look at those two gabbing in the back, perhaps planning a prison break. Fat chance, girls. You're in for life... not that it'll be that much longer. Haw haw! Get it? They'll DIE soon! Cause they're OLD.

Anyway, just kidding. I love old peeps. The stories, the cardigans, the ear-horns, the Werthers. Everything about them just screams 'LOVE ME!' I can't wait to be old. I will eat All-Bran and bore people with my stories... hmm, come to think of it, I am already ahead of the game! ZING! Oooh, that hurt.

But seriously, folks. Some people think when you grow old you stop thinking about your appearance, well not THIS snowbird! Hells naw. I have always been one for a meticulously made up face, taking excruciating pains over my hair and nails... this shall not change:



What? Do I have something in my teeth? Bwahahahahaha!!!!

Anyway, when I am old I shall live by the sea: my tanned, puckered flesh a reflection of summers past. Maybe I will open a slushy stand! Fuck yeah, get my snacks on and pad around in my mumu...



Fuck off, Mr. Grey Flannel Suit! I'm living the dream and thinking outside the box. LIVE IN THE NOW! Fuck the MAN!
Innywhoooo, yep. When I am old, I will be wise, and I shall impart my wisdom via small messages rolled inside poisoned darts, which I will shoot from a blowpipe as I sit in my mortar board and gown (I'm a fucking COLLEGE GRADUATE, people) in a rocking chair by the window, a warm glass of Bosco by my side, and a large-print copy of a Ruth Rendell mystery novel on my lap.



Mmm hmm, there I am, cap, gown and all. This young feller has ignored my sage advice, and as punishment I am going to burnish his fair skin to a high shine with the bottle brush that is my moustache. Umm, hold on, that sounds way too wrong. INSTEAD I will make him my personal butler; a young house boy charged with catering to my every whim and- wait... that's not right either, is it? FINE: he's off the hook THIS TIME.

So, to sum it up, not much is going to change. I will still be a hard-drinking, line-blowing, snake-charming, hush puppy-wearing, peanut butter and jelly sandwich-eating monstrosity- much like Brando towards the end of his life: bloated, washed up on a beach somewhere, dressed in cheesecloth, rolling around in my own filth waiting for the cabana boy to bring my tranquilizers and a mai-tai.

I will end with a snap of me and the gals at the home. Smooches!