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Doug Blough

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.

You’ve probably heard the theoretical scenario offered by many a macho boyfriend, beleaguered husband or bitter ex. You know the one: “Lock your dog and your wife in the trunk and see which one is happiest to see you when you let them out.” Now, I would never condone locking either in your trunk, except in rare cases of saving ticket money by sneaking loved ones into a drive-in movie.

Even when one has led an exemplary life — gone to church, loved his mother, befriended strangers with leprosy — one (me as an example) occasionally stares into the rear-view mirror of a life and feels a certain shame. Whether an unkind word, a cruel prank, or an armed robbery, sad regret can set in.

Can you hear me now? That’s a rhetorical question, but one I’ve heard too many times, usually right after I ask, “What was that?” It’s humiliating, debilitating and several other words that rhyme.

With President Trump pumping new life into the deadly coal-mining vocation, I’d be remiss not to relate one of my family’s favorite mine disaster stories.

It’s been a sports-eventful summer for this normally-sedentary TV addict. My nephew Trey’s early bachelor party last month entailed 18 holes of Cody golf followed by a “cornhole” tournament. (Google it; the sport is sweeping the nation.) I’ve also recently gotten back together with my teenage love, bowling. After my all-time high of 227 weeks ago, my love has increased 10-fold.

Well, for months I’d been itching for another Billings trip, and I got ‘er done the weekend before the Fourth of July. And again I feared my manhood might be in question over my excitement to “shop ‘til I drop.” But why should that be so shameful anyway? I mean, who doesn’t like to look good once in a while, decked out in some spanking new duds?

I hate being cut off, like last week in Bloedorn Lumber when a burly, elderly customer began telling me, Sean Johnson and a rival roofer a lengthy, tedious joke.

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