At 85 years of age, Roger marries Jenny, a lovely 25 year old.
Since her new husband is so old, Jenny decides that after their wedding she and Roger should have separate bedrooms because she is concerned that her new but decrepit husband may overexert himself if they spend the entire night together.
After the wedding festivities Jenny prepares herself for bed and the expected knock on the door. Sure enough the knock comes, the door opens and there is Roger, her 85 year old groom, ready for action. They unite as one, the earth moves and Jenny is forced to change the sheets. Roger takes leave of his bride and she prepares to go to sleep.
After a few minutes, Jenny hears another knock on her bedroom door and it's Roger again: he is ready for more action. Somewhat surprised, Jenny consents to multi-ficky fick redux. When the newlyweds are done, the bed a total shambles, Roger kisses his bride, bids her a fond good night and leaves.
After ten minutes spent repairing the shattered bed, Jenny is finally set to get some sleep. To her infinite surprise, however, Roger is back again, rapping on the door, fresh as a 16-year-old, with a throbbing schlong preceding him into the room by a good ten inches. Yet once again, they ravish each other in successive bouts of passion previously unknown to the species. The bed and mattress will have to be replaced in their entirety.
As Roger readies himself to leave again, his young bride, exhausted, manages to mutter to the geriatric satyr: "I am stunned that a man your age can perform at such a pitch of red-hot passion--and so often. I have been with men less than a third of your age who were barely good once. You are the king of schtuppers, Roger."
Roger, taken aback slightly and somewhat confused, turns to his spent bride and inquires: "You mean I was here before?"
.
I Will Always Lubb You
The Diagnosis
For Christopher Hitchens and Allan Turner
She helped him up out of the chair and escorted him down the corridor to the surgery.
Inside, seated behind the desk, sat the normally cheerful Dr Busapavanich who did not look happy. Stenberg managed a wai but the doctor waved it away and told him to sit down.
"Khun Bo, no sense to beat the bush. It is Parkinson's."
"Parkinsons!?" ejaculated Stenberg, immediately rejuvenated. "Why, that's wonderful! What luck! I've been waiting years for this!"
"Uh, Khun Bo. This is not good. This is a degenerative condition."
"Oh come off it, Louie. This is my moment! I've finally made the grade, see? I'm a goddamned parvenu. An arriviste, with any luck. I'll finally be somebody! It's just like winning the lottery with a stolen lottery ticket. Not that I ever--"
"Bo Baby to you."
"OK. Bo Baby. This is Parkinson's Disease. You will disintegrate."
"Bullshit. Do you take me for a fool? I know what Parkinson's is. It's when you've been promoted to your level of incompetence. I've been waiting for this since 1953."
"Bo," intoned the physician, "that is the Peter Principle."
Stenberg froze as if plunged into a world of liquid nitrogen.
"You don't mean...?" His eyes charted 180°South magnetic.
"No. Not that."
"Well then. Who cares?"
"Bo baby. There are techniques now, new genomic research...."
"Do you mind if I smoke?" inquired Stenberg.
"Not at all. I'll have one too if you don't mind. Kindly shove that towel on the floor into the space at the bottom."
"It's not thaistick, Louie."
"That distinction, like a few others, my friend, is from another time. The towel please." Stenberg pushed the towel under the door with an abandoned prophylaxis.
"You don't have a drink on you?" inquired the patient.
"Not here. Out in the BMW."
"The Peter Principle you say--"
"Yes."
"Aha. So with Parkinson's I'll simply fall apart. But I'll still have the king kong kuay."
"That is correct."
"It's a great pity, Louie. From a certain perspective, I mean. I don't have to tell you what it is, really."
"Arai na?"
"It means, Louie," said the derelict with a thousand yard stare he had not possessed a mere ten minutes before, "it means that I failed to get promoted to my level of incompetence."
.
The Rhyde of the Ancient Mariner
An ancient seaman by the name of Morgan, on the beach for many years, dons his old uniform and heads for the docks one last time to pay his final respects to Neptune.
At a public bar, he soon engages a professional woman who is not destined for a corporate VP slot and follows her ample lead up the stairwell to the short time facility in what appears to be the port's least fashionable hotel.
In due course, he's progressing as well as he can, given the fact he is 82 years old. But in need of reassurance despite the massive 500mg dose of sildenafil citrate he skolled while barely making it up the stairwell, he inquires of his interlocutor: "Hey, baby, how am I doing?"
The pudendic practioner replies: "Well, old timer, you're doing right around three knots."
"Three knots?' he asks, introducing a sudden hiatus into the proceedings. "Isn't that a little slow?"
"Well, let me put it to you, as it were, another way, Admiral. You're knot hard, you're knot in...and you're knot getting a refund."
.
Dirty Hairy
An old prospector shuffled into town leading an old tired mule. The old man headed straight for the only saloon to clear his parched throat. He walked up and tied his old mule to the hitch rail. As he stood there, brushing some of the dust from his face and clothes, a young gunslinger stepped out of the saloon with a gun in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. The young gunslinger looked at the old man and laughed, saying, "Hey old man, have you ever danced?"
The old man looked up at the gunslinger and said, "No, I never did dance... never really wanted to." A crowd had gathered as the gunslinger grinned and said, "Well, you old fool, you're gonna dance now," and started shooting at the old man's feet. The old prospector, not wanting to get a toe blown off, started hopping around like a flea on a hot skillet. Everybody was laughing, fit to be tied. When his last bullet had been fired, the young gunslinger, still laughing, holstered his gun and turned around to go back into the saloon.
The old man turned to his pack mule, pulled out a double-barreled shotgun, and cocked both hammers. The loud clicks carried clearly through the desert air. The crowd stopped laughing immediately. The young gunslinger heard the sounds too, and he turned around very slowly. The silence was almost deafening. The crowd watched as the young gunman stared at the old timer and the large gaping holes of those twin barrels.
The barrels of the shotgun never wavered in the old man's hands, as he quietly said, "Son, have you ever licked a mule's asshole?"
The gunslinger swallowed hard and said, "No sir...but I've always wanted to."
.
Working Class Warfare
A strapping young construction supervisor with (a) an uncle on the board of the Union with a pension plan administered by Lehman Brothers and (b) a brilliant future ahead of him, courtesy of his wife's new lawyer "acquaintance," was pontificating at the construction site that he could out-perform anyone on-site in any given feat of physical prowess.
He made a special case of casting vitality-related aspersions at one of the workmen of the mature, near-retirement persuasion.
After several minutes of the usual articulate and grammatically incisive abuse, the older worker'd had enough, just as he had with the wonderful Union that had ceded control of the industry to coked up polymaths with MBA's dedicated to the betterment of our working men and women across this wonderful country of ours.
"Why don't you put your money where your mouth is--Scumbag," the elderly worker inquired.
The youthful supervisor giggled three times in a row.
The old man continued: "Tell you what, asshole. I'll bet a year's salary--gross--that I can haul something in this wheelbarrow here over to that portable shithouse over there that you won't be able to wheel back--ever. Not in a day, not in a week, not until this useless project is completed, sits for a year and a half, is decommissioned and finally razed to the ground. Which means never--this is a zombie project if I ever saw one."
"You're on, old man," the youthful future SUV salesman ejaculated knowingly, following several nanoseconds of in-depth analysis and due diligence.
"Bring it on, you worthless old sonofabitch!"
The old man reached out and grabbed the wheelbarrow by the handles.
Then he nodded to the young man with the brilliant future.
"All right, my young friend. Get in."
.
Old Grandad
A devout consumer of OprahThink is in a grocery store and happens upon a grandpa driving a shopping cart carrying his totally out-of-control 3 year-old grandson.
Inevitably, the shoppers encounter one another at irregular intervals, as will happen in supermarket itineraries.
It's obvious Gramps has his hands full with the kid screaming for candy in the candy aisle, cookies in the cookie aisle, tampons in the tampon aisle....
Meanwhile, Gramps is working his way around, evenly but audibly muttering a sort of mantra in a controlled voice, "Easy, Albert, we won't be long--easy, boy."
Another outburst, and the Oprah devotee hears Gramps calmly say, "It's alright, Albert, just a couple more minutes and we'll be outta here--hang in there, buddy."
At the checkout, the little sonofabitch is throwing items out of the cart, inflicting in one case a facial cut on a supermarket employee with a box of Fruitloops.
And yet Gramps, again in a controlled voice, is saying, "Albert, Albert, relax fella, don't get upset, this too will pass."
"We'll be home in five minutes. Stay cool, Albert."
Impressed as only a true Oprahvert can be, the woman exits the destroyed supermarket and surveys the parking lot, quickly spotting Gramps loading his groceries and the boy into the car, quickly approaching same.
"Excuse me, Sir, and I know I'm intruding--although that is perfectly alright now, just think of it as a 'benign intervention'--but you were simply amazing in there. I have no idea how you managed it. That whole time, you kept your composure and no matter how loud and disruptive the little boy got, you just calmly kept saying that everything would work out alright."
"Albert," she concludes, "is very lucky indeed to have you for his grandfather."
"Thanks a shitload, you useless cunt," replies Gramps, "But I'm Albert. That little motherfucker with the safety belt tied around his neck is Stevie."
.
Up Against The Fence
An elderly couple is sitting at a table in the best restaurant in D.C. The husband, hoping to make up with the politically resurgent missus and worried about recent revelations concerning foreign contributions to his bogus, jumped up charity foundation, leans over and says to the wife: "Do you remember the first time we had sex together over fifty years ago? We went behind a certain nearby tavern where you leaned against the back fence and I made love to you."
"Oh yes," she replies, "I remember it well. Very well."
"Yeah, " he says, "Well how about we take a stroll over there again and we do it again for old time's sake?"
"Why Slick Willie, you old devil, I thought you'd given up on me...that sounds crazy!" Her eyes glaze slightly for a moment. "Crazy. But good."
The Secret Service man sitting in the next booth overhears their conversation and, having a chuckle to himself, he thinks to himself, I've got to see these two old-timers getting it on against a fence. Plus, it's my sworn duty to ensure their safety, I have no choice.
So he follows them.
The elderly couple walks haltingly along, leaning on each other for support aided by walking sticks. Finally, they get to the back of the tavern and make their way to the fence.
The old woman lifts her skirt and the old geezer drops his trousers. As she leans against the fence, the geezer moves in.
Suddenly, they erupt into the most furious sex that the Secret Service man has ever seen.
This goes on for a good ten minutes while the loin-locked couple is howling, heaving, moaning, creaming.
Finally, they both collapse to the ground, barely breathing.
The Secret Service man is gobsmacked. It occurs to him he has learned something about life and old age he never even suspected before.
After half an hour lying on the ground recovering, the old couple struggle painfully to their feet and ever so carefully manage to get back into their clothes.
The Secret Service man is still watching and thinks to himself: This is incredible and, unprofessional as it may be, I've got to know what their secret is.
So, as the couple passes, he says to them, "Excuse me Sir and Madam, and pardon me for having observed you even though it's my sworn duty to ensure your safety. But that was something else! I've never seen anything like it! I gotta know--what's your secret?
Shaking, the old buzzard is barely able to reply.
"Fifty years ago, Floyd, that wasn't an electric fence."
.
Happy Birthday, Ed Zachary
The Editorial Waterboard takes time out from its busy schedule coordinating arms shipments to our brothers-in-arms in Gaza--Aloha Snackbar!--to wish The Journal's Senior International Correspondent, Ed Zachary a happy birthday. Ed is shown below shortly after catching a glimpse of his nemesis, Christine Jorgensen, on that piece of shit, CNN, our chief competitor in the 24/7 news cycle.
Ed is 153 years young.
.
The Golden Years
Mike Rashoff, The Journal's Parking Lot Traffic Control Bureau Chief, was busy directing cars to empty spaces at 1:30 AM one morning at Costco when Al Gore ran up to him and excitedly ejaculated: "Mike! Mike! This story just came in from the War Department! The Japs are coming any minute, you gotta get this to The Journal immediately, oh Jesus, here they come, they're gonna strafe Costco!!"
Two weeks later, after voting for the Climate Change candidate, Rutherford B. Hayes, Mike forwarded this to the Editorial Waterboard ad hoc quorum in the Mens' Shitter at the Bumfuck Holiday Inn.
Readers cannot act too quickly in responding to this imminent threat to hearth and home. (The kids can--it goes without saying--go fuck themselves.)
After retiring, I went to the Social Security office to apply for Social Security.
The woman behind the counter asked me for my driver's license to verify my age. I looked in my pockets and realized I had left my wallet at home. I told the woman that I was very sorry, but I would have to go home and come back later.
So the woman said, "Unbutton your shirt." I forthwith opened my shirt revealing my massive chest with its manly veneer of curly silver hair.
She said, "That silver hair on your chest is proof enough for me" and immediately processed my Social Security application.
When I got home, I excitedly told my wife about my experience at the Social Security office.
She said: "You should have dropped your pants. You might have gotten Disability too."
.
Parts of Speech With Which Not To End Sentences
Hugh Jorgen, long time Left Coast Bureau Chief for The Journal, was standing on the wide-stance commode, just slipping a noose around his neck--beautiful job on the traditional hangman's knot which he'd carefully selected in preference to the simpler but far less elegant slipping bowline. Further, he'd done a beautiful job lobbing the coiled rope over the rafter in the Mens' Shitter at the Bumfuck Holiday Inn. Most of all, he'd done an incredible job with his stock portfolio: Lehman, AIG, GM, RBS, all the usual suspects, plus his own personal favorite, Acme Rope PLC: Acme had been skyrocketing to the extent it made up for a total of 1.4% capital gains as a contrarian bet to offset his huge punt in blue-chips paying steady dividends with customary huge yearly bottom line surprises on the up-side. Just before kicking the barstool away to rest against the familiar graffitti-covered shithouse door, Hugh dropped the following final report onto the shitter floor, for which the Editorial Waterboard will be eternally grateful:
On my 70th birthday, I received a gift certificate from my wife. The certificate paid for a visit to a shaman living on a nearby Indian reservation who was rumored to have a miraculous cure for erectile dysfunction, far superior to mundane, workaday sildenafil citrate.
After being persuaded, I drove to the reservation, handed my ticket to the shaman, and wondered what I was in for.
The old man slowly, methodically prepared a potion with mortar and pestle, consisting of at least 30 herbal ingredients.
He emptied the mortar into a bottle and solemnly handed it to me. With a grip on my shoulder, he stared deep into my eyes and warned: "This is powerful medicine and it must be respected. You take only a teaspoonful and then say '1-2-3.' When you do that, you will be the best you have ever been in your life. And you can perform as long as you want."
I was encouraged. As he walked away, I turned and asked, "How do I stop the medicine from working?"
"Your partner must say '1-2-3-4,' the shaman responded. "But when she does, the medicine will not work again until the next full moon."
I was eager to see if it worked.
I went home, showered, shaved, took a spoonful of the medicine, and then, standing nude next to the bed, yelled out to Ethyl who was in the kitchen: "Ethyl! Get your ass in here, I think I'm onto something you ain't gonna believe!"
Ethyl entered the bedroom at which time I immediately shouted "1-2-3!"
Instantaneously, I was the manliest of men.
Ethyl's eyes popped open, first in disbelief followed by frenzied concupiscence.
She threw her clothes onto the floor in a flash, whilst breathlessly inquiring: "What was the 1-2-3 for?"
.
Golden Years
This poignant reflection was discovered by accident in the clenched fist of The Journal's Subprime Colo-Rectal Bypass Bureau Chief, Michael Edward Rashoff, a recent recipient of the Pullet Surprise for Best Forgotten Shopping List of 2001 and a candidate for Obituary of the Year.
Maybe it's just me, but I seem to have aged somewhat these past few years.
I've had two bypass surgeries, a hip replacement, new knees, fought prostate cancer and diabetes and I'm half blind.
I can't hear anything quieter than a jet engine.
I take 40 different medications that make me dizzy, flatulent and subject to blackouts.
I have bouts with dementia, poor circulation, can hardly feel my hands and feet anymore and don't remember if I'm 85 or 92.
I've lost all my friends--
All I can say is--Thank God I've still got my driver's licence.
.
Righteous Street Rage
This moving first-hand IslamoColonic -derivated testimonial comes to us from our Senior Alzheimer Refinance Home Equity Bureau Chief, Mike Rashoff, to whom the BSA recently awarded his 300th merit badge for solipsist/post-senile navigation of parking lots.
Working people frequently ask us retired old fucks what we do to make our days interesting.
Well, as an example, the other day I went downtown and walked into the drugstore to get ripped off bigtime by Big Pharma.
I was only in there for five minutes but when I came out, what did I see but a police orifice writing out a parking ticket.
I walked straight up to him and said, "Come on, man, how's about giving a retiree a break?"
He ignored me and continued writing the ticket.
So I called him a "Nazi."
He took a long, cold look at me through blank reflective sunglass lenses that reminded me of the roadgang bosses in Cool Hand Luke.
Then he wrote me another ticket for having worn tires.
So then I called him a "doughnut-eating, gash-gobbling Fascist."
He nodded almost imperceptibly, finished writing the second ticket and carefully placed it under the windshield wiper blade along with the first.
Then he wrote a third ticket.
This went on another ten minutes.
The more I abused him, the more tickets he wrote. I guess he must have written a total of 15 tickets, they were thickly wadded up against the surface of the windshield.
Personally, I didn't care one way or the other except to the extent that I'd come downtown on the bus and the car that he was putting the tickets on had a bumper sticker that said "Hillary '08."
No Parallel Universe for Old Men
Three dynamic geriatrics had escaped from their gated community and somehow groped their way to the local tavern to exchange competitive complaints about their aches and pains.
"I'm tellin' ya, sixty has got to be the worst age," said the 60-year-old man. "You always feel like you gotta pee and then you stand there and nothing comes out."
"Hell, that's nothin'," exclaimed the 70-year-old. "When you're seventy, you don't have a bowel movement any more! You take laxatives, eat bran, sit on the toilet all day and nothin' comes out!"
"You sonsabitches are pathetic," stated the 80-year-old over his third beer. "Eighty is the worst age of all."
"Why do you say that?" inquired the 60-year-old. "Do you have trouble peeing too?"
"Hell no! I pee every morning at six o'clock! I pee like a racehorse on a flat rock! No problem!"
"Surely, you must have a problem with your bowel movement--" interjected the 70-year-old.
"No, I have one every morning at six thirty."
Exasperated, the 60-year-old inquired: "You pee every morning at 6:00...and crap every morning at 6:30? What's so terrible about being 80?"
"I don't wake up until 7:00."
The Case of the Anally Retentive Geriatric
Hi.
I'm not a human being but I play one on TV.
Recently, I chose a new primary care physician.
After two visits and exhaustive lab tests, he informed me I was doing 'fairly well' for my age.
Slightly concerned about the tentative nature of his comment, I couldn't resist asking him: "Doctor, do you think I'll live to be 80?"
"Do you smoke tobacco or drink alcoholic beverages?" he inquired.
"Oh no," I replied.
"Do you ever take recreational drugs," wondered the medico.
"Never."
"Well, then, do you eat rib-eye steaks and barbecued ribs?"
"Oh no. My other doctor said that all red meat is unhealthy!"
"Let me ask you this, then: do you spend a lot of time in the sun, playing golf, boating, fishing or relaxing on the beach?"
"Heavens, no!" I ejaculated. "I have important responsibilities to discharge."
"Do you gamble, drive fast cars, or have a lot of sex?"
"No way! I would never do any of those things!"
"Then why do you give a shit?"
Dry Feet
This stirring testimonial from David Marvin Mailer, The Journal's Far East Transpastic Bureau Chief, pictured right, speaks volumes to the terminally decrepit, those suffering the daily agony of eutrophic hemorrhoids, empowered diverticulitis and parking lot dysphoria, yet even now still await the opening of an NGO dedicated to their needs and desires, for once.
Dear Jocop,
Today I walked into the chemist's to buy some Viagra--sildenafil citrate.
"Can I have 6 tablets, cut in quarters?" I inquired.
"I can cut them for you," said the chemist, "but a quarter tablet will not give you a full erection. "
"I am a hundred years old," I replied. "I don't want an erection. I just want it sticking out far enough so I don't piss on my slippers."
Yours in Christ,
Mailer
The Ancient Motorcyclist
A crusty old biker, on a summer ride in the country, walks into a tavern and sees a sign hanging over the bar which reads:
CHEESEBURGER: $1.50
CHICKEN SANDWICH : '$2.50
HANDJOB: $10.00
Checking his wallet to see if he's good for it, he walks up to the bar and beckons to one of the three exceptionally attractive women serving drinks to a pathetic looking group of farmers.
"Yes?" inquires the one with the big tits, smiling knowingly, "can I help you?"
"I was wondering," mumbles the biker, "are you the young lady who gives the handjobs?"
"Yes," she purrs, "I am."
The old biker replies, "Well wash your hands, I want a cheeseburger."
And Our Special This Evening....
The Editorial Waterboard is proud to announce that Michael Edward Rashoff, pictured right, was admitted to the Geriatric Ward of Bumfuck Presbyterian early this morning after being diagnosed with GITS (Gastro-Intestinal Torque Syndrome) pursuant to his Alzheimer's-fuelled discovery of the prune daiquiri.
The prognosis was characterized by the attending physician as "fecal."
A man feared his aging wife might need a hearing aid.
She never seemed to hear when he was talking to her.
Not quite sure how to approach her, he called the family doctor to discuss the problem.
The medico told him there is a simple informal test the husband could perform to provide the required statistical data base necessary for evaluating her hearing loss.
Here's what you do," said the pill-purveyor. "Stand about 40 feet away from her and in a normal conversational speaking tone see if she hears you. If not, try it at 30 feet, then 20 feet and so on until you get a response."
That evening, the wife is in the kitchen cooking dinner and the hub is in the den. He says to himself, "I'm about 40 feet away, let's see what happens."
Then in a normal tone he asks, 'Honey, what's for dinner?"
No response.
He moves ten feet closer to the kitchen and repeats, "Honey, what's for dinner?"
Still no response.
Then he moves clear into the dining room where he is about 20 feet from the ball and chain and asks, "Honey, what's for dinner?"
Again no response.
Finally he walks directly up to the kitchen door and addresses the missus: "Honey, what's for dinner?"
Still no response.
So he walks right up behind her and shouts into her ear:
"Honey, what's for dinner?"
"MIKE, FOR THE FIFTH FUCKING TIME, IT'S PORK LOIN ALREADY!"
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