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Doug Blough

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.

Once again I’ve had a few random epiphanies that I can’t let go to waste. That’s the thing about brilliant observances when you’re old, alone and eccentric — one finds few opportunities to share with neighbors when one lives in a dumpster.

I don’t normally devour the Trib sports section; it can be a bitter reminder to athletic has-beens on Social Security. Besides, one can’t read everything; there are only so many hours in the day and so many TV shows to watch.

It’s well known the three things mankind needs to sustain life are oxygen, water, and a cell phone. The phone is an invaluable necessity, IF one learns to use it correctly. A phone in the wrong hands though is like a monkey with an M-16.

All noble Americans agree that slavery is the most disgraceful chapter in America’s history book. I stress to millennial relatives that the “n-word” is among the most hateful they could ever carelessly utter. I’ve never used the word and never will.

As you well know, my mind occasionally gets overloaded with dangling thoughts, and like a woman seeking breast reduction, must get it all off my chest. Otherwise I walk around with a brain full of unexpressed opinions that weigh me down, often leading to a pronounced stutter. I’m funny that way.

Las Vegas has not been good to me. She’s an uncaring, self-absorbed mistress, yet I love her like no other.

If you’re acutely-astute, you probably noticed it’s not my photo. Actually, a handsome, successful, young friend gracefully agreed to substitute his photo in lieu of my haircut next week. Like you, I’ve grown repulsed by my bedraggled, outdated photo.

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