As I slump further and further into senior citizenhood, certain things begin to annoy me that I’d have ignored a few years back. You know, little things that lead one to believe that the gene pool could use a good cleansing.
The other day I went for gas and one of the guys asked me to get him a pack of cigarettes. Sounds simple, doesn’t it? However, the genetic defect behind the counter asks me for proof of age. I said, “Thank you, Miss, but I’m 63 years old.” She replied, “I still have to see proof.”
“You are kidding me!” was my response. “My boss told me to proof everyone,” she countered. Now, I’m in hurry and feeling grumpy. “Are you serious?” I asked in disbelief, as people lined up behind me. “Are you telling me that I have to go out to my truck and get my driver’s license to prove to you that I’m over 18?”
“Yep.” she said. Knowing when I’m beaten, I go outside, get my license, and return to the scene of the crime. On the job application for that establishment, there should be a “yes/no” box labeled: “Are you capable of thought?”
I’ll be dipped, but the very same day I stop at another 24/7 type store to get a six-pack of beer, and the young lady asks for my birthday. I’m thinking, “Here we go again!” I smiled and asked, “Do I look underage?”
She replied, “No, I just have to enter everyone’s birth date when they buy alcohol.” Sounds reasonable and the young lady was just doing her job, so I answered, “August 2nd, 1919.” Never missed a beat! I’d have hoped this product of public education would have realized and questioned the date, but no! Maybe I look 94 years old?