Becoming the Old Man

Funny thing happened the other day and I thought I’d share…

Tahera and I were backing out of the garage with me at the wheel, when some punk kid buzzes by the back of the car on his bmx. After dislodging the brake pedal from the floorboard and triple checking that there weren’t any of his hoodlum friends coming down the pipeline, I backed out the rest of the way and started past our house.
It’s at this point that I notice the little bastard cruising down my damn lawn! He slowed to a near standstill at the steepest dropoff, planning out his sweet jump.
So I stop the car, roll down the window and instantly become a 90 year old man.

“Yo!” I yell, incredulous and at a loss for anything more coherent.
The punk stops and looks back up the hill in confusion…
“Offa da lawwn” I signal with an annoyed hand gesture.
At this point, the little shit has the nerve, after trampling what little green lawn I have, to give me attitude! “Sorry..” he says, in a nasal tone that means he’s anything but…
“yeah, Thanks.” I reply, mirroring his message, and eyeing him till he’s on the sidewalk..

Whatever you weasel. You’re not sorry and I’m not grateful. Just stay offa my damn lawn or next time I’ll beat you with my walker.

Now that some time has passed, the absurdity of what transpired has sunk in. If I were that kid (and hell, I was that kid once..), I would’ve said the exact same thing, in exactly that tone. I guess there’s something about having a house. Your own castle. That last bastion of privacy, that turns you into a raving lunatic control-freak.
Which reminds me… I’ve gotta mow that lawn. Don’t wanna be a slovenly raving lunatic control-freak…

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