Here's What's Bugging Me Right Now

Content Warning: PG-13. Contains nothing but juvenile potty-mouth.

Another Content Warning: It's completely apolitical.

A Last Content Warning: I'm not sure this is even funny. It seems sort of funny to me, but what do I know? It's hard to judge your own schtick.

So. Like everyone else, I'm getting older.

I’m not liking it.

I was prepared for most of the things that happen when you get older. Hair gets a little thinner, a little grayer. You get a little slower, a little, rounder.

I was expecting all that. I’m all right with that. But something’s happened to me lately that nobody warned me about.

My main problem right now is with my, well, how to put this delicately?

My genitals. The problem is with my dirty, filthy genitals.

That's not very delicate at all. Let's call it my squadron.

Now, the lead pilot of the squadron, the guy who's on point, the shooter, he's still doing okay. Maverick -- that’s his call-sign -- Maverick’s doin’ just fine.

Actually, in some ways, he's doing better than ever. He's finally learned the virtue of patience and control and he now takes his sweet old time lighting up a target, rather than spraying the scenery with cannon-fire at the first sign of a bandit.

So, Maverick's okay. Don't you worry about Maverick.

The problem is more with the, um, wingmen.

I call them Goose and Slider. A pair of trigger-happy, devil-may-may care leathernecks who live life on the edge and play by their own rules.

Now, Goose and Slider used to fly a really tight formation. Wing-tip to wing-tip, if you will. A nice delta formation, a nice flying V.

But for the past, oh, five or six years now, I’ve noticed that Goose and Slider are getting a little… sloppy in their formations.

They used to fly at the same altitude. The same elevation. Level.

But lately they’ve been diverging a bit.

Now, Goose. Goose apparently is attempting to break Chuck Yeagher’s altitude record. He’s really elevating his game, if you know what I mean. Goose apparently is looking to reach the upper troposphere of the groin region.

Slider, on the other hand… Slider seems to have gotten entirely different orders from base commander.

I don’t know what he’s up to exactly, but it seems to be some sort of low-altitude scouting mission, maybe looking for troop positions by my knees.

What's he doing down there? I have no fucking idea. I think maybe he's trying to avoid radar or something.

So Goose and Slider-- or as I call them now, Droopy and Clutch -- used to form a nice tight tandem wing. A veritable Blue Angles exhibition in my shorts.

Now, I’ve got all of my business stacked up vertically over each other like DC-9’s over La Guardia.

And this isn’t just vanity. This isn’t just about the way I look down there now.
It’s not just out of an aesthetic appreciation for symmetry.

No, this offends my sense of social equality.

In the old, er, social structure, my guys were equals. They were peers. I liked that arrangement. It was democratic. Egalitarian.

It wasn’t this hierarchical, quasi-feudal regime of overlord and underling.

So there you go. I started out with a pair of genital Hardy Boys, joined at the hip and solving all sorts of crazy mysterious adventures with a combination of youthful exuberance and pluck, and now I’ve got a couple of round, wrinkly old men living in some sort of low-rent bunk-bed arrangement, a kind of downscale
testicular Odd Couple.

This is what's bugging me, right now.

Thank you.

posted by Ace at 03:41 PM

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