A Very Wet Wakening
                                                  
                                AD 2035: The Fucking Future

We both aged well. I took life extension courses when they were popular. Most of the instructors croaked fairly young, dope fiends, catamites, fakers, but some of them were on the level, and I went to most of their lectures. The love of my old life, too, is remarkably agile for pushing fifty. I'm pushing one hundred, and people can hardly tell us apart. We both wear wigs. Bad hair. But our bodies are young beneath their time frames. I kept secret from her that I used to play lacross, because she hates violent sports, and she kept her youth mum, till last night. She has a past, and a cruel nick name to go with it. I would have married her, anyway. She's that great a gal. 

What difference does it make if someone resided in jail for a few years? No worse than wasting resources in a penthouse. Unfound moral lapses may be at least as heinous as what she did. As recent as 2024, people were calling her 'Tater Whiz.'

I believe her story. She was plastered at the time, and doesn't remember dropping jeans on the sly and pissing on potatoes at the West Miflin Walmart. It's an easy mistake to make, when you get blind toasted and need to whiz. People are much too fixated on locations. People forget themselves. 

What is a cardboard bin of spuds in the larger canon of produce? Had she pissed on broccoli, members of the esteemed Bush clan might have gotten her exonerated. GHW hated broccoli, and he pissed on a lot of innocent people. He got off scott free. Still, my wife feels bad about what happened. I'm just a modern old guy. I can still be creative about these problems.

Last night I got a half gallon of tequilla and a bag of lemons. First, I made like there was no reason for it, just a good time to tie one one. Once we were both high as Georgia pines, I invited her into the kitchen, opened the fridge, whipped out the old LBJ, and pissed all over the food. Next thing you know, she was pissing on my fishing tackle collection. After that we took a break, put down more booze, and celebrated our new understanding with golden showers on the front lawn, with the neighbors watching. The potatoes didn't know how lucky they were. It's a privilege.