I have the distinction of shooting Liberty Valance with a taser as he came across the television screen. I had recently checked into an all-nude (colony) colonoscopy. A retirement community for old redneck radio jocks and knick-knackers.
I was appointed the valet to park skateboards and cars. I even parked Porter Wagoner's car when he came to warble for us old folks. His exhaust pipes spit out horse apples and they harden into speed bumps.
Although old, I was in reasonably good humor. Except for my prosthesis Mr. Potato Head nose. My original got hung up in the maw of a Zippo lighter as I was lighting a cigarette.
I could lift five-bed pans stacked on top of each other. I had a state-of-the-art pacemaker that sent signals to a satellite orbiting over Loretta Lynn's home. I could pop the wheels on my custom-made walker. Dale Earnhardt would have been proud.
It was here that I met Elma. We swapped adult depends and shared flavored Metamucil. She had at one time been Home Comming Queen as the state women's correction facility.
We had one thing in common. Our varicose veins, like a map, led us to the nearest Waffle House. We had a slice of memory pie.