They say it's my birthday, and I guess that's right. I have it on reliable authority that I was born sixty-eight years ago today to Garland and Florine (Sreaves) Macy at Sale Memorial Hospital in Neosho, Missouri. I was delivered by Dr. Melvin Bowman, who I believe was one of the hospital's owners.
On the day of my birth, Hillary Diane Rodham, who would one day marry and enable a prolific and indiscriminate sperm-dispenser by the name of Bill Clinton, was already nearly six-months old and and cooing happily in her playpen as she plotted the conquest of the free world. Baby Donald Trump was a couple of months shy of his second birthday, and busy seeing how high he could stack his blocks before they all inevitably came tumbling down - and little Bernie Sanders and most, if not all, of the future Rolling Stones were already in school.
Every single one of those people, myself included, is too old to be running for President, much less serving, and too damned old to be hobbling out on stage to perform a rock concert.
Hey you gnarly old relics, let's all go fishing and give the youngsters their turn at running the world. True, they will make some mistakes along the way, but didn't we all? It's their turn - and it's their future.
Geriatrics unite - and wet a hook or two - or go play pinochle!