The elderly make me sick. I mean physically nauseous to the point where puking is anything but unrealistic. I can't stand anything about old people; the way they look like crosses between raisins and sphincters, how they smell like decomposition and medication, the sound of wheezing and snorting and coughing and shitting, it's all so disgusting it makes my head spin. Here is a group of people, an entire sect of society dedicated to one goal and one goal only, that goal being to depress the living hell out of every other member of society.

It's like some kind of instinct hidden deep within the human psyche activates when a person hits sixty (I think it's called 'senility'). All of a sudden it becomes acceptable, even embraceable to be considered by others to be a burden on everyone around them. You've seen it first-hand, I know you have. An old sack of dogshit counting pennies at the cash register in a busy grocery store, trying to come up with exact change as if her entire day revolved around coming up with exact change, and it very well could, old people lead very boring lives. Or the wrinkly, smelly old man (oxymoron, I know, calling someone 'smelly' and 'old' is kind of synonymous) who sits on a lawnchair at the end of his driveway for hours on end, pissing the day away watching traffic pass by. He doesn't even get up to take a dump, thanks to some stupid jerk coming up with 'adult diapers.' Way to encourage further hygienic degradation, asshole. Or what about my personal favourite type of old person, the one everyone on the planet who has ever been in a hurry has come in contact with; the old man or woman who felt the need to buy one of those ridiculous electric mobility scooters and drive it damn near everywhere even though the wrinkled asshat has working, albeit decrepit legs. Hey shitstain, if you have the physical capability to walk, get your fat old ass off of the goddamn power-wheelchair and walk! Those mechanical monstrosities are nothing more than another excuse for old people to get in the way of real people, and by 'real' I mean anyone who isn't old. Those things are bulky, slow, and when used by a seventy-plus year old fat woman, downright dangerous. One time I was shopping at the local retail conglomerate when I somehow ended up in the same aisle as an old dickhole on a power-scooter, one of those ultra gay ones with a basket on front for stocking up on Metamucil, and when the old fart was passing by, he ran over my foot. Naturally I threw about a hundred and eighty shuriken at him, all of which stuck in his neck. He didn't bleed though, he just kind of wilted and shriveled further like a popped balloon. No complaint from me though, less mess means less cleanup, and less cleanup means more time for making messes.

What is it exactly that makes someone think that living in such a state is acceptable? Hell, does it even count as living when you don't have the mobility nor the brain capacity to wipe your own ass anymore? I see old people being pushed around in wheelchairs everywhere, and they all sport the same look of regret, remorse and self-pity on their stupid old faces. The only memories that retain any shred of coherence for these shells of people are memories involving the wealth, success, accomplishments and triumphs they experienced when they weren't frail old bags of intestines, which is probably one of the most potent forms of torture ever conceived. What would be more suicide-inducing than being forced to continue on as a being that can't move, can hardly breathe, can't function in damn near any way other than uncontrollable bowel movements, haunted by a past filled with exciting exploits and youthful ambitions? Most of them wouldn't even be able to kill themselves, mainly due to arthritis and osteoporosis, but also out of pure, unadulterated primal fear. The fear we all feel all one time or another (except for me because I'm a better person than any of you), the most basic fear we each have written deep within our collective psyche; the fear of death. More specifically, the fear of the unknown, death being the ultimate unknown. No one knows what happens to you when you die. Sure, tons of asshats claim to know, but everyone knows they're full of horseshit. There isn't a shred of evidence proving any one religion to be the one, true 'correct' religion, and you can bet your fat asscheeks that no one is slammed with this fact of uncertainty harder than someone whose time left on this plane of existence is no longer measured in years, but in months, perhaps weeks. That, my dear reader, is the ultimate bottom-line reason why I hate old people. They are glimpse into what each and every single one of us (well, except for people with diseases and shit like that) is one day to become: A pathetic old hag, a shadow of a real person bearing the appearance of a giant scrotum with nothing left to think about except the sweet release of death.

Be like me and do the world a favour. When you hit forty, kill yourself.

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