Now that I’m classified as elderly, I find myself attracting helpers.

When you reach eight decades, you have a lot of stuff stored between your ears and maybe above your liver if one is to believe that we all have an extra brain in our gut.

I also have a lot of stuff stored in my pockets: peanut butter, peppermints, pens, some heavy duty shoelaces, etc. I admit I’m a bit of an old person cliche. 

As a writer I don’t much like cliches, although they can be useful shortcuts.

If you don’t understand; take a writing class and ask your teacher when it’s helpful to use cliches. Once you have the answer, you can quit the class.

And you should because the majority of writing teachers are mostly trained to find spelling errors. 

Spelling has little to with dynamite writing.

Ask Shakespeare—he used three iterations of his name in a single document.

We are getting sidetracked here.  

Let’s focus on helpers.

Helpers are idiots of all ages who have almost nothing between their ears or in their tummy brains.

These goofballs linger at the edge of a conversation circle and complete their betters’ sentences with cliches.

I might say: “When I went into the city, I was surprised to see that everyone down –” And then I would pause and search for the ideal word and it might take me two seconds. 

At which point the helper would ejaculate: “town.”

Then I say, politely, “No, I was going to say,  ‘downed peanut butter milkshakes.’ “Do you mind if I finish my thought, unless you have a better one?”

This will confuse the helper and they will say: “I was only trying to be—”

“A Pedophile!!!” I scream. “We don’t want your kind around –”

I pause again seemingly lost for the word. I gaze  at my unwanted helper, helplessly.

The helper will say, “here.” 

“No! I was going to say, ‘We don’t want your kind around sticking peanut butter to the roofs of squirrels!‘”  

And I hurl a small jar of peanut butter at his head. 

The shoelaces are for garroting helpers who refuse to take a hint.