My Dad always said you see more old drunks than old doctors. The first thing he did after his ulcers were patched up was get two cases of beer and make up for lost time. After his quadruple bypass, and after they let him out of intensive care, he fired up a cigarette in his hospital room. Later when he got home, his 22lb cat would wait until he fell asleep in the lazyboy, and then pounce on his chest and demand to be petted. My Uncle Bob told his doctor that he had about 10-12 beers a day, and said "I didn't think it was that much." Bob finally quit smoking after losing a lung. In his old age he passed out in the yard in winter and was severely frostbitten and hypothermia, but didn't lose any fingers or toes. One of my Dad's friends who lost a leg in the war and did roofing, later had his voice box removed and would smoke through the hole in his throat. Having grown up in the depression and fought in a World War, he refused to allow venison, chicken, soup, or stew in the house, And we had to have steak or beef roast on Sunday. When my Dad finally had his third and terminal cancer, he passed away with a stubbed out cigarette in the ash tray and a recently finished glass of beer by his bed. He had lived longer than all of the male relatives on his side of the family.

The ornerier you are, the longer you'll last. Men back then were tougher than an overcooked one-dollar steak.