Conquer Old People!


As our country’s baby boomers reach retirement age, our society is becoming a ticking time bomb ready to explode with the elderly. As adorable as it sounds to have swarms of disoriented, incontinent people wandering about our streets with peed pants asking passersby, “do you know where I live?” the current geriatric gestation is no adorable matter. Who will take care of them? Who will cut their steaks and microwave their food for the sixth time? What will we do with all these leathery, hard candy hoarding, jitterbugging, won’t take the plastic cover off the furniture-ing, burdensome drains on our precious resources? Shoot them into space? Force them into arenas and make them fight like gladiators for our amusement? Ha, ha. Of course I am kidding, but all kidding aside, most likely we’ll need to incarcerate them into forced labor camps.

Now before we go any further, let me clear this up. If you happen to be an old person reading this book, I’m not talking about you. I’m talking about really old people who don’t have the eye sight to read and must have books like this read to them. Oh, and you wizened old folks having this book read to you due to poor eye sight, I’m not actually talking about you either. I mean really, really old people. You know, the kind who look like turtles and still use Confederacy money. We cool? Cool. Let’s continue.

As I mentioned, old people present a severe drain of resources on any society. And I don’t just mean drastically depleting our Jell-O, decaf coffee and lawn gnome supplies. As they roam the countryside, old people, much like real people, suck up the air, occasionally stop to drink water (which they keep stored in a hump on their backs) and have been known to graze on Salisbury steaks in the early afternoon time. What’s more, the old are a drain on our mental resources, constantly berating us with stories about wars they fought that we don’t care about. They hold us in a constant terror that they may take out their dentures and chase us around the house with them. Then there are all those unruly gangs of octogenarian punks who terrorize the streets, mugging people for anti-coagulant pills, throwing garbage cans through storefront windows, overturning cars with their hive-like collective strength and forever screaming their battle cry “Twenty three skidoo! Twenty three skidoo!” When will justice be brought to these zoot suited “hep cats”?

Don’t get me wrong. Old people serve their purpose. They send you a five dollar check on your birthday.  And when the zombies plague eventually breaks, their slow moving and futile attempts at escape will keep the undead satiated while the rest of us make it to safety.  Sure there are the “good ones,” the ones who want to be productive members of society, but getting these old folk into the work force just opens another can of very old worms. Used to be when granny got to a certain age you shipped her off to a home like Shady Pines or Final Acres.  Or maybe you hid her away in the attic and just brought her out for special occasions like Christmas.  But old people these days want to be active.  There’s granny behind the counter at McDonald’s, taking your order.  There’s grandpa doing the landscaping and Nana in the orchard picking your fruit.  They’re taking away our jobs people!

Good or bad, mark my words, the elderly mean us no good. You may think them cute and cuddly when they shuffle about the house with their pantyhose around the ankles, commonly address you as “President Eisenhower” and fall down the stairs to comical effect. But don’t let these vaudevillian amusements deceive you. It is but an act to lull you into a false sense of security. When Nana waves goodbye as you pull out of her drive way, take one last glance at her, right before she disappears on the horizon, right when she thinks you can’t see her anymore. Do you see it? There in her eyes! Menace. Whenever you aren’t looking grandma stares covetously at your firm, able body. She burns with jealousy at your nubile form, capable of making poo-poos and wee-wees on its own terms. She means to take it from you, you know. At night she dreams of possessing your precise, forceful and deliberate bladder control. How exactly does she plan on stealing your youth, your vitality? It is uncertain, but odds are it will involve biting and chewing you.

Legend tells that within the musty walls of retirement homes, Elks Lodges and in the quiet corners of coffee shops the old pass along a firm belief that they can absorb our youth by eating us. In fact, it is said elderly scientists work on the project ‘round the clock, but have yet to crack the formula for building a crock pot large enough to simmer and entire human body all day, in order to make the meat soft enough for gumming down.

I decided to investigate the matter myself. I went down to the local retirement home to get answers (Not my parent’s retirement home, mind you. I sent them off in the Viking tradition, a fiery burial at sea. Luckily for them I didn’t wait until they had grown too old and infirm, saving them the embarrassment of advanced age). There I found the most shriveled woman in the place, a wheelchair bound old crone named Francine Macomb, and grilled her.

“What are you people planning? Are there blue prints for your ultimate death machine? Where are the blue prints?!

“Are you my grandson?” she replied. “He said he’d be right back to take me to the park.  I like the park.”

She was cunning; I had to give her that. But I would not be deterred by her evasiveness. When further pressed, Mrs. Macomb offered me a can of flat, generic cola, a stick of Blackjack gum and told me, quote, “You’re a handsome boy.”

This tale of geriatric apocalypse may only prove hearsay, but who can afford that chance?

“In the past these things were handled rather simply,” says Harvard Sociological Professor Bernard Toomes.  “In earlier times, when a person of advanced age in a village became useless or outwore their welcome among the living, the tribal leaders took that old fossil aside and said, ‘It’s time.’ At that point the unwanted old bat could choose among several respectful “parting” ceremonies such as getting crushed with a boulder or being dragged deep into the woods, well out of earshot, buried up to the neck and left to scream until nature took her course. It was a dignified way to bow out of the game of life.

“These days we’ve shaken off such practices, claiming them barbaric. Though nature has provided plenty of ways for old people to die–exotic cancers, heat waves, all too confusing lawn mower instructions–this generation’s elderly is persistently ducking and weaving out of death’s reach.

“These days we think ourselves so ‘enlightened’ because we don’t pull people out of their homes and force them to die.  At least not outside of Texas.  Old people living longer present the social problem of the rest of us having to look at them and smell them. Watching their bodies deteriorate before our very eyes reminds the rest of us firm and lithe people that youth is fleeting and we are all mortal. Eventually our bodies will turn on us and we will all one day be old,” says Toomes. Toomes went on to add, “Gross.”

Believe me, the old want what you got: mobility, vigor, their original hips. For centuries the battle of old versus young waged and we at the top of the hourglass kept those sacks of bones at bay. A simple shove often sufficed. However, with the Baby Boomers moving into retirement age, we may have met our match. First off, they are outnumbering us. Second, and more importantly, egged on by hair dye advertisements that proclaim “70 is the new 30!” and cell phone commercials with a break dancing Betty White, the aging Baby Boomers insist on doing things young people do despite the fact they are old. Things like being sexy, which activities include, but are not limited to, dressing sexy, talking about sexy things and having sex—all while being quite old.

With the advent of sexual medicinal technology, the old now are now capable of Frankenstein-like reanimation of their nether regions, leaving the rest of us to grapple with the very upsetting reality of geriatric sex.

“Viagra is an abomination,” says an unnamed researcher for a major pharmaceutical company. “We shouldn’t be encouraging these people.  If old people were meant to have sex they wouldn’t be wrinkly and smell like Vick’s VapoRub and lint. When we fool with such degenerate science as boner pills we are but monkeys playing God. Sometimes in science we ask ‘Can we do it?’ when we should be asking, ‘Should we do it?’ I mean, old people doing it?  C’mon!”

Soon old person sex will present the unfortunate advent of old people porn. Prepare for titles like Hangin’ Loose and How Dry Was My Valley. Not since Cocoon will elderly sex be so forced upon the social consciousness

“They can’t be enjoying it,” says the researcher. “After all, they have to look at and feel each other’s wrinkly old bodies. What is the purpose of them having sex anyway? It can’t be fun. Is it to have babies? Don’t they know they’re so old their babies would be eligible for senior citizen discounts at birth? Do we need miniature old people, a land filled with toddler Benjamin Buttons? Is sex among the old even physically possible?  For now we do not know and we have much stomach turning research to do.”

Here’s a worrisome side effect from all these old people getting it on: with geriatric sex pressed into our faces 24/7, the rest of us won’t feel much like having sex. Our reproductive capacities essentially neutered, this generation and the next will die out leaving no progeny. The only option for continuing the human race will be for those narcissistic Baby Boomers to clone themselves. The clones will follow the same life paths as their Boomer forbearers: come into the world with a great sense of entitlement, read a couple philosophy books and declare they will change the world, start wars and then protest them, do some drugs and decide to make money instead, turn a complete reversal on all their former youthful ideals, cry out for more wars to lower the price of gas in their Mercedes SUVs, destroy the environment and then foist the culture, music and icons of their generation onto the next. This loop will continue for 1,000’s of years. Society will not advance, but rather skip like a scratched record until God finally gets fed up with it and floods the whole place. The only remnant of human existence will be radio waves of the Beach Boys’ “Kokomo” emitted from a sole tower on this dead planet, carrying out into the cold indifference of space.

What can you do to prevent this scourge by these people of yore? You tell them enough is enough! The longer these old live, the more of them we’re going to have. Where will they all go?  Imagine it; we’ll have to tear up our precious wildlife reserves in Alaska to build them more Denny’s Restaurants just so they can nurse a cup of coffee for three hours without ordering an entrée. We’ll flatten whole swaths of Spotted Owl habitat to make way for mini malls that these tyrannical elderly can meander incessantly, never buying a thing.

Here’s my plan: have you seen the film Escape from New York? It’s a visionary tale about a future in which the government constructs a giant wall around the island of Manhattan and forces all the country’s criminals inside to fend for themselves. Now let’s apply this incredibly prescient concept to our old people problem. Think of a part of America we don’t really need anymore. A place we could dupe all the old people into going to willingly. That’s right; we’re putting a wall around Florida. Sure, it’s a lot of land to give up, but will you really miss it? We already have a Disneyland on the west coast and I hear Cincinnati is the Miami of Ohio. And make sure to put a moat around that wall, because we all know the old are good diggers, but they can’t swim.

Once we get the major bulk of the codgers in hoosegow, I mean “mandatory retirement,” it’s time to deal with the stragglers. For those who escape the round-up, it’s time to offer these flies some honey. Let’s announce the opening of a new mega-buffet that serves only mashed potatoes and pre-blended prime rib with bottomless cups of decaf coffee. Offer a free polyester track suit with each meal. Advertise the place through those terrible forwarded emails old people love to pass to everyone on their contact list. Lure them with the subject line: VIDEO OF CATS DANCING! HAR-LARIOUS! Then wait…

Oh right, what we’re waiting for. We’re going to booby trap the entire parking lot of the restaurant with land mines. Sure, when some of the geezers see one of their own blown sky-high, they might think twice about continuing forward, but they won’t be able to stop, because of the siren song of that bottomless decaf. It’s like a Roach Motel, but for old people. And it’s not a motel, but a buffet. Trust me, it’s going to work.

And if America doesn’t take my urgent suggestions? Then it’s every man for himself. I say stock up on ammo and bone up on your sharp shooting skills because one morning you may wake to a mob of the elderly very slowly advancing on your home. Then you’ll wish you’d listened to me.

Is this all a paranoid raving? You tell me. Am I too paranoid…or not paranoid enough? This we do know, there’s a shadowy old population that lurks among us and isn’t going away. Until they reveal their ultimate plan, the rest of us have no choice but to speculate…and live in fear. Will you be prepared?

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