Retirement ain’t for pussies. 

 

Someone told me that once. And I’ll tell you this much—they weren’t shitting me. 

 

If you know anything about me at all, folks, you’ll know I’m not much of a planner. Never have been and probably never will be. So when I decided to take early retirement without so much as a fucking whiff of a plan, my crew of geriatric buddies at the Seacoast Majestic Resort came to the consensus that I hadn’t given my future enough thought. 

 

I mean, they weren’t wrong. All cards on the table—I hadn’t given it any thought. 

 

Who the hell plans their retirement anyway? Like, what’s my to-do list even supposed to look like? 

 

Day 1 - Consume margaritas while sunning on the beach—nap numero uno—poker with the guys—nap numero dos—early dinner buffet—more margaritas—relations with my girlfriend—bedtime. 

 

Day 2 - Margaritas—nap one—miniature golf—nap two—early buffet—margaritas—sex—bedtime. 

 

Day 3 - Margaritas—nap—poker—nap—food—drinks—sex—snooze

 

Day 4 - Rinse and repeat

 

You get the picture. Who needs a fucking plan for that? 

 

And you know, my lack of a plan would’ve worked perfectly fine except for the little hassle of needing money to retire. According to Al, I wasn’t allowed to crash on his living room floor for the rest of my life, and Vic Hoffman’s old cottage cost more to rent than a song and a Bentley combined.  

 

So, at Al’s persuasion (*cough* coercion), I was forced to temporarily come out of retirement and get a part-time job to cover my expenses. I won’t get into the details of the job I was forced to get, because that would spoil the story. But let’s just say, it became a clusterfuck in the unkindest sense of the word.