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?

My interpretation?

Who needs a doctor to tell me I can’t hear?

Now what?

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.

Now what?

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!





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