A/n:  This is a different sort of fic that I usually do.  Pay heed to the rating—it's there for a reason, and most of it comes from mild language and a healthy dose of sexual innuendo.  Yes, I know Prof. Oak would not act like this, that's why the category is humor/parody, cause it's fun to imagine it if he were.  And this is eldershipping, so if you dislike that, you know where the back button is.  But if you do like it, I would appreciate the feedback.  ^_~

Dedicated to Latonya Wright, because MoTown Pallet is just awesome, and to Ilex the Elder, because I'd kill to be able to write comedy like that.  Credits and disclaimers at the end.

Crazy Town (How to Handle a Midlife Crisis)


            Oh God, no...it couldn't be...

            The envelope stared up at him...

            No, this was too much...gray hair he could handle, hell, no hair he could handle...

            The plastic window twinkled in the fluorescent lights, taunting him...

            And he'd grown accustomed to that little beer belly long ago... (Though he hid the beer, he did have assistants to think of, mind you...)

            Hurry, Samuel Oak!  This offer won't last long...

            He'd even gotten used to the AARP mailings, though he was a little tired of the Geritol references...

            Free trial, for a limited time only...ask your doctor for your sample of...



            Everything was quite functional, he huffed.  Mass mailings were so insulting to the intellectual elite.  Then again, he tried not to think about how long had it been since he'd...since he'd...

            Get some today!

            Aww, shut up.


Step 1.  Do not fear change.  Embrace it.


"Yes, Cerulean Salon?  I'd like to make an appointment..."


            The bell on the door jingled as he walked into the shop.  A perky blonde, nametag Daisy, greeted him.  "Well, hi, Professor Oak!"

            He looked at her.  "Do I know you?"

            "I don't know, but who doesn't know you?"  She winked at him, and he blushed.  Ten thousand junk mail envelopes could be wrong.  Why else would someone half his age be hitting on him?

            "You're, like, the granddaddy of pokémon!" she enthused.

            Then again, he was right to be making this appointment.

            "I'm not that old..." he mumbled.

            "But I thought you were a grandfather?" she asked, confused.


            "So, anyway, remember what we talked about on the phone?" he asked.  She gave him a coy smile, and took him by the hand, leading him over to an empty sink.

            " 'Course I do!  And I have it all planned out.  Just leave it all up to me..."


            A shampoo, a dry cut, and a foiled attempt at a perm later, and that's what he was afraid of—that what was left of his hair would be left at Miss Daisy's.  She put enough chemicals on his head to make a wheezing pass out and then stuck him under a dryer.  As he choked at the smell of rotten eggs mixing with singed hair, he flipped through a fashion magazine to pass the time. 

            Cut of the Month: the Mohawk.

            (Something told him he'd picked the wrong salon...)

            Someone sat down at the dryer next to him.  He looked over.  A ninety-four-year-old woman with approximately two strands of blue hair left was looking at him.  She grinned a dentured smile.

            He smiled back weakly.

            She wiggled her eyebrows.

            He raised his disturbingly.

            She winked...and licked her lips.

            He bounded up, struck his head against the dryer, and fell to the floor.  His blonde-haired beautician ran over to him and looked down at him in astonishment.  He smiled up weakly.

            "Uh... I think I'm done."


            "Now Professor Oak, when was the last time you got a manicure?" Daisy asked him.

            "Never?" he offered.

            "Tsk, tsk," she said.  "You scientists are all alike.  Just look at what all that sulfuric acid has done to your hands."

            He blinked.  "You don't touch sulfuric acid with your hands."

            "And I can see why," she said disapprovingly.  "Lily!  Come help me while I style Professor Oak's hair!"

            "I don't need a manicure...oww!" he yelped.  Lily was beside him in an instant, and his hands were already in a bowl of water.  Hot water.  Steaming water.  One-degree-farenheit below boiling water.

            "I'm just softening you up," she scolded.

            But he was trying to achieve the opposite reaction.

            ...And what the hell was she doing with his feet?!  "Now, ladies, I don't usually do this in public..."  he said nervously as she pulled his shoes off and started massaging them.

            Two high-pitched giggles met his ears.  "Professor Oak, you're just a dirty old man!"  They sounded delighted.  He would have preferred one less adjective.

            "How long has it been since you've had a proper pedicure?" Lily asked.

            "About as long as it's been since I've had a proper manicure."

            "I was afraid of that..." she sighed.  Ouch.  And now his feet were in hot water as well.

            Daisy snapped her fingers.  This was not a good sign.  "I know what else you need.  Those eyebrows are atrocious."

            "They do the job..." he protested.

            "And exactly what are eyebrows useful for, anyway?"


            He blinked. 

            What were eyebrows useful for, anyway?

            "See?  Now, Violet!" she called.  "We need some treatment over here!"

             That sounded too reminiscent of 1984 for his liking...

            "At your service!" Violet piped up.

            "Uh, that's really not necessary..."

              He was pinned down at his feet by a pedicure and his head by a pick sharp enough to suit Jack the Ripper.  Plop.  Violet smeared a gob of...something...across his forehead and placed a piece of paper over it. 

            "What's that?"


            "Why do I need wax on my forehead?"

            "So I can do this."


            He slumped over in his chair.  If eyebrows were good for anything...

            Too late now.


            He staggered over to the mirror, afraid of what he was going to see.  Daisy, Violet, and Lily stood around him.   They had insisted on sending an assistant out for a change of clothes, to get him "out of that drab lab coat," they said.  And so it happened that he stood wearing a tie-dyed shirt, jeans (jeans!), and a leather jacket.  Violet had given him a bottle of self-tanning lotion and forced him to use it on his face and arms, so he looked suspiciously like a retired Floridian.  And his hair was...his hair was...

            "Wow."  He touched his hair cautiously.  "It's not a toupee?"

            "Nope, that's artificial natural brown," Daisy chirped.

            He held his arms out to his side and stared at the new him.  He looked at the girls suspiciously.  "Now ladies, tell me the truth.  How do I really look?"

            "Professor Oak..." Daisy looked him straight in the eye.  "You look bitchin'."

            He turned up the collar of his jacket.  "Bitchin'?"

            "Bitchin'," Violet approved. 

            He put his shoulders back, winked slyly at the mirror, and praised himself.



Step 2.  Indulge yourself.


            "How many cowpower is this?"

            "Horsepower, sir."

            "I knew that.  I was just trying to make it rhyme."  The salesperson blinked, and Professor Oak decided to change the subject.  "Uh, what did you say this was again?"

            "A Harley, sir."

            "I knew that too."  He looked the motorcycle over carefully, decided the painted flames were adequately rebellious, pounded the seat, tried to massage his fist surreptitiously from where he had hurt it pounding seat, and squeezed the handlebars.  "I'll take it."

            The salesperson looked doubtful.  "Umm, do you know how to ride one?"

            Did he know how to ride one.  Hey, it was just a really, really fast bicycle.  And if it wasn't...well, then it should be.

            " 'Course I do," he said haughtily.  "My dad used to ride a Harley Robinson."

            "Davidson, sir."

            "Yeah, damn Hollywood.  Always changing history," he said.  "So, uh, where are those papers?"

            Thirty minutes later a set of keys dangled from his hands.  The salesperson stood beside him, morbidly curious at what it would be like to watch a renowned scientist die at his own hands.  Professor Oak swung his legs over the bike and pretended to rev up.  "Arf, arf," he said.

            "I think you mean, mrreow, mrreow, sir," the salesperson said, his growls appropriately teenagish.

            "Mreow, mreow."  The professor squeaked like a kitten.  "Err...mreow, mreow..."

            The salesperson winced.  Professor Oak tried one more time.

            "MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"  He tilted his head back maniacally.

            The kid jumped back, surprise written all over his face.  "That was actually kinda cool," he said, a hint of admiration in his voice.

            "Yup, Daddy's still got the bitch," the professor said in satisfaction.

            The kid didn't have to laugh that hard.


Step 3.  Try something new.


            "Is this a good one?"

            "Excellent, sir.  All the teenagers love it."

            "I'll take it." 


            Professor Oak stood in front of the television, dressed in a red muscle shirt and orange bicycle shorts.  It looked better on the guy on TV—not that he'd ever admit that.

            "And a one...and a two..."

            He jerked his arm in the same direction the instructor was moving.  Next move...he lifted his leg up into position and felt decidedly uncomfortable.  What was this move supposed to be, the Hydrant?

            "Are you feeling it?" the instructor asked.

            "I'm gonna bust a move," Prof. Oak grunted.  "Ow! Or...my back..." he keeled over.

            "Professor Oak?"  The Professor looked at his assistant's words.  "Are you all...right..."

            Tracey stood at the doorway, blinking.  A notebook fell from his hands to the floor.  Oops. 

            Looked like he had traumatized another assistant.


            "You sure you want to do this?" Tracey asked after he had recovered.  He had stayed, less out of a desire to help, and more of a need to keep the Professor from hurting himself.

            "I'm not with it," Professor Oak said indignantly.

            "Aww, come on, you're pretty spry for someone your age...erp..."  Tracey backed away at the expression on the professor's face.  "Okay, okay.  Well, part of your problem is, you forgot to warm up.  Do a couple stretching exercises while I rewind the tape."

            "Okay."  He could handle that.  Professor Oak bent over in a side stretch.  Ah, that did feel good.  He felt looser already.  He would be a hip-hop dancer before he knew it...he tried to stretch the other side.


            He tried to stretch again.  His arm didn't budge, and his side felt suspiciously stiff.  One more time...

            "Err, Tracey?"

            "Yes?"  The watcher kept his eyes on the VCR display, still trying to avoid looking at the professor's outfit.  After some difficulty, Professor Oak answered him.

            "I think I'm stuck..."

            Tracey blinked.  Again. 



            "And a one...and a two..."

            After straightening Professor Oak's back for the third time, Tracey had excused himself to rake some leaves.  He was halfway out the door before Professor Oak remembered it was summer.  Huh.  That kid was strange sometimes.

            "Now do it just like this..."

            Professor Oak wiggled his hips and waved his arms.  He was getting the hang of this.

            "Come on, join with me now..."

            He did a side-step.  Hey, this was surprisingly fun.  A popular song was playing in the background, and he started singing along enthusiastically.  He was a fly old guy.

            "Uh...Professor?"  Tracey poked his head in cautiously, coming back to pick up something he had forgotten. 

            Professor Oak didn't hear him.  He danced away, and it was time for the grand finale.  A twirl!  Sticky fingers!  And then...

            ...Pelvic thrust time!  "I'm not...that...innocent!"


            Tracey was on the floor.  Professor Oak blinked. 

            That was weird...he didn't know Tracey wasn't prone to fainting fits...


Step 4.  Learn to appreciate the small things in life.


            Vroom, vrooooom...screech.

            "Uh, are you sure you'll be okay, Professor?" Tracey asked, making sure to keep his distance as the professor frowned at the motorcycle.  All he did was shift gears without stopping.  They didn't make bikes like they used to...

            "Fine, fine...I'll have you know, I was a top notch drag racer when I was your age..." Professor Oak said, sticking his nose up in contempt.

            "So know you're just sticking with drag?"

            Vroom, vroom...!

            "....AAAAARRGGGH!"  Tracey dove out of the way as the Professor turned the motorcycle on him for that remark.  Professor Oak stuck around long enough to make sure he had just scared the piss, not the life, out of his assistant and then roared off.

            Tracey stood up shakily and wobbled back into the lab.  He dialed the VidPhone.  "Um, Dr. Proctor..." he said weakly.   "About Professor Oak's medication..."


            Vroom.  Professor Oak careened around the corner, nearly knocking out a squirrel.

            Screech.  Professor Oak skidded in the gravel, causing a nearby wobbefut to faint with fright.  Behind it, a meowth squeaked.

            Vroom...vroooooom...  A psychedelic tangela tumbled out of the way and gave him several fingers. Right!  Wasn't that how young 'uns said hello nowadays?

            Screech.  An Officer Jenny rode by.  She waved at him.

            He was young-at-heart.  He cheerfully flipped her off.

            The startled cop braked to a stop.  She stared at the departing motorcycle, so shocked she forgot to follow him.

            "Professor Oak?!" She stood in place a moment, then shook her head.  "Nah...it couldn't be..."  She drove off with a dazed expression on her face.

            Up the road, the professor took out a mailbox, a lawn ornament, and two small children, and then continued merrily on his way.


            Outside the Ketchum residence, Mimey was hard at work, painstakingly sweeping off the walkway.  Almost done...

            Screech.  A cloud of dust exploded out of nowhere, covering up all his hard work.  Startled, the poor pokémon thought he was being attacked and hastily built a barrier...


            "Oww..." Professor Oak saw pidgies as he struck the invisible wall and was thrown off the bike and onto his back.  That would hurt in the morning. "So, how you doing, Mimey?" he asked as he struggled to his feet.

            "Mime, mime, mime!"  The pokémon yelped, trying to alert Mrs. Ketchum to the odd looking intruder on their lawn.

            "Don't recognize me?  Great!  This will really surprise Delia..." Professor Oak said.  "Don't worry, I'll go find her myself."  He was halfway down the walk when he heard an ominous sound behind him.

            "Diglett dig...diglett dig..."


            A solitary diglett paused in its actions, staring quizzically at him from across the street as he vaulted over the fence and hastily triple padlocked his bike to the picket.

            "No way, José.  I learned my lesson last time.  You're not getting this baby. "  He snubbed the pokémon and turned back towards the house.  The diglett and Mr. Mime exchanged a shrug, and then Mr. Mime hurried back inside the house. 

            After all, Mrs. Ketchum needed someone to protect her.


Step 5.  Spend time with the ones you love.


            "Hi honey, I'm home!"

            "What in the world?  Samuel, is that you?"  Delia's voice went from shocked to amused to shocked again as she walked out from the den and into the kitchen.  Exactly twenty nine seconds went by before she figured out what to say.  "Oh my."

            "I'm getting jiggy wit it," he declared.

            "You're Gigolo Whitted?"

            "NO!"   He glared at her, and she smiled nervously.  "I'm...I'm...oh, I'll just show you!"

            He popped a CD he had stolen from Gary's room into her CD player.  Hip-hop began blaring out the speakers.  He assumed the position.

Come, my lady,

Come, come, my lady...

You're my butterfly,

Uh, Sugar...

Dance!  Twirl!  He did the swim and the pony, and topped it off with one of those newfangled pelvic thrusts.  Delia leaned heavily against the counter.

Come, my lady,

Come, come, my lady...

I'll make your legs shake,

You make me go crazy...

            He went into RHM—Rapid Head-banging Mode.  He was hot, he was wild, he was...dizzy!  He collapsed to the floor in a heap.

            "Oh my goodness, Sam, are you okay?"  Delia was at his side in an instant, looking down anxiously.

            "I'm...fine...just my back..."  The events of the day caught up to him, and he felt bone-weary.  The rapping background music suddenly sounded ridiculous.  He stood up slowly and turned the music off.  "Just...I guess I'm too old to be doing this stuff," he admitted dejectedly.

            Delia tried to be sympathetic but was unsuccessfully holding back a grin.  "It was kinda...sweet..." she told him.

            "Really?"  He perked up when she nodded.  Well then, it worked for Max Martin....  "In that case...this is for you."  He pulled a small trinket out of his pocket and attempted to kneel.

            "Oh Sam, you shouldn't have!" she relented, then blinked.  "Wait a minute...isn't this..." she gasped.

            He nodded.  "Why, yes.  Yes it is."

            "But...I thought the old lady dropped it in the ocean in the end."

            He cleared his throat and spoke in a baritone.  "Well, baby, I went down and got it for you."  She swooned.  Thank God for MTV. 

            Then she recovered.  "Now Samuel, you're too old to be doing things like that," she chided him.  "You'll pull a muscle..."

            His shoulders sagged.  Old fogey or hokey, he just couldn't win.  And then...

            "Guess I'll just have to loosen them up for you..." she said huskily.  And as her hands slipped under his shirt, he suddenly felt ten years younger. 

            Viagra, ha.  Who needs it?


Step 6.  And remember.  You're never too old to have a little...fun.


The End


Credits:  The last scene in the beauty shop is essentially the scene in Steve Martin's "Father of the Bride 2."  For those who don't know, 1984 is a book about a dystopian society by George Orwell.  Max Martin is the person who wrote a lot of the hit singles for Backstreet Boys, N Sync, and Britney Spears.  He had a cameo in "Oops...I did it again," and the last scene was a scene from that music video.  Incidentally, Professor Oak also sang one line from the song.  And the final lyrics used were those from Crazy Town's "Butterfly."  (...Sheesh, what a random catalogue!  ^^)

Disclaimer:  I don't own pokémon...and at this rate, I don't think they'd want me to.   ^_~