London Fogging, London Fogging

Or something like that.

I retired officially today from the flat-ass old guy wearing jeans to look younger than he is farce.

Now I have cargo pants. With pockets in the legs. And not peg leg pants either. Why I waited so long. Straight legs. I look like a grownup (or grown old) American slicked out with a London Fog windbreaker.

My wife gave it to me. London Fog. More pockets than I can count up to at my age.

My wife gave it to me. London Fog. More pockets than I can count up to at my age.

Won’t stand for you calling me an old fuddy duddy. I’m with it, current. Even if I don’t sport the huge white sneakers all you other old farts wear everywhere with your flat-ass jeans.

How can I make such a claim? Here’s why I’m smarter than all the ancient billionaires of the world. Incredibly good looking and slim as I still am, I know better than to think young women don’t prefer young men. They do. Wine them, dine them, shower them with gifts from Tiffany and Cartier, and they will still sneak out to a rendezvous with your paid faithful limo driver.

Why I have no interest in them. Young women who have ten years or less mileage on their tits have no character at all. They’re just little screwing machines with a shopping list. Why old men should stay away. But they never do.

Actually, young men should too. They will do, say, be anything they have to to procure items on that shopping list. Later on, there may be some chance of sanity descending, unless a psychotic break suggests new ways to further acquisitions from the list.

Have you — all of you — ever thought about what’s involved in being a prostitute? Sex ten to fourteen times a day. Without turning a hair. And just how many runaways and other girls right on up to law school students pay their way to the good life through prostitution? If they were men having sex so many times a day we’d call them sex addicts or sexual predators.

Old age is the intercession of wisdom via physical frailty. Why I’m happy about my dockers and London Fog disguise. And, yes, I still maintain I’m still with it. Just today, I was listening to WMMR in Philadelphia (the world’s oldest progressive rock station) and heard this hot new rock song from 1993. Something about a million miles away. The way I am from the baby strumpets who are now practicing up for the escort business by requiring signed permit forms (the only way left in a culture of gutter coarsitude to play hard to get) from every john at state college who wants to get into their panties.

I have something the ancient billionaires wish they had and can never buy. Romantic memories.


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