[M]iddle age is the window to your eventual end… - Brad Garrett

As a side note, I'd like to propose that aim is more mathematical than we tend to acknowledge. For me, it's: smallish dick ÷ long torso = distance to bowl.

The harsh reality is that my sequestered twins are advancing in the opposite direction of my earhair. Mother Nature has me by the balls, literally. They have actually started a race with my ex-wife's tits. And she will prevail, because she will get hers "done" as I continue to disappear into the abyss of recycled toilet brine. In the end, gravity always wins, people. Remember: when you have a heart attack, you fall down, not up. Middle age is upon me, and I don't remember this shit being in the brochure. I have six different doctors on speed dial, and the font size on my smartphone is at ten with a maximum setting of twelve. That doesn't give me much wiggle room for the golden years.

When I hit the six-foot mark at thirteen, I noticed the majority of the population was in denial with regard to my athletic potential. The townspeople refused to believe that I couldn't play ball.