It was cold. Too cold. The razor winds slashed

It was cold. Too cold. The razor winds slashed at skin, my arms and lips freezing and chapped,as I tried to find something flamable. If I was to survive, I would need fire and

I would need it quickly. Reaching into my pocket, I found a book of matches left over from last time I was in this situation; my Boy Scout training worked! As the cloud of frost

descended I rushed to gather pine needles, dry leaves, twigs, anything that looked readily flammable. My hands were nearly numb but I grasped a match and struck it against

a Smokey the Bear brochure. Luckily, Irony had taken the night off. But Fate was on call, so he payed us geezers a visit. "What is this?" he asked. "Bachelor afterparty," I said.

And handed him a script of the sequel to Bachelor Party which I tentatively titled, "Bachelor Afterparty." Sure I was in the old folks home, but I was going to capitalize

every last penny out of this format possible: enter Clint Eastwood as The Bachelor! I never knew the old hags could be so agile in their diapers as they rushed and clampered round

the feeding trough like a bunch of overstuffed walruses waltzing the matilda. Oh dear, I think I've gone off on a tangent again. Where was I? Oh yes... As the

pulling Old Betsy's teets wrong. As the old saying goes: 'Milking a cow is like making love to a beautiful woman. It's all about angle and trajectory." I positioned my milking stoo

l & proceeded to fantasize about my wife as I stroked Old Betsy. Worked like a charm. She,just like my wife 25 years ago, fell in love with my masterful hands. Yeah,I still got it.