Word!
Six months in, you ain’t test driving no more, you’re in the fast lane … going fifty in a sixty-five! Gramps. Get out the way!

And that goes for all the gramps: get out the way. You can’t hang in a posted sixty-five and it will only get more confusing in a posted sixty-seven. six? seven? ha ha.

But I get why people want to stay: the sexy polyester uniform; chatting with the first officer with a sock puppet, you know, one dummy talking with another, more ha ha; getting away from the ole ball and chain; standing in the lobby of a Holiday Inn looking all important and stuff with a company credit card; getting the discounted breakfast buffet; and avoiding at all costs the final chapter, especially when it’s nothing but empty pages before the story ends with an R.I.P.

Get a hobby!

That being said, 67 is inevitable. Too many old people running the show, and they are all brain damaged to the point where they actually believe that they are not only competent but at the top of their game.

The TA will pass by 80 percent. I’m taking the over. Where my bookie at?