They'll be snorting fentanyl off your bloated dead belly

Five years ago I posted a blog about retirement. The inexorable slide into decreptitude. As 2018 hobbles towards its ignominious end, it's once again time for a stock-taking of sorts.

The Farm Manager thinks Wiarton might make a nice retirement venue. I was absently driving around the place this morning. There's lots of folks out walking those poofy little dogs that retired people get themselves for company. They've probably got family somewhere, but you know how it goes these days; the younger generations are way too busy clawing their way forward in this cutthroat world to make time for their elders. Besides, it's a long drive to Wiarton no matter where you are.

They could fly in, I suppose. The "Wiarton International Airport" is an actual thing, after all. An international airport with exactly zero scheduled flights arriving and departing on any given day. So they'd have to charter a plane, and unfortunately none of the next generation of my acquaintance have thus far clawed themselves forward sufficiently for such an undertaking.

Retirement. I'm not sure it's for me. I try to picture what a day in the life of me (retired) might look like.

Six a.m. - Wake up. Take morning meds. Take poofy dog for walk.  Pick up Globe and Mail at Korean Extortionist's place on way home.

Seven-thirty to tenish - Read Globe and Mail.

Ten till noon - Compose and post pithy rejoinders to whatever twattery I found most objectionable in the Globe. There's almost always something.

Afternoon - The empty hours are upon me. Too soon to visit the liquor store. Too early for a toke, at least if you're harbouring any illusions about doing something useful before nightfall. How many useful things need doing in Wiarton is an open question. There's already a guy wandering around town collecting empties out of recycling bins. There's probably not enough empties to make that worthwhile for both of us. Besides, is that actually "retirement?"

Evening - time to get comfortably numb and reflect on the day. What did I accomplish? I walked the dog and wrote a blog.


Nah!... don't think I'm ready. __________ That was five years ago. Since then I had a detached retina and we all had the Covid thing, and like it or not, I'm retired. So the Farm Manager, on the cusp of retirement herself, is reading out a list of former students currently working in the "long term care" field. We name-checked the list and concluded that if we had the right care-givers, we might enjoy a dignified twilight. On the other hand, if we end up in the care of some of our more marginal charges, they'd be snorting fentanyl off our bloated dead bodies. Well, times sure have changed. All I ask is that when they're snorting stuff off my bloated belly, they're doing it respectfully.