Bret Daigle

Although it is generally known, I think it is about time to announce that I was born at a very early age. Before I had time to regret it, I was four and a half years old. Now that we are on the subject of age, let’s skip it. It isn’t important how old I am. What is important, however, is whether enough people will search me and view this Myspace page to justify my spending the remnants of my rapidly waning vitality in writing it.

Age is not a particularly interesting subject. Anyone can get old. All you have to do is live long enough. It always amuses me when the newspapers run a picture of a man or woman who has lived to be a hundred. He or she’s usually a pretty beat-up individual who invariably looks closer to two hundred than the century mark. It isn’t enough that the paper runs a picture of this rickety, hollow shell. The ancient oracle then has to sound off on the secret of his longevity. “I’ve lived longer than all my friends,” he croaks, ”because I never used a mattress, always slept on the floor, had raw turkey liver every morning for breakfast and drank thirty-two glasses of water a day.”

Big deal! Thirty-two glasses of water day. This is the kind of man who is responsible for the water shortage in America. Fortunes have been spent in the arid West, trying to convert sea water into something that can be swallowed with safety, and this old geezer, instead of drinking eight glasses of water a day like the rest of us, has to guzzle thirty-two a day or enough water to keep four normal people going indefinitely.