When I'm old...

...I'll be the menace I always truely wished to be. In general I'm a law-abiding, first (okay maybe second) class citizen in the good old US of A. But, when I'm old, all that shit is changing. I'm talking smoking pot on street corners- unless there's a cooler drug by then, and I'll do that instead. I'll also refuse to wear pants, and even if I don't need to, I'll be sporting some depends. I'll even go in my depends if I want, then I'll get off my motor scooter, and change myself right there on the side of the road, or in front of the supermarket, or wherever I happen to be. I'll just stand up, rip off the old, replace it with a fresh one, and jump back on my motor scooter-- ciao! In stores I'll bump into children, and other objects, with my motorized shopping cart, still in only depends and a flowery, grandmother-eque, button down shirt. I'll fill the ENTIRE basket on the front of that damn thing with pickles from the barrel-- no bag, I'm environmentally conscious, thank you-- and top it off with a pack of depends. I'll go out with curlers in my hair, dye my hair blue; and not that HINT of blue that the old ladies do nowadays... no no, I'll go full on ELECTRIC BLUE. Plus, I'll stock my entire closet chock-full of mothballs. Not because I find it even remotely necessary, but because that's how old people should smell. And when I get ready and I'm WREAKING of those mothballs, I'll throw on a dash of baby powder and think to myself, "There we go, that'll do the trick!" There I'll be, rockin in my hideous shirt (I think you have to hit 70 to earn the right to wear one of those shirts), depends, a pair of filthy sandles (with socks, naturally), old lady cataract sunglasses- the brownish wrap-arounds, you know the kind- with my blue hair done up in some suh-weeet curlers, riding my motor scooter, or motorized shopping cart, smelling like mothballs... loving every minute of it.