My Inner Wilford Brimley

Outwardly, I’m a twentysomething female. Inwardly resides the soul of a gruff, world-weary octogenarian. A frugal, oatmeal-eating, silver-haired Wilford Brimley type. I’m surly beyond my years, and Lord knows I have precious little tolerance for diabetics that don’t check their blood sugar regularly.

I’ve had the disposition of an elderly malcontent since childhood. I distinctly remember chastising my classmates for roughhousing in 1st grade. I preferred Andy Rooney to cartoons, Paul Harvey to NKOTB. For a brief spell as a teenager, my wardrobe consisted exclusively of corduroy blazers and polyester slacks. On special occasions, I would accessorize with a paisley pocket square. I own a cane, and it takes every ounce of my youthful energy not to hobble down the street with it, intermittently shaking it in the air at random children. In short, I’m an embittered bastard with a penchant for hard candies.

While it’s easy to pinpoint the reason for Wilford’s churlishness (the man was forced to work with hacky Steve Guttenberg in not one, but TWO, feature films), my own remains slightly more enigmatic. However, for the purposes of blogging closure, I’ll just go ahead and lay blame at the talentless feet of the Gutt, as well. Early exposure to family-friendly schlock like Three Men and a Baby and Police Academy 4: Citizens on Patrol broke my spirit and taught me about the futility of hope.

Damn you, Steve Guttenberg. Damn you straight to Hell.