69. Here it comes. I can feel it. Be a dear and pass me that prune juice, will you? What is this? Motor oil? I'm going. I'm down. I can feel it. Here comes Topeka. Mount Vesuvius. Is that what? Where the hell am I? Is this what it really feels like? My chest hurts. I can't feel my legs. No, please, not on the pot. That hurts. No dignity, like that. A shit way to go. Put that damn sickle down. No respect, after all we've been through. In my sleep, please. Not like this. I knew I'd never make it to seventy. Flush. You bastard. No.

70.