You may be old and impotent. Your belly might hang over your pants like an engorged, hairy sack. But you gots the moneys, which means you gots the wimmins. Just remember to divorce your trophy bride before she puts that pick through your brain, because the alternative — signing divorce papers entombed within the cold, oblivious earth — is more trouble than its worth.
Reader Matt’s dad recently died. We’re sorry for your loss, Matt. There’s never anything else to say when the life of one we remember as god-like when we were children is ultimately proved as fragile as anyone else’s.