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October 29, 2010
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I bought a plane ticket to Fort Lauderdale last week. I also organized and priced-out all of my possessions to prepare for a Craigslist blowout sale.

My plan was to rent out my condo to an old person, preferably an old lady, with a small dog named Preston. 

Preferably an old lady, because old men smell like hate and salt-melted banana slugs. I remember losing a Micro Machine race car under my grandpa's chair when I was maybe five years old. I was able to reach my arm far enough under the chair to grab my apple-red Lamborghini, my face was nuzzled against the seat pad. Intrigued, I gave it a quick inhale, and that was the first time that I ever barfed...

The only positive thing about the seat pad on my grandpa's lounger was that it acted as a filter for the rest of the house. It was a bulky chair constructed with quality wood, adequate padding, and wrapped in commercial-strength wool tweed. For example, if it was a thin mesh seat support, and the framework was open to the rest of the world, like a modern office chair, the entire house would have smelled like post-digestion custard-filled maple bars, tobacco pipe resin, and unwashed linen undergarments. But, because the seat pad absorbed many of those demons, the scent was magnified by millions if you were unlucky enough to have your face stuffed inside of it. I was unlucky several times because, as a slow child, it took me losing toys under his chair, stuffing my face inside of that mess, and throwing-up tens of times before I realized that I should play elsewhere. Absolutely no help from grandma on that one, tough love I guess.

My thought on Fort Lauderdale is founded on the idea that I could meet an old bird that just wants to be treated nice by a young fella for a while before she calls it a life. Hopefully she'll be thankful enough for my time of service that I'll inherit a few bucks. Anna Nicole Smith did that with an old oil tycoon, and she turned out polished and grounded. The Girls Next Door made a show about doing that, and they all have dozens of lapdogs, platinum hair, and a safe free-and-clear vehicle to drive. Not that I want to be a woman, or have fake cans and blonde extensions, it just seems like a decent beaten-path to stroll along.

Physically, I would benefit from eating dinner at 4pm and having a regimented sleeping schedule. Mentally, learning more about our country's history would make my dad happy. I'd soil myself any time that she put up enough of a fight to drive to Mahjong on Tuesday nights, but it's an easy clean-up when your car seats are wrapped in plastic.

Not that this would be an easy thing to do. Fortunately, at that age I'm assuming that menopause would have wiped out all sexual drive like NyQuil to a head cold, but I would be providing an all-encompassing service if I expected to receive substantial financial compensation. I would ask her to dig-up old pictures from when she was my age. It would be like making love to a decomposing almanac in an attic.

I don't mind older women, but I do have one rule: you can be old, you just can't be dead. At that extent, we're looking at negative legal repercussions.

I've pictured a scenario that involves me moving to Fort Lauderdale, meeting an old lady named Elly, and sweeping her off her feet (gently, to avoid pelvic fractures or her head falling off, MediCare coverage is terrible). Then, after three months of dating and napping on wicker living room furniture after lunch, her ex-boyfriend Norman confronts us as a couple at a nearby casino. He goes off on a rant about her robbing the cradle, and how I'm nothing but a gold-digging snake in the grass. Then, I just slide a quarter into the juke box, select a random rap song, and he immediately explodes into flames, turns to ash, and then blows away like squirting garlic juice on a vampire.

I don't know. Maybe this is just another one of my pie-in-the-sky aspirations. Even though I'd be looking for a little fun in the sun, I'd sure have it made in the shade.

Until next time: Keep your goals realistic, and your dreams high above your head, but remember ladies: you can be old, you just can't be dead. 
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