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Doug Blough

Maybe it’s a sad statement about my formative years, but some of my most valuable life lessons were learned in Pennsylvania bars in my early 20s.

I was reminded of an important one recently when Pennsylvania Facebook friend Nan Temyer mentioned a blast-from-the-past name, Jack Boring. I related a Jack story she had never heard, and I’d be remiss not to share with you this vital lesson learned.

Today, I’m not gonna say a lot about much, but I will say a little about a lot. So let me now say this about that:

• You seldom hear of people hitting their funny, or “crazy” bone anymore. When I was growing up, it was a common sight to see someone jumping around, holding their elbow, howling, “Ahh! My funny bone!” I haven’t hit my crazy bone in decades. I wonder if it got on Prozac and now it’s just another well-adjusted, ordinary bone.

In the beginning, God created the beasts of the field, fish and fowl of every ilk. And he saw that it was good. Among the beasts was the slovenly cow, and on her undercarriage, God inserted udders — obviously not for aesthetic purposes, since the dangling udder is an ugly mudder.

A pox on your house, Zuckerberg, for making everything so dang hard. Had I invented Facebook, which I probably would have eventually, it would be much simpler to navigate and less fraught with peril.  

A gentleman’s handshake doesn’t mean much these days, but when Trinity dropped his treat and shook my hand that first day at the shelter, it was binding. He truly had me at “Hello.”

I’m not only a column writer, but a column reader. In the Jan. 29 edition, I read Geoffrey’s column at the bottom of the page, and Amend’s column directly above his. I would encourage Dante by saying, “Take heart, young writer; we all started at the bottom. You’ll move up eventually.”

Well, the blitz is gonna hit the fan come Sunday. And this fan will toss and turn Saturday night and wake up giddy on Sunday morning. Yes, Feb. 3 is the real Christmas Day for shut-in, adult gamblers. Only three betting days left till Football Fan Christmas.

I never thought it could happen to me. Writer’s block only happens to the other writer — that’s what I thought anyways. Imagine my horror when, just after Christmas, I developed a case of stage three writer’s block that has persisted unrelenting.

Only ONE shopping day left. As everyone surely knows by now, the world ends Friday, Dec. 21. Not much left to do or say at this point except to ignore loved ones and work a double-shift if available, trying to make all the money possible in what little time we have left.

Only 11 shopping days left.

I’m once again doing mop-up duty — my periodic revisit of past columns to tie up loose ends. I only seek to publicize new discoveries, (epiphanies) and forgotten items, (alzheimeries) and of course, that end of the world thing.

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