At least I think that's what he's raving about now. I'm not entirely sure. He seems to have deluded himself into thinking he's a journalist--or some kind of ill-defined news expert--and apparently the nurses at the old folk's home didn't check to make sure he'd taken his meds.
In a way, it's kind of sad that it seems like Old Man Rutz doesn't get a lot of visitors at the home these days. You'd think that if he did--if, for example, his family cared enough to spend more time with him, or if he had more acquaintences to play checkers with on weekends before going to those church functions where he occasionally feels marginalized--he might not have to meticulously plan the rest of his existence around typing up weekly old-man-rants for WND. And writing pointless books that barely anybody will read or even take seriously.
I mean, hell, I wish I had that much time to devote to writing books and reading webpages and ranting and raging and generally being a wise-ass. The time right now is 12:21 am--this is much later than I like to stay up typing, you know.
But I'm not retired. And I'm not an invalid. And I'm definitely not a shut-in.
And until I'm aged, and confined to a wheelchair, and no doubt ill on a regular basis, I have a life to lead, I have a purpose in life and I have a fair amount of important people in my life who care about me and vice versa. And damn if I'm not going to make the most of it while I still can.
