48 RobboGreetings, my fellow port swillers!

A glass of wine with you all, as today is ol’ Robbo’s birthday.

Mrs. R had somehow lost track of my age and in her mind was low-balling it a bit.  When I corrected her information, she said, “Forty-EIGHT? Oh, my God! Why, welcome to your late 40’s, old man! Oh, ha ha ha ha!!”

Mrs. R herself is only 42, making her a persnickity young whippersnapper with no proper sense of deference to her elders.  This is what I get for going the child-bride route all those years ago.  On the other hand, it means I get to have the trophy wife without going through all the fuss and bother of trading in a first one.

After she got done laughing, Mrs. R was good enough to say that I don’t look anything like 48 years old.

This, if I may say so, is true.  I do look more like  I’m still in my 30’s.  On the inside, though, I’m beginning to feel the onset of middle age – the failing eyesight, the various plumbing problems, the creaky joints.

And the growing sense of horror and disgust when I read the nooz headlines.   Our so-called “culture” seems to be accelerating in its downward spiral into decadence and barbarism, and it both appalls and alarms me that said culture is becoming increasingly open in its hostility toward….people like me.   I joke about re-education camps and firing squads, but among those who share my world-view, this is becoming more of a half-joke.   What the next few years will hold, I don’t know, but I’m not especially optimistic.

Basta! Enough of all that!  We keep the Faith and do what we can and treat the things of this world with cheerful contempt.  Now if you’ll excuse me,  I’m off to tell them dang kids to git the hell offin’ my lawn!

 

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