Tiger Woods is the Mike Tyson of golf….with the ear.

Trump, a fictional character, makes Saturday Night Live writers sleep well. They don’t have to write anything.

Don’t ignore education. Embrace it.

People watch tv, read the paper and decide what they wish to choose on social media. I guess it’s kind of funny.

There is no time for me..

I understand.

No tears.

I can’t believe Kindergarten Cop is a good movie.

What is a champ? If you figure it out, you become the champ…the winner. You could be a part of winning the World Series. You could win the Super Bowl. These days, the NBA can suck it. A real champ loses and gets back up. Joe Frazier was a champ. Although amazing, Ali was a champ and a chump. That made him intriguing. It didn’t make him a good man.

A wise English teacher once asked the class while attending Washington State Unirversity “How do you define a warrior?” I didn’t speak much in class, or at all for that matter. The professor dismissed all their answers. I was compelled to provide the easiest answer and go home. “A warrior falls down but continues to get back up, no matter what.”

If he didn’t receive a good response, we’d been there all night.

He excused us from class.

Must call you back. Spam is calling.

I don’t understand why some people, perhaps from a different age group, feel the need to answer every call on their other line. “Sorry, I must take this other call. It could be critical. The person’s name is Spam.”

I lost my cell phone. Pretty sure it’s at the beach. Perhaps, I left it there deliberately because I don’t want to talk to anyone. I think that’s fair…..to everyone but my wife.

I grew up with a rotary phone, and I’m still alive. Luckily, the long cord didn’t strangle me when twisting and turning around with siblings saying, “Who are you talking to? Is that your girlfriend? Where did she come from? What’s her favorite part of a BLT”. Jerks.

I would always say to this girl on the phone, “I can’t talk now. In fact, never call me here again. Let’s just speak in English class.” That was in the eighth grade.

She is now my wife.

To those of you who give a crap, my excuse for not writing recently is because I’ve been reading an article from The New Yorker for the last three months. It’s safe to say The New Yorker isn’t known for its succinctness. I won’t bore you with details because I’ve drifted off to sleep too many times while reading it. Let’s just say when your wife has to knock on the bathroom door to ask, “Are you ok in there?”, you know it’s a long, boring article. At any rate, I’ve left the bathroom and am back in business.

I love records.  I’ve aspired to hold a few.

“Can you get me a glass of milk in 45 seconds?  That’s the record.”  “Can you bike down to 7-11 and get me some gatorade in less than a half hour? That’s the record.”  “Can you go downstairs while I’m peacefully watching Loony Toons, grab me a hot cup of chocolate milk, and bring it to me without spilling it within sixty seconds? Cuz that’s the record.”

To this day, I haven’t broken a record, but I tried every time to break it.  It was strange, I never held a stop watch, but I was always one second shy of holding those sacred records according to my brother.  Equally as strange, I never knew who actually held those records, and equally as stupid, I never asked.

What’s the deal with yodeling?