I wake up. I turn my head to see my fat, old wife. The perfect kind of gal for a fat, old guy like me.
My body produces several distinctive grunting and clicking noises as I rise out of bed. Hot shave. Hot shower. Hot Pocket. With the day properly started, I am free to do … nothing.
Don’t get me wrong. The life of a fat, old guy is rammed to the hilt with fun activities. First, a drive to the hardware store to buy a new P-trap for the guest bathroom. A stop by the gas station on the way back, for gas. Beautiful day to mow the lawn, don’t you think? I spend two and a half hours doing it, most of which involves drinking beer with my neighbor.
Suddenly, it dawns on me. Days that are nice enough for lawn mowing are also nice enough for fishing. Off to the nearest body of water to bother fish, I guess.
And drink more beer.
Now back home again, where I surround myself with all my favorite things. My wife. My various dogs. My fridge. My TV, which I control, because I am the only fat, old guy who gets a say under this roof. Paradise. I fall asleep watching baseball.
Also, I am armed. That’s right! I’m fat, old and armed, and I wear clothing expressing those facts about me because I can wear any damned thing I want.