Well the wife and I are still checking out 55 and older communities. Yesterday we went to one of those Assisted Living communities. It was one that offers everything from total independent living to the other extreme of those with one foot hovering over eternity, while the other foot stands on a banana skin. They have cottages where one totally lives independently, or with meals, or with meals and house cleaning. From there one transgresses to “the hotel” where more personal care is required. Then there is the facility that houses those whose mental faculties range anywhere from the beginning stages of dementia, to those who amuse themselves by carrying on conversations with thin air.
We were suppose to meet their representative in “the hotel” lobby. But because we were early, and our tour guide was running behind schedule, we were left waiting there. And because we had nothing better to do than munch on the house snack of unbuttered and unsalted popcorn, its tangy flavor tasting interestingly similar to that of shredded cardboard, we were left to watch the tenants shuffle by…
The first thing I noticed in this facility was that “walkers” seemed to be standard equipment. I could only guess, but I figured anyone transferred to this unit used a portable fence on wheels to keep from taking a half swam dive at ground level. Good idea. Though alcohol induced, I know from personal experiences down at Kelly’s Bar and Grill that a walker would have served me far better than my usual alternative of using my face to stop my fall. Secondly I noticed the unexpected threat of being physically violated by these biker…I mean walker gang females.
Yeah, you heard me right. These old women were sexual predators. I mean it was like I had a leading role in a Viagra commercial for women older than….a hundred. Maxine left me alone sitting on the couch. Suddenly I was shaken out of a bored daze by some silver-haired vixen who brought her walker to a stop directly in front of me, and gave me a smile and a wink. What was up with that? I gave her a weak smile and nod. I decided it was time to get up and move around. I figured like vultures soaring over a dead body, maybe if I moved around they would believe I was too spry for unvoluntary fornication. Then while I was looking at historical pictures on the wall I heard the squeaky wheel of a walker behind me. “Please keep going,” I whispered to myself. “Please keep going.” It didn’t. When the sound stop, I slowly turned. When we made eye contact she seductively smiled and gave the bicycle horn mounted on her walker a couple quick toots. She then gave a “come hither” wave of her head. It was like she was saying, “Hop on and we’ll go for the ride of your life.” This was beginning to get scary! It was quite obvious that, moving or not, while alone I was fair game. Like the widow Cloras across the street from where we live, she obviously didn’t care what she hooked up with as long as it remotely resembled the right species.
Then something odd struck me. Why did the old ladies outnumber the old men…by a lot! I mean I saw like fifteen old ladies, and maybe two old men. After my experience the only conclusion I could come to was…these old ladies ravished the poor old souls until their tickers could no longer take it! How much more diabolical can it get than that? Anyway, mercifully, my wife finally returned to my side.
After the tour was over I was impressed with their independent living cottages. But if we were to ever move in, I would never again enter…(shreeking violin music) “the hotel.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Here’s a relevent joke:
While visiting his long-time doctor for a physical, the man told the doctor he could no long live with his wife, and was seriously thinking about murdering her. The doctor told him that going to prison for the rest of his life just wasn’t worth it. What you should do is screw her to death. “What?” the man said. “Yep,” the doctor continued, “whether she wants it or not, drag her in the bedroom at least three times a day, if not more. I guarantee you that at her age she’ll be dead within thirty days.” The man shook the doctor’s hand and said he would do it.
After 28 days had passed and the doctor hadn’t heard from the man, he decided to drive out to his home. When he walked up to the front porch, there sitting in a chair with his feet in a bucket of hot water and a blanket draped over his shoulders was his patient. His eyes were shrunk back in his head, and he was skin and bone. His whole body was shaking. Hearing whistling coming from inside, the doctor could see his wife cheerfully skipping around the house while she cleaned. He then looked back to the man. “You look terrible!” The man slowly looked up at him. “Don’t feel sorry for me Doc,” he weakly replied, “feel sorry for my wife. She’d be whistling out of the other side of her mouth if she knew she only has two more days to live.”