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When I Grow Up.
After having answered countless inquiries into what I aspire to be when I grow up, implying that I am currently still a three year old pulling a red wagon through the long hours of each day, with answers vague and unsure, have recently hit upon the perfect profession with which to respond, and the perfect profession at which to spend one's life.
Drum roll, hushed applause, wait for it, wait for it, When I grow up, I intend to be a....
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OLD GRIZZLED SOUTHERN MAN
That's right. A grizzled, and old man, from the deep South of North America. During the day, I'd sit on my rustic, delapitated front porch, clutching a shotgun and chewing a plug of tobacco I'd dug out of my filthy denim overalls. For hours I would sit, perhaps rocking in time to the chirp of a cricket, before decimating said cricket and all flora and fauna within a two foot diameter with a few quick blasts from my tarnished shotgun.
At night, I would retire to my bedroom, after a hearty dinner of pone and grits, washed down with what only the blind and tasteless would call water, eaten off the hubcap from a 1920's Model-T Ford, and drunk from an empty-but-by-no-means-clean can of beans. I'd sleep on a bed of straw, but not that clean straw. No, the straw I would bed in would already have been eaten, digested, and excreted by no fewer than three barn yard animals, so as not to be "putting on airs", as I would mutter incoherently, in my deep southern accent, as I fell into a drunken, troubled sleep.
I'd toss and turn at night, adjusting my position so as not to have the .22, broken beer bottle, or dead feline carcass jabbing into my pasty flesh, and visible, rail-thin ribs. Upon awakening, I'd toss the cat into the furthest wall, test the bottle for any remaining booze, and throw it after the cat in a fit of disappointed rage and frustration. Coughing a wad of manure from my toothless mouth, I would rise to the sound of a rooster crowing, silenced quickly and permanently with a few hasty, poorly aimed shots from the .22.
Rising, I would stumble outside, to assess the edibility of the downed rooster, leaving it to warm nicely over the day, to provide dinner that night if it were dead, and leaving it to retire slowly and continue on with the above if it were still alive. Then I would take my place in my weathered, broken rocking chair and prepare myself for another full day of rockin'.
Perhaps, during the day, some young punk kids would stop by for milk and cookies, or, more likely, to throw rocks at my shack and laugh at my loud, unintelligible cussings, and some good bouts of fist-shaking and resultory coughing, undoubtedly bringing up no small dose of brownish phlegm and a field mouse or two. Falling backwards in my chair, I'd quickly raise my arms to shield my stained, swollen face from another volley of stones, clumps of dirt, and small animals. Tan their hides I would, were it not fer me rheumat'ics. I would think back to my bygone days, three score an' some-odd ago, when I could'a lick'd any punk dared raise his voice tuh me, lousy merfin' snucker 'f a ngh berr pfhht. Grd.
I'd tend to my garden, or "dirt patch" as I'd affectionally call it, and weed, and till, and bury the wide assortment of four legged creatures unfortunate enough to wander near my crumbling abode. I'd plant carrots, beets, and children's toys left unattended. Sure, any living seed would rot the moment it touched the fetid filth, too contaminated with spilled alcohol, ash, and industrial waste to be called soil. My koi pond/cesspool would drain into the garden, and throw up such a stench come noonday the raccoons would toss themselves from the highest limb to escape the odour. I would bury these or eat them as I see fit.
Sure, the pay would be low, but job security alone attracts me to the position. They can take my job when they pry it from my cold, dead, southern hands.
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