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Doug Blough

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.

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.

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