I talk to myself.

Yep, I do…all the time.

Around my apartment, where I live by myself, it’s really just thinking out loud, except that I begin, after a while, to give myself advice on things and then agree with the advice, like I asked a buddy for his opinion on some issue I was having and liked what he told me.

Every now and then I forget where I am and start chattering, usually under my breath (I’m not that crazy) to myself, to the strange looks of people around me; this is especially true at work, where I am a part-time Front Service Clerk (that’s corporate jargon for “bagger”) for Publix Supermarkets. Yeah, I’ll get to throwing stuff in plastic bags, tossing around those 12 packs of soda or the 24 packs of bottled water, keeping the eggs and the bread on the top, my mind completely elsewhere when suddenly, something I see causes me to make a sotto voce (that’s Latin for “weasels ripped my flesh”) remark to myself, and every now and again, one of the cashiers hears me.

They will turn to me, most often with a quizzical look, and basically ask, “what?”, to which I always reply, oh, I was just talking to myself.

No sense denying it, is there?

It’s another sign of “older”…not “getting old” although I am, but “ooollder”.

I’ll be 67 in a few weeks, and although that’s a fair good number of turns around the sun, I don’t think of myself as old. A bit of a reprobate, certainly, but no, not old…at least not yet.

But the signs of increasing age, and really, what other kind is there, decreasing, are all over me these days, and I want it stopped, immediately. Now even. ASAP.

~ITEM~ The other day I was trying to say something, talking to myself again, and I couldn’t get a word to come out…I kept doing the “ahh…ahh…ahh…” thing, as I attempted to remember a word that had popped into my mind just a moment earlier but was now gone for the ages. “Shit,” I said, “I sound like my needle is stuck” and it flashed into my mind that if I said something about needles being stuck to one of the kids at work, they wouldn’t have the slightest idea what the hell I was talking about.

~ITEM~ As I was opening the blinds on my sliding glass door the other morning, I thought to myself, since on one else was there at the time, gee, I wonder what the weather is like outside this morning? “Oh look,” I said, now talking out loud to myself again…think there’s a pattern here? “It’s grey and unpleasant-looking.” Which it was. And then I further commented to myself, “Hell, I’ve dated women that matched that description”, which I thought was pretty funny.

My version doesn’t look NEAR as creepy as this abomination…geez.

~ITEM~ I really like my version of Huevos Rancheros, which uses refried beans, which I dearly love, as one of the main ingredients; sadly however, there’s something about the combo of the beans, the eggs, the peppers, the hot salsa, the plutonium and the WD40 that has an effect on my digestive system that can be only be characterized as “thunderous”. The other day, several hours subsequent to scarfing down a big plate of “Eggs of Ranchers”, my GI system woke up from an extended slumber, nodded recognition to the bubbling and churning going on in my stomach, responded to the urgent call for relief from my colon and proceeded to release gas in vast quantities, with the appropriate (and quite loud) aural accompaniment. “Geez,” I said to myself (yes, out loud), after the smoke cleared and I could breathe again, “I gotta’ be careful farting that hard…at my age I’m liable to blow my spleen right out my asshole and shoot that sucker across the room.”

~ITEM~ “Down”, you know, like as in the opposite of up, is one helluva’ lot farther these days than it used to be.

~ITEM~ I’m further unhappy to report that, due to a certain “loosening” of the muscle tissue on various unfortunate parts of my body, if I’m not careful when I’m wearing shorts (it’s Florida, you guess how often that is) and I sit down on one of my leatherette chairs, the flab on the back of my legs makes a very realistic fart noise against the leather…stop it, it’s not funny.

I don’t remember signing up for any of this shit, you know, back when…


They must have mis-filed my application…I didn’t sign up for any of this shit.

“Check the box for each of the old-age problems you would like added to your ‘Old Age Package’; you may choose as many as you like.”








[] UGLY (sorry, did that one twice)



[] EXTREME FLATULENCE (watch your spleen!)

[] HEMMORHOIDS (sometimes known by their more common name “Republicans”)

~ITEM~ The other day I was wiping down the kitchen counter, slid the towel off the top too quick and smacked myself (not real hard) right in the private parts, specifically, I wacked my own pee-pee. I stopped, assessed the damage (slight to none, but a good scare), and then looked down to the general area of my crotch and said, “Excuse me, Dick”.

And then spent the next 5 minutes laughing like a maniac.

At least I was talking to someone else for a change.

Love and monologues,

Cap’n John


    • To paraphrase Longfellow, we are like ships passing in the night…all is well here and at work, at least as far as I know. (They’d let me know if they had fired me, wouldn’t they?) And I’ve just hit a “writer’s block” here lately, using the term very loosely, but I’m coming back in the next day or two, maybe sooner. As always, I greatly appreciate your support, but would also appreciate free beer as well.


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