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Doug Blough

September 27, 2012 11:49 am

MY LOUSY WORLD: You call this poetry?

Good poetry is definitely in the eye of the beholder. I simply cannot wrap my pretty head around poetry that doesn’t rhyme. It’s like women’s beach volleyball without bikinis. I’ll go a step further and say “a poem that doesn’t rhyme is like a bell that doesn’t chime.”

September 13, 2012 7:54 am

MY LOUSY WORLD: Just chewing the fat

I’ve compiled another of my unorganized, yet invaluable collection of thoughts worth mentioning. Otherwise, I’d not mention them.

Firstly, a few observances about diet and health, because — let’s face it — if you don’t have your health or good looks, then you truly have nothing.  

August 16, 2012 9:27 am

MY LOUSY WORLD: Animal ACLU

I’m launching the Animal ACLU: “Animal Caretakers Litigating Unflattering treatment.” Our goal is to make animals equal to humans in all areas, and if not, we’ll sue the pants off this “humans first” society.

Sure, the Bible says God gave man dominion over animals, but you’ll find your dictionary describes “dominion” as “to submit to; bow down, take a back seat to.” (Don’t bother checking — I just told you what it says).

Via Facebook, which still confounds me, I reached out and touched someone I’ve not seen in 40 years. He touched me back with a kick to the groin. This fellow — let’s call him “Ned,” since he sounds obsessively image-conscious — evidently isn’t my biggest fan.  

June 30 began like many days for me: partly cloudy with a 70 percent chance of pain. But even I could never have guessed the perfect storm about to befall me. It was another Doug Day Afternoon, and as Mangold is my witness, every word is true.

We’ve heard it many times before — folks mauled by vicious animals, sometimes resulting in death, or even worse, disfigurement. A few weeks ago, 65-year-old homeless man, Ronald Poppo had his face “mostly chewed off” along a busy Miami highway before police fatally shot “Rudy.”

Occasionally, I must revisit past columns with updates and clarifications. Everything I write is true, of course, since exaggeration of my blunder-laden life would be like Barbra Streisand embellishing the size of her nose. But there are those rare misrepresentations.

A recent column in the Tribune’s Home Improvement edition recounted 35 years of roofing misery — falls, vanishing ladders in windstorms, sunstroke, etc. I suggested that may be why most roofers are lushes; they drink to forget. But that is stereotyping, which you might expect from a drunken Irishman, but not a good German boy like me.

The highlight of a recent day came while walking my dogs by the river, when Trina suddenly veered off the trail and hunched over, trying to pinch the proverbial loaf. You must be thinking, “Boy, this guy sure doesn’t set the excitement bar high,” but let me explain.

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