Get Off My Lawn

A Grumpy Old Guy Shits On Your Dreams

Part One of the Grouch Chronicles

I watch too much TV and it’s making my brain soft. It also means I see a lot of commercials trying to sell me crap.

The woman to whom I am related by marriage has a sensible approach, she just doesn’t watch them. But I can’t shut anything out. When I was in line for brains, Eyegor dropped mine and I got Abby Normal’s instead.

For the kids out there, that’s a Mel Brooks reference. He’s what we used to call funny. You know, back when nobody wanted to watch movies on a goddamn playing card and laughing out loud was something you did without a keyboard.

Problem is, it’s tempting to believe the junk TV says about you. I’d much rather be Commercial Me, that guy is fucking awesome. He’s adventurous and entrepreneurial and always achieving greatness. His clothes are in fashion, his tech impressive, the mere sight of him enough to make beautiful women ovulate. He smells amazing.

Fortunately, Real World Me is smart enough to realize a man’s got to know his limitations. I’m just worried you won’t be. That you’ll buy the bullshit and ignore the doubters, strive to make your own reality and laugh in the face of failure.

Because you are getting terrible fucking advice. The funny thing about doubters is the best way to prove them right is trying to prove them wrong.

Look in the mirror, and honestly tell me that person should bet on themselves. Forget flipping houses or opening a restaurant serving your mom’s recipes, here’s an investment opportunity that’s perfect for someone of your talents — fold your life savings into little green paper boats, float them in a toilet and reenact the defeat of the Spanish Armada. You’ll still end up broke and disillusioned, but at least it might be fun.

No need to thank me.

It’s time to step up and seize your destiny by listening to the naysayers. Sure, you’ll never be legendary, but you won’t be either way. They wouldn’t call it legendary if any asshole could do it. At least this way you won’t end up as roadkill. Probably.

Or go ahead, be seduced by the dulcet tones of the voiceover announcer, scientifically modulated to convince you that’s a good idea. Join me and Lebron and Matt Damon on the road less traveled. We’re driving to an exclusive mountain ski lodge in the matching pickup trucks we bought with cryptocurrency. There we’ll drink expensive liquor with all the other beautiful people who never once cared what anyone else had to say.

No, fuck that. Neither one of us is going to be there, because you’re going to listen to me instead. You are going to go all in — all in on being an overweight suburbanite failing to properly raise a brood of snot-nosed kids. You’re going to drive a minivan and have a dissatisfying job. You’ll be almost interesting enough to be boring. And you know why?

Because it’s the best you can hope for. That’s the dream you can catch. And you’re welcome.

Part Two of the Grouch Chronicles available now.

John Werth is a 12x Top Writer, but on a platform in Canada so you wouldn’t know her. He finds writing more tiring than exercise, so he compensates by not exercising. If by some miracle you have room in your inbox, consider filling it with a subscription to get his stories.

Writing is tiring business, you can help by buying me a coffee.* * Donations may be redirected to refurbishing my villain’s lair without notice. It’s a risk.