One thing that really bugs me is when I see an old woman with a better body than me. Even if her face looks like a wrinkled, slapped ass, if she’s got a flat stomach and a space between her thighs, I feel a twinge of jealousy. After all, if she’s 300 years old and looking better than I do at 24, what the hell am I going to look like in a couple of decades?
I’m having a hard time thinking of something more First World Vile than having your formerly impotent, elderly husband harangue you every day about bumping junk with him.
Just think: you’ve put in your requisite 40 years of schtupping. You finally think you’ll be able to enjoy NCIS in peace and go to sleep at a reasonable hour and not have to worry about breaking your brittle, osteoporitic bones in your own damn bed. Then, much to your chagrin, your liver-spotted, saggy-skinned husband comes home from the doctor one day with a prescription for daily Cialis. Suddenly, you’re dealing with an alter cocker who has the sex drive of a pubescent teenager – it’s like being married to Benjamin Button, but instead of aging into Brad Pitt, your husband is just going to get wrinklier and more pungent with the passing of time. I’m gagging just thinking about it.
Maybe I should start a non-profit to support the wives of old men who take Cialis. I think I’ll call it H.H.H.T.M.A. (Triple H TMA), which stands for Help! He’s Harder Than My Arteries!