While most cities are complaining about the influx of illegal aliens, Savannah has been relatively isolated. But we’re not safe from invasion. Oh no. The Boomers are retiring and Florida is full, flooding, or on fire. So they’re moving here. In great numbers. And they’re everywhere. On the roads, in the crosswalks, in the grocery store lines. And they are slowing everything down. Why hurry? They have nowhere to go or nothing important to do, so no one else must either. For of course, the Boomers are the center of the entire universe.

They were certainly the center yesterday in the Piggly Wiggly line when three sixty year old broads in large straw hats, with their Kathy Lee Gifford denim tank tops, placed their 4-pack of red wine spritzers, to-go cups, and InStyle Magazine, with a pic of Bradgelina, on the conveyor as one of them loudly declares, ‘There it is!’ (yes, she was referring to the celebrity baby pics purportedly inside), and she throws back her flabbyass arms in joy and knocks me in the head, never turning to apologize or to even acknowledge her lack of understanding personal space. “Oh there’s that Taylor what’s his name.” “The Idol.” “You know, he’s kind of cute…” Explosion of naughty twitters. Puke.

Trapped in a second store’s line this afternoon, Boomers again demonstrated their lack of understanding for their age, quantity of hanging skin, and number of liver spots. For at least ten minutes, my eyes were assaulted by a three-quarter-life-crisis couple desperately molesting each other as if they hadn’t anticipated the length of the line and the viagara was peaking a little too early. Naturally, I gave them the condescending, raised-eyebrow with essential, complimentary smirk and the lady had the nerve to give me that ‘jealous much’ look. Bwahahahahah. Snicker. Snort. Return to reading my magazine.

Horn-dog decides to start playing with a display of squeak toys, proceeding to squeak every damned last one of them asking his menopausal mistress ‘think he’ll like this one?’ and she would honestly analyze the squeaks - “No, not that one.” “Too quiet.” “Too high.” They finally chose one that met the incredibly demanding standards of Fido and Horn-dog proceeds to thumb a Reader’s Digest.

In the meantime, Mike returned to join me in the line and noticed the couple’s stuff was getting jammed up on the conveyer and politely points it out to Horn-dog. Horn-dog ignores him. Mike points it out again a bit louder. The jackass has the nerve to respond, “Well, it’s not that hard to move it.” WTF? Like we’re going to touch your crap, dude. This is the south and the assumption must be everyone’s packing, some are nuts, and a few are nuts and packing. We’re not taking the gamble that you’re latter who has issues with his food being touched. Pay attention, pops and this will all work out for all of us.