Here I am, eighty-two years old, writing a book. According to statistics about men in their eighties, only one out of a hundred makes it to ninety. With odds like that, I’m writing very fast. I want to get it all done. I mean, I’m not a kid anymore, I’m getting old. The other night, I was driving, I had an accident. I was arrested for hit-and-walk.
I know I’m getting old, are you kiddin’? I got no sex life. This morning, when I woke up, vultures were circling my crotch.
Hey, you know when you’re really old? When your testicles tell you it’s time to mow the lawn.
It’s hard for me to accept the fact that soon my life will be over. No more Super Bowls. No more Chinese food. No more sex. And the big one, no more smoking pot.
Many years ago, my wife and I were living with a friend of mine in Englewood, New Jersey. He had a big house, and we all shared it for a while.
One night I came home late and I was hungry. I saw on the kitchen table a big, beautiful German chocolate cake. Right away, the plan hit me. I smoked a joint and then I started drinking skim milk and eating chocolate cake.
Before I knew it, I had eaten half the cake.
I lit a cigarette, sat back, and relaxed.
I looked over at the remaining cake. I noticed the chocolate was moving. I didn’t believe it. I looked closer. I saw there were thousands of red ants stacked at the bottom of the cake, crawling all over. But there were no ants on the side of the plate where I had eaten the cake. I knew the ants hadn’t stopped at that imaginary line.
I realized I had eaten an army of red ants.
I called the hospital. They told me not to worry, it would all come out as waste. Funny. That’s what a lot of people told my mother when she was pregnant with me.
Jump forward ten years. I’m forty, broke. My mother is dying of cancer. I owe $20,000 to an aluminum-siding company. My wife is sick. I’ve got two kids. I need money now. What am I gonna do?
Hey, wait a minute.
To tell this story right, I gotta go way back.