Uh yeah

Why do I get this stuff? (Screenshot by BobbaLew.)

“Just because I’m 74 years old means I’m a ‘dirty-old-man?’” I ask.
My deceased wife could be cute, but I had to move Heaven-and-earth to convince her of that.
50 long years ago when we married, I wanted her to remove her bat-wing glasses. I wanted to marry a pretty girl.
Her mother was appalled. I had the awful temerity, unmitigated gall and horrific audacity to not wanna marry the frump she raised.
Her mother was a piece-of-work. She growled at me the first time we met. She actually growled, as if to say “Look what the cat dragged in. I dunno what she ever sees in him!”
I have two pictures of my wife: one I took long ago for a photo-class at Rochester Institute of Technology (RIT) when she was about 24 or 25. No bat-wings.
The second is not long before she died. She looked bedraggled. Her legs were starting to swell again because of poor circulation due to cancer. She’d gone back to wearing glasses; she was nearly blind without ‘em. At least glasses-styling had gone beyond bat-wings.
Despite fervent motherly advice we’d never last: 44+ years. And during that whole time the wife I pictured was that pretty girl in my RIT picture.
I related all this to a young girl at my pharmacy. “Ya gotta ditch them glasses,” I told her. “You’ll look prettier without ‘em.” She loved it; smiling profusely. Apparently I got away with it by -a) being 74 years old, and -b) mentioning my wife.
“I’m nearly blind without ‘em,” she said. “Same thing my wife said. She switched to contacts,” I commented. “I have too,” the girl said. “But I needed a break. They can dry out my eyes.”
“So switch anyway; you’ll be prettier without ‘em,” I said. “The Keed has spoken!”
I avoid that pharmacy — I don’t wanna be perceived a creep. But I bet she’s back to contacts the next time I visit.
“What matters is what’s between the ears,” I said to my wife as I drove her to hospice. How come SuckerBird and his lackeys can’t comprehend that? They think because I’m 74 I’m in pursuit of some buxom young hottie. Wondrous technology tells Facebook I’m 74 years old, so I’m a “dirty-old-man.”
Hit ‘im with floozies!
A couple years ago I attended my 50-year high-school reunion. I happened to meet a high-honors female classmate who I found had programmed computers in the job from which she retired. She reminded of my wife, also a retired programmer. She had intelligence and drive similar to my wife. She told me she had a Facebook, so a few months later I tried to find her Facebook.
What a search that was; I don’t fire up Facebook much. It’s gotten overly complicated. I cranked in her name, and got 89 bazilyun buxom young tarts baring maximum cleavage.
“Too bad they couldn’t finish their dresses,” quoting Minnie Pearl. Excessive cleavage was not my classmate. Do any of these tarts have what matters = the brains my wife had? My classmate wasn’t a sexpot either, but like my wife I think she has what matters — or I’d like to think so.
Since my wife died I gained a few female friends; some far prettier than I feel I deserve. My Sunday-School Superintendent, who was also my neighbor, convinced me very early all men, including me, were scum = utterly despicable. My parents more-or-less concurred. No pretty girl would wanna talk to me. —My Sunday-School Superintendent is therefore spinning in her grave; 14,000 rpm, enough to power an entire town. My parents are probably spinning too: “rebellious I tell ya!”
Harness ‘em all, and south FL could go green.
Every once-in-a-while I get one of these lecher appeals. Somehow they pass my cleavage filter — perhaps in this case because the ”unsubscribe” links don’t work. Usually I “unsubscribe” such junk, but the links bombed.
Since my wife died Yrs Trly has befriended a few pretty girls, much to the angry chagrin of my Sunday-School Superintendent (again, 14,000 rpm), I think partially because I’m not a Trump wannabee. (“How ‘bout it honey?”)
The two girls at my pharmacy are smashing. And both seem to look forward to my showing. (14,000 rpm yet again.)
Treat a pretty girl like a human being, instead of a toy, and they love it. Others are wary, and justifiably. How many lechers have taken advantage of them in the past? I think of one who seems wary, but I keep working on her. She’s coming around, I guess. I ain’t Adonis. 74 years old with lousy balance.
Yet apparently enough men my age are lechers, enough for SuckerBird et al to cash in.
The girl pictured is cute and attractive, but I bet not real “Romance Tale.” (“Tail?”) “Chat Now” with a witch eager to drain my wallet? I bet the girl pictured is just a model, no more than 18, hardly in her 40s or 50s.
Sorry; I prefer the female contacts I already have. Most are not the chesty tarts on Facebook or the ads. What matters to me has always been what’s between the ears, and pretty girls love that. Some don’t, but some do. “You make me laugh,” they tell me.
Fortunately I had a wife that had what mattered.

• My wife died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I still miss her. Best friend I ever had, and after my childhood I sure needed one. She actually liked me.
• “The Keed” is of course me.
• “SuckerBird” is Mark Zuckerberg, founder and head-honcho of Facebook.