My Octagenarian Serenade

By and large, the elderly folk I get on the plane are OK. The average ones just sit there and I never notice them. A lot of them represent the best parts of their times, as in gentlemen passing drinks to ladies first and such. A few of them are epithet-shouting basket cases, and perversely, I usually end up appreciating them as much as dreading them. But every now and then, I get one that's a full bag of lit firecrackers, and Josephine was such a one.
Josephine was from New Jersey and she was headed back there, as she told me from seat 1B, right there in the front. I forget where she'd just been, but she'd have been able to tell you, and she had all kind of interesting stories about what I should do if I ever got to Atlantic City. The singing part of this story comes in when I realized I things would never line up like this for me ever again, and so I launched into the first verse of "Come, Josephine, In My Flying Machine." She had never heard of the song, but she was the kind that could get down with a moron in a polyester suit mangling century-old music. She wanted me to finish it, but that was all I knew.
I think this turned into a story about how clever I am, but I also think it doesn't count unless you know the whole damn song.