Don’t let previous blog posts or commentary about the in-laws fool you, I love old folks just as much as the next guy. They’re like cute, lovable, excessively wrinkly babies – except they need a special lift to get into bed.
And just like kids, they wander. I don’t mind looking for them either. But every time I drive through New Jersey I see the same damn Silver Alert for this missing old fart. How many times do we have to look for the same gray 1993 Pontiac before someone just hides the keys from this coffin-dodger? I mean c’mon – it seems like each time they wrangle him and bring him back home he just jumps in his car again and heads for the Jersey Turnpike. Stop putting out the all-points bulletin. The man likes to step out – who are we to stop him?
They have Amber Alerts for kids – no argument here. But creepy men in vans are not scooping up geezers from playgrounds. So can we please do without the state-wide manhunt? I should think if this old bag made it to the century mark without incident that we could probably look the other way on his midnight joyrides. If you must restrict him, just disconnect the battery to his car – at least you’d find him napping with his head on the horn in the comfort of his own garage rather than in a Denny’s parking lot in Delaware.
I’ll tell you right now – if I see this guy out and about I’m pulling up next to him, rolling down the window, and shouting “rock on you old blue-hair you!” I think four generations on God’s green earth earns you the right to take to the highway without looking back.