She was hunched over, frail and carried a cane. At the edge of the steps about to walk down she looked so teeny, susceptible to an unhealthy tumble. “Sure you don’t want to take the elevator, Methuselah?” I said. “No, no, I’ll be fine,” she warbled. That lying wrinkly twat! I’d seen her before. We’d had the loveliest of chats — she’s 200 years old, she is, and had some stories to tell from the days of yore, as you might imagine. But the last time I recall she had taken the elevator, as I had suggested.
Well, I just couldn’t see it, her getting down those stairs in one piece. I ran to aid her. “I’ll help you — here,” I said offering my arm. “Well, I could just hold the banister,” she said. But it was two miles away from where we stood in the center of the steps. “Here, let me,” I said again. “Oh, o-okay,” she warbled taking my arm, and blibbity, bop, clop, cloppity, clack, crack – we both fell! “Oh, oh, I told you I wanted to hold the banister,” she bleated – “You meant well, but you don’t know how to hold a person,” she scolded. What the — why, I orta! We finally got her old ass up off the steps, she went to her car and drove away.
From here on end, any half-dead, dried up raisins I see who need help crossing the street, or stepping off the bus can kiss my ass! And I’ll be good goddamed if you get my seat on the bus – no, no, I’ll continue to do this – so people can see how magnanimous I am. But other than that I mean well, but I just don’t know how to hold a person — so fuck off and die!
1800ukillme 