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Doug Blough

Old song lyrics are a beautiful thing when astutely composed. Even ones deemed nonsensical — “Dead Skunk in the Middle of the Road” and “My Ding-a-Ling” come to mind — I find quite lovely.

Earlier this month, the honorable Rev. Mark Price said, “I now pronounce you man and wife.” Just like that, I had a new sister-in-law and another endless supply of Tupperware.

Valentine’s Day has passed, but the romantic dinner my dog Ginger and I shared is fresh in my memory. Nothing says “I love you” like Top Ramen. She gazed into my eyes like she’d died and gone to heaven.

Being considered by some to be a Super Bowl visionary, I’ll reveal this Sunday’s exact  score in due time, but first I’d like to offer you a little proposition. In fact, a whole gaggle of propositions.

Have you ever spread rose petals from your front door to your own bed — then return later to follow them upstairs? Have you gone bowling with family couples on New Year’s Eve (as I did this year)? If so, you needn’t suffer alone; you’re most likely a lonely guy needing a support group.

It’s beginning to look a lot like Chriiiiistmas…” or is it?  Try singing, “It’s beginning to look a lot like a non-specific, seasonal celebration, everywhere you go …” and see how odd it sounds.

Many errantly believe that a life-long bachelor lives on fast-food burritos, pizza deliveries and lard scooped by hand right out of the can. Well, I can only speak for myself and not other league bowlers, but I’m not one to completely eschew dietary health concerns. I do a little quality cooking at home, and don’t always order the chicken-fried steak at local eateries.

It’s again time for some uncannily brilliant observances and a column revisit or two. As you know, once I get started on these mini-manifestos there’s no stopping me, so it’s best to just stand back and let me finish.

Just days after Lincoln Reese, my three nephews and I left Vegas this March, a nutcase on a bus opened fire, killing a guy and shutting down the Bellagio casino where we placed most of our basketball bets. Luckily, the weirdo only had a pistol.

It’s not popular to discuss mortality since few of us will escape eventually dying, and even fewer will reach the age of Methuselah who died unexpectedly at 969. But we all secretly wonder when our number might be called.

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