A lifetime of verbal diarrhea is causing dehydration of my soul.
I’ve seriously doubted the existence of god (a.k.a., God) ever since I was a kid, but didn’t officially start calling myself an atheist until CBS cancelled Northern Exposure in 1995.
Most people associate imprisonment with only negative things — extreme confinement, starchy food, non-consensual sodomy, small beds, bad lighting — but I see things in a more promising and positive light.
I’m not talking about discounted movie tickets or other little AARP perks. I’m talking about the less obvious though far more alluring boons that are available to only those with 80 or more birthdays behind them.
I don’t mean to brag, but when it comes to punching, heaving and breaking inanimate objects that have absolutely nothing to do with my anger or frustration, I’m somewhat of a master.
“Try to relax and breathe deeply,” said Dr. Zhou, who must have derived from my clenched fists and soft whimpering that I was an acupuncture virgin.
What I face now is the baseball equivalent of Brokeback Mountain; try as I might, I just can’t seem to quit you, Yankees. I wish I knew how to quit you.
9/11 was an inside job. Princess Diana was murdered by the Royal Family. A UFO crashed in Roswell, New Mexico. The Apollo moon landing was a hoax. Global warming is a fraud.
When I was six, my brother Jeff was 12. Twice as old as I was. A towering figure, a titan of pre-pubescence. Invincible…
It’s weird — even foreign people who work their asses off 12-14 hours a day to help support their families (and extended families) expect some modicum of respect and decency from the Americans who call them for assistance.