I'm becoming a Curmudgeon; Part One in a Neverending Series

I’m happily becoming a curmudgeon. I mean, every one has to has a goal, and now that it’s painfully obvious that I’ll never play baseball in Tiger Stadium (thanks for that too, Kwame) I realized a needed another goal, one which cannot be tarnished by the fact that I’m aging and things change. In fact, it occurs to me that it is almost universally accepted that old guys are curmudgeons, so I may as well accept and embrace the role.

What brings this on is a small act of imaginary revenge I played on the idiot behind me in the drive through last night. He seemed to think that I wanted to hear and feel the booming bass on his car radio as much as he did. Inconsiderate little punk drawing attention to himself like no one else’s shattered eardrums mattered. Well, I showed him. I turned my speakers way up and literally blew him into the next township with a blast of classical music. The William Tell Overture and the Anvil Chorus and the Blue Danube Waltz do not need some rancid rap track overshadowing them, no sir, no way. And in my own mind the neighborhood wanted to hear what I played more than his crap anyways.

In my own mind. The next is to actually confront the twerp and give him a good dressing down. He needs a grandpa speech. And he’ll get in. In my imagination. Because he can’t fight back there, and he’ll listen placidly and apologize, like the fine young man he needs to become.

Start by turning down that radio and turning on clean lyrics, you whippersnapper.