I feel like what’s his name: Sam Elliott.
I have my head tilted to the left, with a tissue stuffed in my ear.
The doc said my hearing is shot.
Physician, heal thyself.
Cura te ipsum
Latin, of course.
Who the heck can speak Latin?
Who needs a doctor to tell me I can’t hear?
Just how much do I really want to hear?
The stuff I poured into my ear is bubbling and fizzing.
I can hear that.
So what’s the big deal?
I see the big blue bulb.
What the heck do I do with that?
I submerge it in warm water.
I squeeze the bulb.
Mama’s got a squeeze box, Daddy never sleeps at night.
I suck up some water and pour it into my ear.
This is ridiculous.
I have water running all over my face and neck.
I get weary of the tissue hanging off my ear.
I can’t ever drink a beer.
So I remove the tissue
And deal with the issue
So what if I can’t hear?
There are some days I have heard enough.
Besides, one of the miracles of old age is selective hearing.
And it has nothing to do with listening.
What a hoot.
“Hey, girl, what you doing with that tissue hanging out of your ear?”
“What the hell? Can’t you hear?”
“Yeah, ok. thanks. I could use another beer.”
Hey hey, woot woot.
I love old age.
What a hoot!