When I was a young lawyer, one of my aged partners suggested that our firm should be like the “Athenian youth” and strive to leave the world a better place for our having been here. That is certainly a laudable goal. Who among us doesn’t want to make a difference? Too often, we while away our time on personal, even selfish, pursuits. I hold to the belief that each of us in our own small way can make a positive difference in the world.

You make think it unrealistic to expect to impact the world as whole. You may be right about that. After all, many of us have limited skills and even more limited work ethics. If our efforts require much in the way of ability or effort we likely will fall short. Do not despair. There ways–simple ways, in fact– each of us can make the world a better place. If we can have a positive impact on just one person, we will have made a difference.

The person with whom we should start is me. That’s right. I deserve a better life as much as anyone, maybe more. If you can do even one thing to make my life easier, you will not have lived in vain. You will have helped me. I can think of nothing more commendable.

Here are five things you can do, starting today, to improve my lot in life. Let’s get started


The environmental damage from automobiles is well-known. Even electric cars require all manner of minerals for their construction, the mining of which is always controversial. If, like me, this doesn’t persuade you in the slightest to give up your car, consider the effect of your car on me.

Maybe you’re one of those people who always drive 10-15 mph below the speed limit. You’re annoying me. When you look in your rear view mirror and see the line of traffic, just assume I’m in that line. Why inconvenience me? I have to be somewhere–and soon. Besides, the way your drive, you’re close to walking anyway. Just go ahead and hit the pavement.

Even if you drive at normal speeds, you still need to park that car. Traffic stresses me out. I have places to go, things to do. Put bluntly, you’re in my way. Public transportation is perfect for you. Better yet, stay at home. What is so horrible in your home that you are compelled to leave it? Stay there and address your disturbing domestic problems.

Speaking of parking, if you drive you will eventually park somewhere. I need that parking spot.

Of course, some of you drive for your livelihood. By all means, continue to do so. You may be delivering something I need. Plus, someone must provide transportation to those who no longer drive. It certainly won’t be me. I’m busy trying to get somewhere.


All over our great country, there are outlets available to buy lottery tickets.  PowerBalls, MegaMillions  and other variations beckon. The dizzying selection of scratch off games sit spooled like toilet paper waiting to be ripped loose by cholera-ravaged unfortunates. Riches await. Our nation’s vast network of convenience stores are the prime culprits in separating you from your money.

We all know that the odds winning big in the lottery are astronomical, on par with getting a chance to walk on the moon. Every day, untold thousands of people waste their hard-earned money on these games of chance which amount to nothing so much as a regressive taxation system. (Honestly, I have no problem with a regressive tax. The progressive tax system has never done me any favors. That rant will have to wait for another day.)

These are compelling reasons to avoid the lottery. The most important reason, though, may be less obvious. The next time you are purchasing your tickets turn at look behind you. That is me standing in line. I have patronized this convenience store for–you guessed it–the convenience of it. I know that prices are higher than at the grocery store, often considerably so. I have selected this store for the speed and, again, the convenience of it.

You, guided only by your avarice, have robbed me of the one commodity I value at that moment–convenience (are you sensing the pattern yet?). In fact, there is nothing more inconvenient than to stand in line with a cup of coffee while you negotiate a transaction only slightly less complex than currency arbitrage.

The odds of your winning the lottery are remote, at best. The odds of royally ticking me off, though, are virtually certain. Please, move along.


I have no problem with your religion, unless you use it do great harm to others. Even then, my problem is likely to be with how you practice it, not the faith itself. Regardless, I don’t want to hear about it. This comes from someone who has always been fascinated by religion. I’ve studied religion from various perspectives, both the faithful and skeptical. If I’m curious, I’ll get the information.

When you want to tell me about your religion, I’m very likely to be somewhere between disinterested and down right hostile. This is true even if I agree with your views. Why am I so obtuse? Religion (or spirituality, if you prefer) is a matter of faith, not argument or persuasion. Nagging or yammering at someone won’t bring him around to your views. When that someone is me, it may cause the person to adopt contrary beliefs simply to frustrate your efforts.

You might assume that I am directing this solely at Christians. You’re wrong. If, like me, you are an American, you probably live in America where most people claim to be Christian. Naturally, most of our contact is with Christians. Regardless, I implore people of all religions to follow this lead. For example, if you are Hindu do not concern me with your views of Vishnu or Shiva. I know a Buddhist, and I sincerely hope that he does not tell me of the proper path to the Middle Way. I’m comfortable with where I am, leaning much more toward indulgence than asceticism.

Nor are you atheists excluded. As a matter of fact, you’re especially not excluded. I  know you’re proud to be an atheist. Consider me to be on a “need to know” basis. I have no need to know. Here’s idea: Find a vegetarian and you two can “one up” each other on the solid, empirical grounding of your views.

At this point, some readers are preparing comments to enlighten me on why they will not be silent. You’re really missing the point, which is simply to make things easier for me. Your comments won’t do that. Plus, I’m not asking you to be silent. Just be silent around me, and assume that I am always around.


Everything I abhor about hearing about your religious views applies with even more force to your politics. Unlike religion which is driven (mostly) by genuine belief, political drivel is often impelled by the desire to be in the know and perhaps a bit smarter than others. These are repellent characteristics. More importantly, they annoy me and can diminish my enjoyment of such important pursuits as surfing the Internet and mindlessly watching television.

I’m well aware that there is only so much I can expect here. Politicians and talking heads are inescapable. But, ask yourself: “With all this political discourse, what could I possibly add to the conversation, given my obvious limitations?” I’m sure you’ll agree that you run a much greater risk of annoying me than contributing anything meaningful.

If you are truly committed to improving my life, you will take this to heart. That door you knock on with a fist full of campaign literature could be mine. It could be me who reads one of your wrong-headed screeds on social media. It’s not that I don’t respect your views (which I may not, of course). It’s just that I don’t care. Isn’t it unfair and more than a tad selfish to inundate me with tripe that only you and others care about it? You’re better than that–or at least you should be.

You’re angry about the state of the world. I get it. If I were you, I’d be angry, too. But I’m not you. I’m me. It does no good to have two of us angry.


Modern agriculture has changed the world. We feed far more people than was thought possible even a generation ago. Our grocery stores brim with foods of all kinds. Sadly, the price we pay is high one.

Additives, preservatives, chemicals and the like endanger our food supply. Our farm animals are fed steroids. Genetic modifications have made many foodstuffs risky. Most important in our daily struggle is the cold, hard fact that I frequently go to the grocery store to buy this stuff.

I like my food chock full of preservatives. I want it preserved as long as possible. Chemicals don’t bother me. I like huge, mutated chickens pumped full of steroids. I want my beef dyed red. I want my fruits and vegetables sprayed down with insecticides. I don’t want to eat bugs. In short, the modern grocery store is exactly what I want. You, on the other hand, need to make changes. Why?

You’re the person with 11 items when the sign plainly limits the checkout lane to TEN FREAKING ITEMS! You position your cart in the aisle where I can’t get by on either side. You pay with checks, like some troglodyte who just emerged from his subterranean lair. Why not see if they’ll take pelts? You use coupons. Think about this: If you need to use all those coupons, isn’t it just possible that you can’t really afford to buy food in a store?

Grow your own food. Raise chickens. Buy a cow. Even a modest quarter acre lot will accommodate at least a couple of cows. Get a hog. Grow something. Your ancestors foraged for their food. Get off your high horse (you can eat those, too, by the way) and quit acting like you’re better than your kinfolk.

Since you won’t be driving a car, raising your own food makes perfect sense. It will be convenient for you and, critically, ME. The world will be a better place–at least for me. 

© 2016

My Over 50 Not-To-Do List

I’m in my 51st year on the planet.  Although many people have exceeded my longevity, this impresses me.  Of course, lots of folks lived less time than I have and did much more–Mozart, for example.  All in all, though, living longer is a good thing.

I now read AARP publications.  AARP recently ran a tongue-in-cheek article about things NOT to do after age 50.  It was somewhat humorous.  Somewhat.  Like a lot of things, it got me thinking.  Now, that I’m 50 (and have been for several months now), what won’t I do?  Here are five such things:

PLAY BALL!  I’ve written before about my mediocrity as an athlete.  That never stopped me from trying to play sports.  No more.  No basketball.  No softball.  No flag football.  Nothing where I risk injury.  Why?   I don’t want any other injuries.  The older you get, the more injury-prone you are.  My sports are now limited to baseball and basketball with my youngest son and even then I don’t go all out.

I’ve never had a serious injury.  I’ve never worn a cast or had surgery or used crutches.  I did tear a muscle in my shoulder once, but they can’t do much about that.  I had a stress fracture in my foot, but it went away.

In my 30’s I scraped the outside of left calf sliding during a softball game.  It looked like a burn and hurt like hell. It scabbed up in a couple of days.  Then, the scab disappeared, and it looked like an orange peel, except oozy.  You know how your mother said that a cut with red lines running from it is bad?  It had those, two.  It was something called cellulitis.  The doctor said it was a “galloping infection.”  I had to elevate my leg and put a heating pad on the open wound.  I also had to draw a circle around it with a Sharpie.  If the red spread past the outline, that would be bad.  When I stood, the blood rushed to my leg and it felt like a thousand needles.  I  had to get a shot every day, too, for a week.  The shot gave me diarrhea.  For days, I was reduced to lying down with a heating pad on an open sore which burned like it was on fire while trying to control my bowels and drawing on my leg with a magic marker.  I’m just too old for this kind of thing.

Even if I wanted to play sports, I probably can’t.  The simplest of sports may be beyond me now. A few months ago, I passed baseball with my 17-year-old son who is a high school baseball player.  He can throw 80-85 mph without much effort.  I was terrified.  Enough of that, too.

Fortunately, my youngest son is almost 11 now.  If I had a younger kid, I’d hire someone to play with him.  No sense taking unnecessary risks.

ANGRY UP MY BLOOD:  The great baseball player Satchel Paige once cautioned against eating fried food, because it would angry up one’s blood.  I don’t necessarily agree with that, because I like fried food.  I do, however, agree with the caution about angrying up the blood.

I was an angry young man.  Angry about all kinds of stuff–my job, politics, religion, sports–pretty much everything.  I had a short fuse which was easily lit, too.  I was an unpleasant person.  I’m too old for all that, as well.

It seems that my peers become angrier with age while I mellow.  I am aging in reverse, like a far less handsome version of Brad Pitt as Benjamin Button.  It seems that everyone my age is mad about liberals, conservatives, the rich, the poor, taxes, drones, sports, religion and life in general.  Here’s the deal:  We all have opinions.  So do I.  I’m certain that mine aren’t all that important.  In fact, I may be flat wrong on many (most?) of them.  Same goes for you.  I’m sure that pisses you off.  Relax.

I’m confident that being mad shortens my life.  How?  Well, every minute I waste fuming about something, I could be doing something else.  So, there goes part of my life down the old crapper.  As a live and let live guy, I really don’t care if you’re mad, even at me.  Just don’t ask me to play along.

GET IN MY CUPS:  I was once quite fond of strong drink.  I may still be, but I haven’t partaken in several years.  Understand that I have no problem with those that do.  I just believe that such indulgences are a young man’s game.  Hangovers had bad for my brain.  Why else would my head hurt like that?  Vomiting is no good under any circumstances.  Also, not remembering conversations or where I’ve been or what I’ve done is problematic.  Soon enough, age itself will cause such problems.  No need to speed the plow.

Here’s the kind of thing I did when I drank.  A few years ago (not as many as you might think), my wife and I went to a party.  I drank quite a bit before the party and quite a bit at the party.  Oh, I had a grand time–or so I’ve heard.  When we came home, I retired to the basement whereupon I quickly dozed off (the more crass of you might call it “passing out.”)  A couple of hours into my respite, I had the urge to relieve myself.  Rising from the couch, I was unsteady on my feet.  No doubt this was from the deep REM sleep.  As I staggered toward the bathroom, somehow I fell forward, striking my head on a wooden post.   Oh, I also broke my glasses.

No problem.  Holding my forehead, I made it to the bathroom and did my business.  My right brow was really throbbing, so I thought I might take a look at it.  Leaning close the mirror–remember my glasses were broken–I moved my hand from my right eye to get a good look.

The funny thing about cuts to the head is that they bleed far in excess of the severity of the actual injury.  When I moved my hand, blood fairly gushed from a small slice in my right eye brow.  It ran into my eye and down my face.  It just kept coming.  There was only one thing to do–I puked and went into a full-blown swoon.  Then I sat in the floor convinced that I was bleeding to death and would be found covered in blood and vomit–not a glorious demise.

So, I did the only thing I could do.  Holding a towel to my head, I climbed the two flights of stairs to the master bedroom and consulted my dear wife.  Let’s just say that the evening suddenly took an even uglier turn.

I’m too old for this kind of foolishness now.  Let the young men bleed profusely and copiously vomit.  I’ll sip my Starbucks, work the crossword puzzle and retire for the evening at 9:30 or so.

EAT WELL:  This takes some explaining.  I don’t eat all that poorly.  I don’t have a weight problem.  I’m a lean, mean 160 pounds.  Perfect middle-weight size.  Think of me as a whiter, less-imposing, soft version of Marvelous Marvin Hagler (if you don’t know Hagler, you’re not my age).  At one time I weighed 176 pounds, which was a little too much.  I quickly shed that weight.  That’s just a genetic thing.  Don’t get all pissed off (see section above).

People want me to eat well, and I guess I should.  My family has a bit of a history of heart disease.  Regardless, there are things I like to eat.  They include, but are not limited to:

  • High fructose corn syrup
  • Sugar
  • Chocolate
  • Ice Cream
  • Eggs
  • Bacon
  • Pork in general
  • Deep fried anything
  • Gluten
  • Peanut butter
  • Hot dogs
  • Red meat
  • White meat
  • Meat

I also don’t mind my food being laced with preservatives.  Why not?  Hey, I like it preserved until I want to eat it.  Call me crazy.

I’m not diabetic.  I don’t have celiac disease. Or diverticulitis.  Or any food allergies.  If you do, please watch what you eat.  The key here is to watch what you eat, not what I eat.

If YOU don’t want to eat this stuff, I’m okay with it.  I won’t force it on you.  I don’t have people to my house for dinner anyway.  Eat what you want.  You can eat free range horse for all I care.  Just don’t tell me what to eat.  I enjoy food and fully intend to continue to do so.

FIGHT CLUB:  Chief Joseph said:  “From where the sun now stands, I will fight no more forever.”  That’s a good philosophy, and I agree wholeheartedly with him.  Fighting isn’t good, especially if you run the risk of getting the crap beat out of you.

Like heavy drinking, fighting is a young man’s business.  When you’re young, fighting can be a test of your manhood.  It can also be provoked by heavy drinking.  Either way, it’s usually a one-on-one situation and little harm is done.

Unlike in the movies, real fights rarely result in a lot of punching.  A good punch is almost always a “sucker” punch which the recipient doesn’t see coming.  Otherwise, punching is mostly a bunch of embarrassingly wild swinging.

It hurts to be squarely punched in the face.  It also hurts to squarely punch someone in the face.  Your hand explodes in pain.  I don’t like pain.  That said, real fights end up with a bunch of rolling around on the ground.

Another thing about real fights.  No one gets punched in the face repeatedly and keeps fighting.  Nor do you punch anyone in the face repeatedly.  The human head is hard.  It’s like a bowling ball with a few soft places on it.  Go punch a wall five or ten times and let me know what you think.

At a certain age–maybe 30–I realized that people who are willing to fight might be dangerous, especially if they, too, were in their 30’s.  These folks also tend to carry weapons, because they’re looking for trouble.  I don’t want even a remotely deadly weapon used on me.  I don’t want to throw a punch and miss, only to end up with a Chinese throwing star stuck in my forehead.

One possible exception is that I might fight a younger man.  Why would I do that? Wouldn’t youth put me at a terrible disadvantage?  Possibly.  However, don’t discount the power of being Old Man Strong.  We all reach an age where our years create a certain toughness without us even knowing it.  Some suggest that perhaps we lose the will to live and become fearless.  I prefer to think of it as God’s way of rewarding us for surviving.

When I was in high school, a friend of mine foolishly punched his dad.  His dad didn’t flinch.  Old Man Strong. Fight over.

So, if you’re a young fellow, be careful.  If you get mouthy with an old guy and he just chuckles or, worse yet, takes a step toward you, run.  It may be all that saves your dignity.


This is hardly a comprehensive list of things I won’t be doing.  Such things as starting a meth lab, amateur pornography and polygamy are also taboo.  These, though, are things I wouldn’t have ever done, as far as you know.

I’m not perfect.  Maybe one day I’ll be shooting basketball with my kid, and you’ll wander into my yard spewing about politics and telling me to reduce the MSG in my diet.  Like Clint Eastwood in Unforgiven, I’ll take a swig of whiskey and then start a fight with you.  Let’s try to avoid all that.

© 2013

The 100th Post

This is my 100th blog post.  That’s apropos of nothing, I suppose, except that I’m quite full of myself to believe that I have that much to say of interest.  A year ago, I said to my wife:  “I think I’ll start a blog.”  She said:  “A blog?  Those are just full of trivial bull shit that no one wants to read!”  True to her word, she has never even looked at my blog.  So, I can say things like this:  I’ve been married 25 years, but it seems like 100 sometimes.

She was wrong.  A lot of people have read my posts.  My posts have been viewed 18,500 times, in fact.  One I wrote about hippies is the all time leader at almost 2700.  It even drew the ire of a real hippie who posted a scathing comment castigating me as materialistic.  People as far away as Estonia and Moldova have read me.  America of course leads the way, but I’ve had hundreds of readers in the UK and Canada, too, this despite posts needlessly attacking both those fine countries.  Go figure.

People often ask me: “How do you come up with ideas for your blog?”  Actually, I’m never asked that, but I like to imagine that people want to ask me.  Things just pop into my head.  I usually have drafts of two or three posts just lying around waiting for inspiration to finish them.  Sometimes, people suggest things–like my recent post about becoming Pope.  Other times–like the hippie post–I just spew a stream of consciousness which offends many, many people.  Occasionally, I’ve tried to be helpful with tips on small talk, child-rearing and the law.  Oddly enough, no one has thanked me yet for these pointers.

Some of my posts are torn from the fabric of real life experience–like the tale of my being violently assaulted by a coarse ruffian of a woman in a restaurant.  Some are apocryphal tales which could be true, at least to some extent.  Others are just things that interest me, like freak shows and the film Road House.  Sometimes, I blog about things I hate like TV’s The Waltons, Aunt Bee and Charlie Brown.  My blog is a vast array of trivial bull shit as some might say.

Some of the reasons I am so prolific:

  • I write a lot in my job, but that writing requires research and proofreading.  The slapdash nature of blogging is fun.
  • The use of curse words.  I don’t often get to use those in writing, unless I’m writing my Congressman.
  • It’s cheaper than therapy
  • It’s fun to broach a controversial topic and then deflect it with a series of flippant and inaccurate observations.
  • As long as I don’t defame someone, I’m free to write what I want.   Even if I do, it’s okay as long as the defamed person never sees it.
  • No one reviews or edits my work (obviously)
  • I can start sentences with words like “and” and “but,” and no one cares.

Now, I’m on the verge of a milestone:  100 posts.  What significant topic can I address?  Can I change someone’s life for better or worse?  Can I move someone to tears?  Perhaps I can intone on some mundane subject and move thousands of Brits and Canadians or even the random Moldovan to action.  What about that one guy or girl in Iceland who read one of my posts?  Maybe he or she is waiting for a topic of interest.  Should I blog about that Icelandic volcano–Eyjafjallajökull?  Probably not.  That’s just too damn goofy to type over and over.

100 is special.  A 100th blog post should be, too. defines 100 as “A cardinal number.  Ten times ten.”  That’s plain enough. It’s one after 99 and one before 101, too.  It’s the square of 10.  It’s also an 18-gonal number, which sounds slightly dirty but isn’t.

Anyway, 100 seems significant.  Why?  Maybe because 100 is an important number.  Don’t you feel kind of special when you have a $100 bill?  Four twenties or two fifties just aren’t the same.  The $100 bill is usually new and crisp.  It’s so special that you worry that people can even make change if you use it.

There are 100 pennies in a dollar and most other currencies are based upon units of 100.  100 is important.  Without it, our money would be a confusing mess.  We might as well go back to pelts.

If you’re a sports fan, answer this question within five seconds:  “Who scored the most points in an NCAA basketball game?”  Time’s up!  I have no idea, either.  Try this one:  “Who scored the most points in an NBA game?”  Wilt Chamberlain.  How do we know this?  Because he scored 100, not 98 or 102.  An even 100.  Wilt, as we know, was a man of prodigious numbers:  55 rebounds in a game; 20,000 women; averaged 50 points a game one year and 27 rebounds a game another; led the NBA in assists as a center and on and on.  But the number we remember is 100.  100 points in a game.  Because I am repository of useless information, I know that he also hit 28 of 32 free throws in that game, astonishing considering Wilt’s infamously horrible free throw shooting.  Others just know the 100.


Wilt knew how to set a record people wouldn’t forget.

One of the many reasons that American football is better than Canadian football is that our fields are 100 yards long, not 110 like our friends in the Great White North.  We know how fast is fast to run 100 yards or even 100 meters.  How about 110 yards?  No clue.

If a running back rushes for 100 yards in a football game, we take notice.  If he slogs for 99, we think “Eh, decent game, I guess.”   Pitchers who hit 100 mph on the radar gun are to be feared.  95 is great, too, but hittable.

It’s special when people live to be 100.  Bob Hope did (I think).  So did Charles Lane. Who?  If you watched TV in the ’60’s and ’70’s, you know him:


Actor Charles Lane, TV’s grumpy authority figure.

I bet you’ll remember him from now on.  I’ve had a lot of relatives live into their ’90’s.  My Papaw died at 91.  An aunt at the same age.  I have an aunt still going strong at 95 and another at 93.  My wife’s grandmother is 95.  100 years old, though, is rarefied air indeed.   During one of my infrequent forays as a regular church-goer, I went to church with a man who died at 104.  He seemed like a super hero.  Let’s be honest here:  90 or 95 or 99 are just as impressive as 100, but we don’t think of it like that.

If you’re 100, congratulations.  Also, why the hell are you wasting what precious little time you have left reading this?  You were 16 when the stock market crashed in 1929 and 28 when Pearl Harbor was bombed. When you turned 40, I Love Lucy had only been on the air for a year.  You are 4 years younger than JFK. You were in your 60’s when Nixon resigned. On 9/11, you were already 88.  You’ve seen the advent of air travel, sound films, TV, computers, cell phones, space travel, innumerable wars, super models, the Internet and just about everything else that makes life worth living these days.  You were alive when the Tsar ruled Russia and outlasted the Soviet Union for its entire existence!  You survived the Spanish Flu Pandemic.  You’ve seen a lot and probably done a lot, too.  You may even remember some of it.

I suspect that living to be 100 isn’t so great.  We probably just see the folks who are doing well, like this lady:


The ideal 100th Birthday Party

A lot of people at 100 are probably just like a lot of folks at 95–infirm and not able to do much.  Let’s just not think about that.  Some people make it way past 100–often in Japan.  That’s also impressive, but they usually die.  Even though living to 100 might actually be miserable, we all would like to do it anyway.

When the temperature is 100 degrees, it’s damn hot.  It’s still damn hot at 99, but 100 is worse.  Of course, I’m talking Fahrenheit, not Celsius of Kelvin or some other weird foreign scale.  100 is the worst.  100 degrees Celsius is probably a lot worse, but it could be better for all I know–I have no idea.

Take your temperature.  If it’s 99.5 degrees, you’ll think “That’s weird, but I feel fine.”  If it’s 100 degrees, you’ll become bedridden.  At 100, you’re sick as a dog.

What if you get a speeding ticket for driving 100 mph?  That’s seriously reckless behavior.  99 mph doesn’t seem quite so dangerous, does it?

100% is great in just about everything.  Athletes try to claim that 110% is better, but it isn’t, mostly because it’s not real.  100% attendance, grades, effort, etc.  All good.

100 is the sum of the first nine prime numbers which means nothing to me but is probably very cool to my son who is a math major.

100 is the atomic number of fermium which you can find in abundance in nuclear fall out.  Bad.

100 years ago is a long time.  A century is 100 years, not 90.  There’s a reason for that, I’m sure.

Everyone is interested in the President of the United States’s First Hundred Days.  No one gives a damn about his first 63 or so.

The number 100 is significant, for sure.  The evidence is undeniable.  A 100th blog post should carry the same significance.  Alas, I have failed.  Regardless, though, I can now truthfully say I’ve posted 100 times on this blog.  Now, that’s impressive.

© 2013

Cheerleader God


Ray Lewis shows God His Lombardi Trophy

I’m a big sports fan. Huge, actually. I’ve ruined substantial chunks of my life grieving over sporting events in which I had no stake other than as a fan. None of the players or coaches knew me nor did they care one way or the other about how their pitiable performances affected me. Nevertheless, though, I grieved.

You know who else is a big sports fan? God. That’s right. Capital “G” God. The Big Guy. The Alpha and Omega. The Big I AM. How do I know that about the unknowable? Athletes have told me. Repeatedly.

Ray Lewis says so. God glorified him (or vice versa–sometimes it’s hard to follow Ray) with a Super Bowl win. After the Ravens’ win, Ray said “It’s simple: When God is for you, who can be against you?” That is pretty simple. God is all-powerful, all-knowing and omnipotent. If He’s for you, who CAN be against you? Well, a lot of people, really. The other team, for instance. Their fans. Maybe people who just generally hate your team or you personally. Atheists, too.

Ray’s simple observation begs many questions, of course:

  • Was God against Colin Kaepernick?
  • Was God for John, but not Jim, Harbaugh? If so, why?
  • What did God think of Beyonce?
  • How about the guy in the suit that John Harbaugh screamed at? What sin did he commit?
  • What was God’s deal with the Harbaugh parents? For or against?
  • Why didn’t God see that holding call on Crabtree? Or did He see it but smite the officials with blindness, because he was for Ray?
  • Is possible that God was on the side of Michael Oher, the guy from the movie The Blind Side, and Ray just benefited from it?
  • Why did God turn out the lights in the second half?
  • What kind of God would allow Destiny’s Child to reunite?

If it were just Ray, it wouldn’t be that big a deal. Other athletes are just as bad–or maybe it’s good. Boxers praise God–right after they beat the holy crap out of someone. “Thank you, God, for giving me the strength to inflict permanent brain damage on this other child of yours.” Basketball players do it. Baseball players. Everyone who wins has God on his or her side. Some invoke Jesus, which is really the same thing except with a decidedly Christian take.

That’s right. God picks sides. He’s picked the World Series, Super Bowls, NCAA Championships, fights–you name it. There isn’t enough hard drive in the Cloud to list all the athletes that have credited God for their wins. God plays favorites. No doubt. God is definitely a Calvinist when it comes to sports.

The uncomfortable flip side of this is that God clearly dislikes certain teams and athletes, too, not to mention their fans (like me). This is rarely acknowledged, with one notable exception. Former University of Kentucky football player Stevie Johnson is now a star wide receiver for the Buffalo Bills. A couple of years ago, he dropped a potential game-winning touchdown pass. Just dropped it. Stevie saw the hand of God in it.


Stevie Johnson’s ill-tempered tweet reflected a lot of fans’ thoughts.

Predictably, Stevie took a lot of heat for this. But, if you are a sports fan, haven’t you at least thought this before? Sure you have. Of course, I remember Stevie catching a touchdown pass to beat the University of Louisville. An act of God, for sure.

I’ll confess that I’ve prayed to God about sports. “Oh, mighty God, PLEASE let this free throw drop!!!” Of course, this type of prayer is fruitless, but I’ve done it. My life as a sports fan has proven and disproven the existence of God many times:

  • Jim O’Brien hits a last-minute field goal. Colts beat the Cowboys in the Super Bowl. No God.
  • Roger Staubach hits Drew Pearson with the original “Hail Mary” pass in the 1975 NFC Playoffs. God lives!
  • UCLA beats Kentucky for the 1975 NCAA Basketball Championship. No God.
  • Six months later, the Reds rally from 3 down to win the 7th game of the World Series. Big God!
  • Jackie Smith drops a touchdown pass against the Steelers. Cowboys lose the Super Bowl. No God.
  • Kentucky wins the 1978, 1996, 1998 and 2012 NCAA basketball championships. Big, big, big, big GOD!!
  • Christian Laettner hits a three to beat Kentucky at the buzzer in the 1992 NCAA Regional Finals. There is a God, and He hates me.
  • Billy Gillispie is hired as Kentucky’s basketball coach. God hates Kentucky.
  • John Calipari is hired as Kentucky’s basketball coach. God actually loves Kentucky but has a twisted sense humor (see Gillispie, Billy).
  • University of Kentucky Football: No God or at least not one that will let us be great at two sports.

I, for one, refuse to blame God for this.

For brevity’s sake, I won’t list the other 200-300 examples. One can readily see that I have struggled to see God’s handiwork in my life as a fan. For others, look no further than this year’s NCAA Football Championship. Notre Dame has Touchdown Jesus, but Alabama whipped them like Samson breaking bad on a bunch of Philistines.

The problem is that for each instance in which I have been crushed by a sporting event, others have felt an equal and opposite reaction. Call it Newton’s Law of God In Sports. He loves one team and hates the other. Okay, maybe He doesn’t hate them. Only if you’re a member of the Westboro Baptist Church do you embrace the hating God. But, at the very least, He’s cruelly indifferent to the other team and its fans.

How does this happen? Do the other fans pray better? Are the players better people? If so, what can I do to help my team? If more of our fans pray will that tip the scales? Or is the quality of the prayers, rather than the quantity, that matters most? It’s hard to say, really.

What about Tim Tebow? By all accounts, he’s a fine young man, sincere in his faith and an all around good guy. He played quarterback for the Denver Broncos in 2011 and won a bunch of games. Now, truth be told, he didn’t play particularly well, completing less than 50% of his passes. Yet, he won or, more accurately, his team won. Many folks attributed this to God. Tebow is a Christian, and God wins games for him. Many of my devoutly Christian friends manically cheered for him, as though he was the first Christian to ever play in the NFL (I don’t think he is, by the way). Then Tebow got traded to the Jets, because the Broncos preferred Peyton Manning at quarterback. Tebow barely played for the Jets and did nothing to help them win–to the extent the Jets did win. Did God turn his back on Tebow? Doubtful. Tebow just ended up on a team that didn’t want to play him. Like Tebow, Danny Wuerffel was also a Heisman Trophy winning quarterback from the University of Florida and a devout Christian. He had no success in the NFL. Why? Because that’s sports, not God.

Now, you’re thinking: “What’s your point?” Here it is: God isn’t picking games. If he did, the parochial schools would never lose, and Bob Knight would have never won a game. God is God, which is a good thing, but one can only hope that He is occupied with more important things than Ray Lewis’s retirement and my desire to see a teenaged college student make a free throw.

I won’t even belabor the obvious such as the horrific injuries–and even death–suffered by athletes. If you’re a sports fan, you can think of an almost endless list of vile humans who have excelled in sports. What about cities like Chicago and Cleveland? What are they–the Sodom and Gomorrah of sports? If God is picking sides, surely he could cut them a break.

So, the next time you think God has picked your team or favorite player, remember that just means He’s back handing someone else. Eventually, He’ll show you the hands, too. Now, don’t get me wrong. There’s nothing wrong with praising God. Some believe that He demands it. It’s just that suggesting He won a game makes as much sense as crediting the military for it. After all, we should be thankful for our soldiers, too, but let’s be reasonable.

Okay, now God, UCLA has 11 NCAA basketball titles, and Kentucky has 8. Do you think you could see your way clear to…..never mind.

© 2013

Why I Love Being An American

Our flag is cool. No weird colors or animals on it. Just the good old star and stripes.

I am an American and proud of it.  By that, I mean I’m glad to be an American.  I’m saying not that being American makes me superior to other nationalities, but I’d like to think it does.  Why?  Here’s why:


We speak English.  English is the international language of business.  Plus, it sounds good.  Foreign languages sound like gibberish.  Have you ever eavesdropped on foreigners having a conversation?  It’s incomprehensible!  I recently overheard a couple of people speaking Japanese, I think.  I’m convinced they weren’t really saying anything–just making a bunch of sounds.

I come from strong German stock, but I wouldn’t want to speak German.  They always sound mad shouting in guttural grunts.  That’s probably why they’ve started so many wars.  If you said “Please pass the salt” in German, you could start a fight.  Some languages, like Hebrew, make you spit while speaking them.  Others, like Russian, sound evil.  English just sounds sensible.

Now, of course, the English speak English, but it’s a smarmy, stuck-up version–not like ours.  Plus they say things like “loo” and “lorry.”  That’s just weird.

English also looks more sensible.  Our vowels are A, E, I, O, U and Y (sometimes).  Here are the Korean vowels:

Korean vowels. Are these even letters? They’re more like a bunch of poorly drawn stick figures.

Good luck trying to work a crossword puzzle with that pile of emoticons for an alphabet.  Russian is even worse:

The Russian alphabet. It’s so screwed up that they have two “E”s and a frickin’ 3 included.

What can you say about this mess?  The Russians are fond of strong drink.  I can only assume that this was some drunk guy’s effort to copy the real alphabet.  “Awww, what the Hell? I’ll just throw in a number to fill it out!  No one will notice.”  One time in college, I was drunk and wrote a note to girl to apologize for vomiting in her sink.  It looked like the picture above (I mean the note, not the vomit).

Those are just two examples.  Other languages are just as bad, I’m sure.  Hungarian, for instance.  Here is the longest word in the Hungarian language: legeslegmegszentségtelenítetthetetlenebbjeitekként.  You know what it means?  “like those of you that are the very least possible to get desecrated.”  You don’t speak English, and that’s the kind of useless crap you go around saying. 


We’re the best at war.  We spend all most as much money on the military as every other country combined, but we win.  We’re the New York Yankees of warfare.  No one can touch our payroll, and we have the results to back it up, too:

  • Revolutionary War:  Win
  • War of 1812:  Win, but I don’t know whom we fought.
  • French and Indian War: Win.  I assume we fought in this.  We must have won. Otherwise, we would be French and would have surrendered in the rest of our wars.
  • Civil War:  Win (for most of us).
  • Spanish-American War:  Win
  • World War I:  Win
  • World War II:  Win
  • Korean War:  Win. Okay, technically we won.  The war isn’t really over.  They just declared a truce.
  • Vietnam War: Forfeit
  • Gulf War:  Win
  • Iraq War:  Win
  • Afghanistan War (or whatever they call it):  Winning.
  • Canadian War (planning stages)

Anyone would admit that is an impressive record.  This doesn’t even count our skirmishes like Grenada and Panama.  Even someone like me who has never been in the military and would be unfit to serve anyway can swell up with pride about our military.


American sports are just better.  Okay, I know that soccer is the most popular sport in the world.  Big deal.  We took soccer and it’s more violent cousin, rugby, and turned them into football.  Let’s see some Euro-trash do that.

Baseball is a vast improvement over the foolish looking game of cricket with its rounders and batsmen.  Basketball is all ours.  Invented here. Perfected here.

What have they given us? Soccer.  Bullfighting, maybe.  That’s it. Jai Alai? That’s only watched by degenerate gamblers.  Hockey? Hell, no Americans play it.

We’re better athletes than the rest of the world, too.  Eastern Bloc countries used to challenge us. The Soviet Union was a group of like 20 countries–no wonder they won a lot of Olympic medals.  Each on its own can’t match us.  Now, the East Germans (yes, kids, there used to be an East Germany) gave us massive she-male swimmers.  We could have done that, but we like our chicks hot.   And female.

East German mad scientists did this to their women in an effort to compete with Americans.


American money is just better.  It looks like money.  That’s why it’s the international choice for business exchange.  Look at what other countries have to use:

The poor Albanians. I don’t even know if this is a lot of money, but wouldn’t you be embarrassed to pull this out at Walmart? It looks like it was drawn by a third grader.

Of course, dictators always mar their money:

It’s bad enough that Ghaddafi oppressed everyone. He didn’t even have enough respect for his citizens to use a decent picture. It looks like he just got out of the shower.

Our money has former presidents and other impressive dignitaries (with the possible exception of Salmon Chase) on it.  Plus, our One Dollar Bill has a weird, mystical-looking image on the back.

The freaky backside of the One Dollar Bill.  Note the foreign gibberish.

Some foreign money looks like napkins.  Some of it looks like old paper bags.  Ours is just much better.  Plus, it’s American.  Stuff  a 1 Dinar bill in a stripper’s g-string, and you’ll not only get ignored, but a bouncer will probably beat the bejesus out of you.

Finally, we have the $2 bill, greatest of all monetary denominations.  It’s worth two dollars, of course, but if you use one, look at the faces light up!  If you give a stripper a $2 bill she’ll dance for you all night, at least that’s what I’ve heard.


We invented rock ‘n’ roll.  And country music. Nuff said.  Oh, I know about Mozart and Beethoven and Bach and those other haughty composers.  But, we flat rock.  The rest of the world is still trying to catch up.

The British have made inroads in rock, of course, but they speak English.  Plus, when they sing, most of them do so without that goofy accent.  That’s counterbalanced by their shameful ending of Jerry Lee Lewis’s career.  Apparently, the Brits have a problem with someone marrying his cousin–unless that someone is called a Prince or King.  By the way, who had the number 1 single in the UK for 11 weeks in the 1950’s?  Slim Whitman, American.  That little record only lasted 36 years.

Australia and Scotland gave us AC/DC.  For that, we are forever grateful.  Beyond that, the rest of the world can’t say much.

There is one area where we failed miserably.  Christian Rock.  It’s like milk and Coca-Cola.  Separately, they are both excellent.  Combined, they’re awful.  Christian rock works the same way.  It’s like Soviet hair bands during the Glasnost Era.  It just doesn’t work.  We apologize for trying.


Here’s what we have:

  • Sports (see above)
  • Music (see above)
  • Movies (no subtitles)
  • Tractor Pulls
  • Celebrities
  • Rodeos
  • Eating contests
  • TV (again, no subtitles)

Here’s what they have:

  • Goat-carcass polo
  • Royal Families
  • Hockey
  • American Flag burning
  • Telemundo (actually, it’s pretty good)
  • Incomprehensible Swedish films
  • Anti-American chanting
  • Vodka (Russia only)
  • Loathsome diseases
  • Civil war

I’ll admit that they hold their own in pornography (that’s what I’ve been told).  Otherwise, all our stuff is better.


We’re edgy.  We’re like a neighbor who is a nice guy, always friendly, but you find out that he’s beaten the crap out of a bunch of people.  That’s us.  Nice people.  Generous to a fault.  Cross us, and we’ll kill you.  We’re like Clint Eastwood in Gran Torino. Stay off our lawn.

We speak our minds, even if our minds are full things best kept quiet.  Right now, there’s great controversy over an anti-Islamic film made here in the USA.  We do that kind of thing.  We make insulting films. I watched a couple of clips of that movie.  Not since Manos The Hands of Fate has there been such a poorly made film.  We don’t care.  It’s controversial.  The Last Temptation of Christ is a great film, but it made people go nuts back in the 1980’s.  Fortunately, no one tried to kill Martin Scorcese for making it.

We have Nazis in the U.S.  Some countries have outlawed the Nazis but not us.  You can be a Nazi here.  Or a Communist.  Or a Socialist.  Anything.  You can start a cult or join an established one.  You can speak your mind about damn near anything.  If a bunch of tools want to protest at funerals, they can.  Of course, others of us might beat the crap out of them.  It’s the American Way.

Once you speak your mind, everyone else is entitled to get pissed off.  And we do.  We’ll yell right back at you. Now, we usually don’t go completely mental and attack each other.  Usually.

Who’s the only country to nuke another country?  U! S! A!  If you didn’t want nuked, you should have thought about that before you bombed our naval base.  That’s how we roll.  Think about this:  We didn’t want to be in WWII.  The economy was a wreck.  We didn’t have a fighting army or many weapons.  Less than four years later, we build a freakin’ atom bomb!  Stay off our lawn!

If it weren’t for us, they’d be speaking German in London right now and goose-stepping in front of Buckingham Palace.  Think about that.  What’s German for “lorry?” We kick ass and take names.  Why?  Because we’re edgy.


Mostly, I like being an American, because I am one.  I always have been.  I’m not a foreigner.  I also haven’t traveled to foreign countries.  Well, I did once.  I went to Mexico, and I got severe diarrhea.  That should tell you something.  Not that I haven’t had diarrhea in America, but that’s different.  It’s American.

In the great book, Catch-22, a character observes that there are 50 countries fighting in World War II and that not all of them can be worth dying for.  I agree.  Only America is worth that, but I must confess that I would hate to be put to the test on that one.  Of course, I’ll say it anyway.

There are other things I like about America–leggy supermodels, good candy, Waffle House, gas-guzzling cars and many other things.  It’s good to be an American.  At least I hope so, because that’s what I am.

© 2012

Hatin’ on the Hate

Haters keep on hatin’, cause somebody’s got to do it.  So said the eminently hateable Chris Brown. I’ve thinking about hate lately, mostly because I’ve been hearing a lot of it  for some reason.  Montgomery Burns once said “I know you all hate me.  Well, I hate you more.”  That’s how most of us approach the subject.

Rod Smart was a football player in the ill-fated XFL. His nickname was “He Hate Me,” as in “He Hate Me. She Hate Me.  Everybody hate me.”  He wore the name proudly on the back of his jersey. No one remembers much about the XFL (“NO FAIR CATCHES!”), but a lot of football fans remember He Hate Me.

Rod Smart. His jersey said it all.

I doubt that a lot of people really hated Rod Smart, but maybe they did. He lived in America, and we are very good at hating people, things, institutions, events–you name it.  He also played sports, and sports draw a lot of hate.  Even if we’re okay with Rod Smart, we hate a lot of other things.

I hate Jim Carrey movies. And kale greens. And hangnails. And the sound a fork makes scraping a plate. And lots of other things. I try not to hate people, but sometimes I do. It usually passes. Right now, I’m pretty sure I hate Jerry Sandusky.  If you’ve seen the video of those assbags harassing that school bus monitor, you probably hate those kids.  I know I do or at least I did while I watched the video.

I hated a girl I dated.  Well, I didn’t hate her while we were dating.  I liked her then.   She hated me while we were dating; thus, we broke up.  After that, I hated her. Then we got back together, and I didn’t hate her as much.  Then we broke up again.  Hate. I’ve still got some work to do on that one, I guess.

When I was kid, people would say: “I don’t hate him. I hate his ways.”  Nowadays, I hear people say: “God loves the sinners, but hates the sin.” Really? Let’s cut to the chase. If you hate how someone acts, there’s almost no chance that you don’t hate the person. Here’s one I’ve heard 1,000 times:  “I don’t hate gay people. I hate their lifestyle.” Translation: “I don’t hate you. I just hate everything about you.” Wow.  I’m sure that makes gay people feel much better.

As Americans, we’re allowed to hate.  We do have hate crimes, but they’re pretty vague and rarely used.  Plus, they only cover small areas of hate–race, religion, sexual orientation and the like.  There are so many other things and reasons to hate.  In addition, hating itself really isn’t a crime anyway.  You have to commit some other foul act in conjunction with your hate. General hating is still perfectly legal.

We hate sports teams. I am a University of Kentucky fan. It’s socially acceptable for me to hate the University of Louisville. Okay, maybe not the entire University. Just its sports teams. If I hate the Dean of Students or some English professor, that would just be weird. Rick Pitino, however, is fair game.

When Pitino coached at UK, we loved him. U of L fans hated him. One day, he showed up as U of L’s coach. We hated him. They loved him. Hate is funny like that. It’s very arbitrary.

We hate food. I hate lots of food. Most people do. Pickles? Hate ’em. Raw tomatoes? Hate.  Mayonnaise, Diet Coke, malted milk balls:  hate, hate, hate.  My son hates hamburgers, for God’s sake. You hate some foods. You know you do. Think about them.  Feel the hate.

Do you hate any music?  Sure, you do.  I hate rap.  I hated disco back in the ’70’s but now I’m okay with it.  That means that one day rap might be okay with me.  For now, though, it’s hate all the way.

Do you hate your job?  Well, no one cares, because almost everyone else hates their job more than you hate yours.  Just ask them.

Some folks hate poor people. Others hate the rich. I don’t know anyone who hates both, but I’m sure someone does. Does anyone hate the middle class? Yeah, I’m sure someone does. Maybe you do. If you do, explain yourself.

We hate religion. Okay, not ALL religion, just other people’s. We’re right. They’re wrong. Of course, we all have a small nagging thought that maybe they’re right and we’re wrong. We hate that even more. If you’re a Christian, you have to think that all non-Christians are just flat wrong. That aggravates you. Sometimes, it makes you hate another religion, especially if that religion hates Christianity. Atheists hate all religions, except their own.  Of course, most people won’t openly say that they hate other religions.  That’s just not kosher, which is okay to say even if you hate Jewish people.

Let’s take the vile, reptilian God Hates Fags troglodytes from Kansas. When I see them or even think about them, I hate them. Oh, it will pass, but I hate them for a few minutes. I’m betting most Christians hate them, too, if only for a minute or two.  Atheists, I’m sure, hate them.  They’re very hateable. If God hates anything, it’s those turds.  Of course, it’s unlikely that God hates anyone, except maybe Job.  Then again, there were also all those smitings, too.  Hmmm.  I may have to think about that one.

Politics and religion are often compared.  We all know that those are two topics that you just don’t bring up in polite conversation.  They both engender a bunch of hate or, at the very least, hatefulness.  Why? Because it allows us to hate entire groups of people based on little more than their associations or views.  Politics is the ultimate hatefest. It’s the last bastion of irrational prejudice. You can hate an entire political party, yet be a welcome member of society. Try that with an entire race or religion, and you’ll find yourself spending a lot of time alone.

Politicians are the most hated folks on the planet. Do you hate President Obama? If you answered “no,” there’s a good chance you hate Mitt Romney. If you hate both of them, then you might love Ron Paul. If you hate Ron Paul, then you probably love Ralph Nader.  Obama and Romney both might be right fine fellows, but they’re hated because they are in the wrong political party.

There is an important difference between hating something or someone and actually expressing that hate.  No one cares if you openly hate a sports team. Irrationally loathing someone because of their uniform is no big deal.  Same goes for politics, obviously.  But, we have to be careful about expressing hate for the wrong reasons.  You go from being a rational hater to a dangerous misanthrope.

We can easily hate someone who is in the wrong group, whether it’s a political party, church, or sports team. It’s different when we personalize it to, say, our next door neighbor. Tell people that you hate Obama, and a lot of folks will high-five you. Tell them you hate the kid who mows your yard, and they’ll be creeped out.

Now, you shouldn’t hate Obama because he’s black, although surely some do. That’s just wrong. If so, you better keep that to yourself. Here’s the good news: you can hate liberals, regardless of their race. Hate all you want. By extension, you can hate anyone who is a liberal, regardless of race, creed or national origin.  One caveat:  Be careful about how vociferously you express your hate of the President.  Don’t write him letters about it.  The FBI will visit you.  They hate that shit.

Let’s take Romney as another example. He’s a Mormon. My grandparents were Mormons. So were my Mom’s sisters and their children and grandchildren. I’m not a Mormon, but I think Mormons are fine folks. Some people disagree. They think it’s a cult of heretics where everyone has 10 wives. Mormons have been hated. Probably still are in some circles. You can’t say: “Man, I hate Romney because he’s a Mormon.” But you can say: “I hate that Romney. Damn Republican!” Odd, isn’t?

So, you can hate a religion, but you should keep it to yourself.  Same with race.  Politics, though, is different.  Hate all you want and do it in public.  No one cares, except the people who will hate you as a result.

You really can’t hate some things.  Animals, for instance.  I don’t know that I’ve ever met someone who says he hates animals.  Okay, cats are an exception.  People will say they hate cats, but cats are smug, and some hate that in a pet. Otherwise, if you hate animals, you’re going to fit a serial killer profile.  Some people love animals but hate humans.  As a result, animal hate is dangerous territory, indeed.

Here’s a little experiment:

  • Create a group on Facebook called “I Hate the President.”  Make the profile picture the worst thing you can find of the President.  Maybe this one:

  • Then, create a new group called “I Hate Romney.”  Use this ridiculous image:

  • I assure you that some people will like these pages.  In fact, some people will become enthusiastic members of your group with their own outrageous postings.
  • Now, create a page called:  “I Hate Rescue Dogs.”  Not only will no one like it, everyone will hate you.  You’ll probably be subjected to all manner of investigations and be banned from Facebook.  You will be unfriended. Your student loans will be declared in default, your mortgage foreclosed and the IRS will audit you.  Even the ACLU will turn on you by representing the rescue dogs in a class action against you.  The Southern Poverty Law Center will declare you to be a hate group.

The lesson?  Hate people if you want.  Leave the animals alone.

It’s still unacceptable to hate your family. I find this odd since some people’s families are dangerous criminals or worse. Folks will say “Don’t forget to call dad on Fathers Day!” What if your dad is Charles Manson? Or just a total bastard? I know people who hate their families, but they keep it quiet. If you do, you should probably just keep it to yourself.  Think about this:  With all the hateable people in the world, how can some people not hate their families?

I’ve heard it said that hating someone is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die. That’s true for me. So, I try not to do it. I’m not always successful. Sometimes, I will hate the entire UK basketball team for a fleeting moment or two.  Then, I love them again.  I think my children hate me on occasion, and it’s tempting to hate them back.  So far, I’ve resisted, but it’s a struggle. I used to be an angry young man, who hated a lot of stuff.  Then, I realized that all that stuff didn’t hate me back–or really even know I existed.  This realization freed me up to spend more time thinking about me.  One good thing about being egocentric is that there isn’t much room in my head for dwelling on others, what with all the things going on with me.

Sadly, there are few things that I’ll confess to hating, and I don’t think those will change:  Jenny from Forest Gump; gum on my shoe; migraines; Winter; poke sallet; toothaches; door to door salespeople; port-a-potties; being hit in the face; Aunt Bee; the two warts on the back of my right hand; Christian Rock music; and people who hate too many things.

So, that’s my screed on hate.  I’ve professed myself an expert. Don’t you hate it when people do that?

© 2012