He knows the chess player moves, but he can’t and won’t play a game of chess, because he doesn’t care.

He doesn’t want to be the Most Interesting Man in the World, because he knows he isn’t.

He used to be able to recite a lot of poetry by heart. He can’t anymore.

He’s driven every kind of land vehicle and civilian boat you can imagine. His car has a dead battery in the driveway.

He didn’t used to like cats. Turns out they love him. Go figure.

He wears shades and lives in the dark because he can’t stand the light. Except his own.

He has a dull jackknife stained with cheddar cheese. His macho thing.

He waited 30-some years then published ten books in one year. He refuses to explain.

He has ten pairs of beautiful cowboy boots. He is always barefoot now.

He has ten gorgeous overcoats. He never leaves the house.

He is kind. He is mean. No one likes him on both accounts.

He’s a hypochondriac. He’s immortal. Look at him. He’s 63.

He’s given up. He will never give up. He’s a Scot.

He can barely walk.

He weighs 135 lbs. He’s a wraith. Nothing to be done with him.

He will die soon.

No he won’t.