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     I can't believe I'm doing this! What do I know about old. . .

     Ever since my Old Biddies Club rant a couple of weeks ago I've been swamped by applications to join the club. Thousands and thousands of people of every age, race, nationality and gender are begging to get into the OBC. Okay, maybe I exaggerated a little. But about that last one: the gender issue.

     For obvious reasons, guys don't really want to get into the Old Biddies Club. They couldn't if they wanted to. It wouldn't look right. But now they want a club of their own. Who would blame them? It isn't just old biddies who want to go out and wreak havoc on the world. When the ol' guys heard about the OBC, millions—correction, lots—of them said, "Why don't we have a club like that?" With knowing looks and wicked grins, they whisper, "What would we call it?"

     Well, everyone knows what they would call it and this is where I can't believe I'm doing this. I never use uncouth words or rough words or anything remotely hinting of such a thing. Not out loud anyway. Maybe sometimes in a tiny whisper with a bit of fear in it. What if my English professor father heard? What if my genteel brother and sister heard me?

     But—it is what it is. The guys know. Of course their club would be the Old Farts Club.  Ouch! I said it! That was tough. But let's get on with it.

     The OFC will rival the OBC in wreaking havoc on the world with their rowdy meetings at the nearest family restaurant at eight in the morning. Old farts are tough; they get up with the dawn and hustle down to join their fellow old farts for a cup of coffee and a full-on breakfast of eggs and sausage and fried potatoes and burnt toast and whatever else the waitress tells them is on the special for the day.

     As they savor their food and wave their forks around, emphasizing their opinions on the latest news, the food disappears from sight. Their cups are refilled and refilled and refilled as they keep their seats at the table warm. A little harmless flirting with the waitress livens the morning as they discuss all the repairs they had to do the last few days: the leaky roof, the stalled carburetor, the clogged drainpipe from the garbage disposal.

     Smart-alec Tobe tells them about a new tool that works ten times as well as a monkey wrench. "Where do you get it? How much does it cost? Does it really work that well?" Tired of the uproar, Don brings up religion. He gets hooted down.

     "No religion or politics!" the other old farts cry. And then their voices rise as Luke and Benny tear apart the President's latest Executive Action, causing Fred to wave his knife dangerously at them, telling them that's a bunch of bull-hockey.

     When things quiet down, it's time to plan their havoc-wreaking actions for the month. What will it be? The car show in La Mesa? The Beer Festival in Escondido? "How about a barbecue with the old biddies?" someone hollers out.

     "Whose house shall we have it at?" All agree that Fred has the best barbecue and Luke knows where to get the best meat so they split up to go home and tell their old biddies to save the date and tell them what they're supposed to bring: potato salad, beans. Brownies or coleslaw, depending on which old biddy they're talking to.

     So that's it for now. I don't want to hear from any of you old farts. I know I got it all wrong, but hey! a gal's got to try, right?

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