Doug Blough

I read with pained interest Steve Moseley's list of geriatric grievances since I too am a little long in the tooth and large in the prostate. I likewise let the hushed expletives fly at red lights and silently pshaw certain cringe-evoking styles. As an uneducated wordsmith though, I had to Google “tinnitus” so as to commiserate with Steve if applicable. Thankfully I don't experience “The perception of sound when there's no external sources, such as ringing roaring, buzzing or hissing.”

Ironically though, my new hearing aid replacing the one I lost at my brother's house, which I think their puppy ate, has been screeching loud enough to almost make my ear bleed. That being an external source, I guess I'm tinnitus-free, but did suffer through a maddening bout of restless leg syndrome earlier this year. It just goes to show that once a man has passed 65, if it ain't one thing; it's guaranteed to be another.

My late, great friend Charlie “Clell” Wynn used to tell me, “Getting old ain't for sissies, Dougie,” and he weren't just whistling Dixie. Like Steve, I spend a lot of time in perpetual aggravation and silent rage, but for me it's more while trying to break into new, confounding packaging. “Tear on dotted line” is one of the most misleading instructions ever perpetrated on mankind and I usually end up risking bleeding out by poking and ripping with scissors in blind fury.

But yeah, I have the usual age-beckoned hearing and vision issues, rotator cuff pain and sometime excessive nighttime urination. And like my body didn't have enough to worry about, I heard on Gutfeld that doctors warn one should never sit on the toilet for longer than five or 10 minutes at a setting. Gutfeld deadpanned, “'Whoa, where's the fire?' asked one man” cutting to a jowly Chris Christie. The inference was clear: Christie is fat and likely eats like a farm animal.

Yikes! Ten minutes? I'm barely to 11-down at the 10 minute mark. Yes, it's where I relax and solve most of my crossword puzzles, not to mention the Jumbles, (indeed, my angry letter to the Gazette editor hastened its return). Now it turns out, according to this CNN report Gutfeld quotes, I'm sitting on a ticking time bomb. Googling the article, I saw a plethora of ominous-sounding maladies. Pardon my French, but “rectal prolapse” don't sound like no walk in the park. Lest I sound crass approaching a cringe-worthy subject, we're all adults here, except of course for the children, and we all sit on the stool a couple times a day, possibly up to 10 during flu season.

“To avoid spending too much time on the porcelain throne, gastroenterologist (my old job) Lance Monzur urges keeping phones, books and magazines out of the bathroom” the article states. “Make your toilet time as uninteresting as possible.” Sure, that's fine for someone with a life, but my adventures typically occur while seated.

Not to get hung up on details, but apparently “the open oval-shaped toilet seat compresses the buttocks, placing one's lower rectum (pooper) at a compromised position not experienced when simply sitting on the couch,” where I also often reside. “As a result, the veins and blood vessels surrounding the posterior region become enlarged and engorged, increasing the risk of hemorrhoids, among the aforementioned prolapse and other issues where the sun don't shine. Hey all I wanted to do was cipher crossword puzzles in peace, not risk rectal damnation.

It's true: getting old is annoying; being old is a real pain in the butt! But like the guy reading the warning on the side of the pack while defiantly lighting up, those puzzle pages shall remain right there on my bathroom floor for easy access as I strain and grunt. I'll let the chips fall where they may.