A middle-aged man approaches a young lady who has become way too chummy with the business end of a bottle of Jagermeister. She sports a frayed Kid Rock T-shirt and a pair of very tight George jeans from Wal-Mart. Her eyes are the color of rancid buttermilk and peanut butter. Her companion sleeps on the bar in a puddle of his own drool.

“I’d love to grow old with you tonight,” the newcomer said to her.

“Hell, why not?” she replied. “I ain’t getting any younger and I gotta get the kids from Mama’s before she goes to work graveyard at the plant.”

“You got a car?” she asked before lurching toward the door.

“It ain’t like I’ve done worse,” she said, gesturing to her friend laid out on the bar. “You got a smoke?”

Moral: Growing old, it’s a relative thing.