The idea of hooking up with a yoga instructor half your age seems like a great idea until you come to in a pumpkin patch with an a toddler and a frisky bitch insisting you yoga pose her with a banana in her mouth. It’s not that older drunken sods don’t need their whistle wetted. It’s that they don’t need this shit. The shit you put up with when you’re a young and willing to act like a guy in a romantic comedy montage because you know it ends with sex in your dirty apartment bathtub. You get to a certain age when you just want a couple or four gin and gins and the chance to go scream obscenities in the street. You don’t need a baby. You need your custom European street bike and a cop to berate in the park. You can have Belinda from TopEscorts.com stop by on Tuesdays and Thursday to handle the finer points.
I most recently saw this same what the fuck am I doing look on the face of James Gandolfini with his new young wife and baby. I give Alec six months to live. Oh, how this yoga instructor is going to ball her eyes out up to and through the reading of the will. He was such a good man.
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