AND SPEAKING OF...

Continuing on on today's (this weeks?) old-man-themed posts, I'd like to take this opportunity to say how pleased I am to be taking the night off playing me some motherfckng cribbage. It's a thing done by sagacious Midwesterners in warmly-lit cabins away from the frivolity of city life, a game that, like Paul Harvey and pancakes, is unlikely to change anytime between now and the apocalypse. Observe: "...If the card is a Jack, the dealer scores two points for "his heels", also known as "his nibs". This latter term is occasionally confused with "his nobs", which is more correctly used for a Jack of the same suit as the starter, scored during the show part of the game." How adorable is that, those aren't even jokes.

I've been mildly hungover for about 17 days now, 4% from drinking, 29% from going meat-free, 47% from consuming old milk, and 20% staying up to the wee hours of the morning cultivating a man-crush for Mandy Potemkin. I wouldn't ask me too many questions about that one if you know what's best for yourself.

This guy, I, [indicates self] needs old man therapy tonight:

1) Leg blanket for legs
2) Woolen cap
3) Esoteric card play (see above)
4) Gin gimlets
5) Company of those hard of hearing
6) Soup and/or easily-digested foodstuffs
7) Pipe
8) Slippers
9) Earthy aromas
10) Mandy Potemkin (??)

Comfort breeds contentment, and who would refuse such a regimen of quiet self-indulgence? Ho ho! Not I! Let's be old together, you and I, and let's indulge ourselves with a little wholesomeness, a little soul-restoring bowl of praline-pecan ice cream, a little old-fashioned Americana. Join me and fritter away our dinners in front of the fire, repeating every sentence twice, or even three times. Let's nod our heads in the amber glow of the evening, making oh-so-sure we don't confuse our nobs with our nibs.