Age Ain't Just a Number

Anybody who says age is just number needs to take a look at ol' Sam all swole from steroid medication or Kenny with cancer on his face or Sandra with circulation problems that won't even let her walk to the mailbox anymore -- needs to take a gander at JD who still smokes despite his emphysema because a man's got to have some sort of pleasure even if it kills him.

Then that youthful philosophical genius might understand that age is like life's cold hearted knife slit revenge, like a genetic time bomb, like a cumulative hair wad grease plug in one's biological plumbing. Age is like some kind of Frankenstein monstrosity rising up in one's sixty-fifth year to wreak havoc on whatever minuscule pleasure one might take in food or smoke or liquor -- like a black tide rolling in to scramble a man's brains or vitiate his balls or freeze his joints, set his bowels in concrete, and light his anal orifice on fire.

Age is like a microchip planted via the conspiratorial sugar cube vaccine you took as a kid. It sets a timer insuring a steady income for those in the pharmaceutical industry, guaranteeing a lavish retirement for hospital executives, and helping the good doctor make payments on his yacht.