Reading?: The Every Other Daily Corona

Chaucer, Hardy, Frost, Shakespeare, Swift and Twain.  Amongst others, they were on the long list of my required reading in college.  The latter two were a couple of my favorites.  Do I wish to go back and re-read some of their classic novels, plays or short stories during a time when we do have time on our hands?  Not me.  It’s not the type of reading meant for the toilet.  Maybe a couple of Thomas Hardy “classics” which would ultimately clog our septic system.

I do love to read, especially when it’s not required.  Even though it will be obsolete, until it is, I will still subscribe to the newspaper.  One of my favorite parts of the day is taking the Super Quiz with my wife even though the man producing it often gets bored. Subject: Different Fonts.  How riveting!  We like American culture, geographical areas, famous prisons, some science, sports,  languages and other topics besides Plain Clothing or Band Aids.  It’s fun.  I then read her the daily Seattle Rant.  These can be hilarious.  “To the man next door who keeps his ten cats in a tree on his property.  They keep me up all night caterwauling.  I hope he burns in Hell.”  I used to read the sport’s page, but, well you know.

Saying 75% of my reading is done on the toilet is probably an understatement.  When I’m interested in an article from The New Yorker (my most pretentious magazine) my wife may walk by the bathroom and politely ask me if I’m ok.  “I’m fine.  Though, I may be little sore when I exit this room.”  When the New Yorker becomes too sophisticated, I mean when those ridiculous cartoons which are somehow published for unearthly reasons become agonizingly thought demoting, I return to a favorite standby….Readers Digest.  Written at a sixth grade level, it’s right up my aisle.  Additionally, most of the publications are uplifting and educational.  If I ever decide to get a pony, I now know because of R.D., one of the pony’s many attributes is licking the skin of an unripened avocado until it’s ripe in only twenty licks.  Pretty cool.

Then there’s the internet.  I can read various articles which may or may not convince me to join certain clubs or cults.  This flat earth society one is really tricky.   I’m right on the border.  My wife would say, “You mean the border of insanity?”

I want to believe in Bigfoot, but most of the stories on the Net attempting to convince you of its existence, really just push you in the other direction.  The elusive Sasquatch was not your taxi driver.

We also like looking up lists such as the top 50 movies of all time.  We’ll make bets on who will guess the most out of the top ten.  I lost the last bet because I put Cocktail, Road House, and Breakin Two, Electric Boogaloo on the list.  Personally, I think I was robbed.  There must be a reason they are on cable all the time.

Sadly, my favorite author, Pat Conroy, passed away.  I haven’t read a novel since his passing.  Oh my God!  I almost  forgot about the Bible.  It reminds me of a movie my family has cherished for years, and has now become one of my wife’s favorites as well…  Paint Your Wagon.  Portraying a full time inebriate, Ben Rumson is played by Lee Marvin.  One of his lines after a very pious lady asks him if he’d ever read the bible was “I have read the Bible Mrs. Phinney.”  Mrs. Phinney:  “Didn’t that discourage you from drinking?”  Ben:
“No. But it sure cured my appetite for readin.”

Whether you like or don’t like the Bible, novels, the paper, magazines or any other form of reading, it still stimulates our minds.  That’s a good thing, and like the great and powerful former Vice President Dan Quayle once said, “A mind is a terrible thing to lose.”

Prayers for all.



Singing commercial jingles. Is there something wrong with my wife?

That’s her thing.  She loves singing along to terrifically poor commercial jingles.  I wish it didn’t make me laugh or smile.  Actually, my wish to laugh and smile is critical.  She grants me that.

Lee Marvin in Paint Your Wagon

Lee Marvin in Paint Your Wagon

It all changed with this pesky and raspy cold or flu people are getting.  After taking days off of work, the voice I heard singing the jingles suddenly sounded similar to Rod Stewart, Louis Armstrong, Lee Marvin and Morgan Freeman.  I thought it was funny.  So did she…sort of.  She just didn’t care to be to compared with elderly male celebrities. I had to leave the room when she laughed while doing spot on impersonations of these people while wildly sick.










47 Cakes

Happy Birthday!  Is it?!!!  It’s quite basically an obligation to feel good.

I had to wish someone happy birthday today.  He is about my age, and I hope he didn’t give a crap if I said it or not.  He probably didn’t want me to acknowledge it, but since I work with him on a daily basis, it’s better to be on the safe side of the cake.

My birthday always felt like Thanksgiving. That’s what it really was.  Thanksgiving was my favorite holiday and my birthday transformed it to a relatively easy Thanksgiving for my mother. German chocolate cake, and shake and bake chicken for everyone.  Wish granted.

Growing up as a hillbilly, we didn’t have parties.  We didn’t have ho downs  We had two cows, Ferdinand and Issabella, sniffing at our screen door waiting for their dessert. As the youngest of 13, the only rule was to wait for the candles to ignite and then blow them out to defuse the potential catastrophe.

Don’t get me wrong.  Or, maybe you can. There’s nothing wrong with taking an adventure to Sir Charles of the Cheddar Cheese Factory or dry heaving to the smell of dirty socks on your birthday.  Just don’t invite me.  The last one spent with Chucky was for one of my many nephews, Quinn.  Someone invited to the party was a neighbor who had her nose recently bitten off by a dog.  She was a foul and angry cuss.  The party guest, not the dog.  (That’s not funny.  That’s not funny at all.)  Actually, it was a little funny because she showed up to the party wearing a costume….according to the other guests who thought they missed that memo.  Fully recovered from the injury, it did leave scars.  The doctors replaced her nose with a clown like prosthetic.  It was a chunk of flesh they took from her hind side.  That’s not funny either.  However, this not being the merriest of neighbors, she would lecture the dog daily about staying out of their yard.  She did it in such a fashion which eventually would lead to her nose’s demise and embarrassment.   Ultimately, after the settlement, she was furnished with a new house, a car and a dose of vanity.  One guest at the party walked up to her and, unknowingly, said in the dimmed lights of Chucky Cheese’s palace for hungover adults, “I didn’t know this was a costume party”.  She thought the victim was dressed as a clown.  According to my brother and I, evidently, clowns can make you chuckle.

I was invited to many of these parties only costing me fifty dollars a pop donated to a child I didn’t even know.  Crappy pizza, flat beer, and awkward conversations with the guy dressed up as a mouse wishing me to pour a beer down his dirty costume was just downright uncomfortable.

I feel sorry for the guy who is turning 47 today, because it will be the fourth birthday he must celebrate this year with his two children and wife.  All he wants for his birthday is a nice dinner at a decent restaurant.  He never gets to choose where this restaurant is, because his wife can veto any of his choices, resulting with them going a restaurant of her choice.  Poor bastard.

It’s his birthday penance.  He told me once he personally suffered during his own B-Day party at the age of ten.  He had an uninvited brother, age 8, sneaking into his special party.  After embarrassing his brother with insults and “get the hell out of my party, you twerp.  Scram!!”  in front of his friends, my friend was beckoned by his father to join him upstairs for a private meeting of the buns.  He was wailed on 10 times, and then told he would be the age of 50 if he didn’t welcome his younger brother to participate with kindness and respect.  End of story.  As the youngest of 13 children, I never was surrounded by this environment.  My older siblings were too busy eating and drinking their presents to even acknowledge my presence.

The last birthday I thoroughly didn’t enjoy took part in a classroom.  My middle school students, their parents, and other relatives decided to interrupt our class by surprising me with a party.  No beer, just cookies, soda, cake and students too strung out on glucose crack to participate with further lessons.  It did teach me a lesson.  Never tell a middle school student which day your birthday lands on the calendar.  If you wish to torture a fellow teacher, tell one of his or her students that tomorrow is his or her birthday, even if it isn’t.  They will never forgive you, which was my plan in the first place.  I paid my dues.  Let them pony up as well.  Mayhem results and spite usually conquers all.

Happy Birthday….even it’s belated, or early….even better!

My next complaint will be to the editor.  It is with regards to the Lord of all Sins: Surprises.




My wife is impossible.  She’s just so unreasonable.  She also scares me. Luckily, she is married to a man who uses reason, patience and kindness when dealing with her and our animals.  For months, she had been bugging me about getting a cat. Well, now we have one.  It’s the same old story all the time.  “Oooh….look at that cat.  It’s so cute.  I’ll take care of it, I promise.”  While she’s working three jobs, guess who will be taking care of it?  Yeah.  Exactly.  Me.  It burns and scratches my ass……quite literally.

Our cat, Otis, has his own personnel key to our house.  It’s actually a key to any room in our house.  We named him after my wife’s favorite character in The Andy Griffith Show, and he seems to be living up to his name.  Otis spends much of his time in his cell, or pantry number one after he’s had a snootful of catnip. He sleeps it off, receives a terrific breakfast from his Aunt B (my wife, Britt) and we wave him goodbye until the next weekend.  Sometimes, if he staggers into the pantry, he begins meowing uncontrollably.  We then read him a book by Dr. Seuss or sing him a song titled Cat Scratch Fever. This and these antics which follow are eerily similar to those exhibited by Otis Campbell on the A.G. Show.

Sometimes, he can’t find the pantry.  He may be passed out in the office, one of our closets, in the dishwasher, beneath the couch, or head first in one of our many urns occupied by former pets using their ashes as though they are his stadium’s many toilets.

Having never witnessed Otis Campbell throw a punch, I couldn’t tell if he was right or left handed.  Our Otis is definitely a southpaw, and I have the scars to prove it.  Sure, just like a champ, he’ll set you up with several right jabs and then surprise you with a vicious left claw.  My wife wonders why our blankets and pillow cases look like a crime scene in the morning.  DNA central.

Once, after we returned home from dinner, we found him riding around on our dog, a one hundred pound canine.  Otis weighs just over a pound.  This was after he found the key to the catnip cabinet.  Just like Barney Fife, I convinced my wife to allow me to provide some necessary form of rehabilitation.  After detoxing throughout the night, I started by giving him the renowned Sylvester the Cat Rorschach test.  After displaying a number of pictures, each response was the same.  “Tell me what you see on this piece of paper.”  Meow.  “How about this one?”  Meow.  The third one he just pissed on.  He looked at Britt with pleading eyes, and she laughingly dismissed him.  She thinks everything Otis does is funny.  She and Otis need to have their own act in Vaudeville.  I didn’t find it funny at all.

I did get back at him once.  Attempting to exercise on the treadmill, Otis came wobbling into the room.  He was fascinated by the treadmill.  With my legs moving, I remained stationary.  Instead of asking me, he just jumped on the treadmill, and after several cat rolls, went flying against the wall.  He hasn’t been on it since.  That made me laugh.

Ultimately, Otis is a pretty affable cat, and we can’t help but love him.  You have to, don’t you?  Just like you and your good for nothing, booger eating, pants pooping, can I borrow some money (borrow?….that’s a laugh) will you watch them for the night, soon to be spending time in the County Jail children.

My parents loved me.  Well, I’m pretty sure they did.



Youth Group and The Simpsons

In the name of The Father, The Son, and The Holy spirit.

That’s how we’d begin the Catholic confessional process.  Then, there was, Bless me Father for I have sinned.

Let thee who is innocent or clear of sin cast the first stone…..or something like that.  In Spokane, Washington, evidently everyone who attends church on Sunday is clear of sin, because after mass, the parish members would be casting stones immediately, both figuratively and literally.  You had the National Inquirer old bags gossiping in the parking lot, and you had the children, including me, actually participating in a rock fight on the church’s property.  The old men would just be smoking.

It’s great to feel free of sin.  Guilt is awful.  I don’t go to confession anymore, but this blog can become my sort of confessional medium.  In addition to confessing some of my past sins, I’ll take the liberty to confess a few of my friends’ and brother’s sins…..without their permission of course.

Growing up in the Catholic church, one of the many sacred and ridiculous items to check off your pious list was to attend Youth Group one night a week.  Depending on the year you were born, these classes would be held on either a Sunday or Monday night when you were in high school.  They were preparing us for conformation…..sort of a half ass way of creating a transformation for children of God to Men and Women of God.  You sat in these two to three hour sessions amongst students throughout the Spokane Valley, also parishioners, led by some poor soul searching man or woman preach to us about Heaven and Hell.  Let’s just say it wasn’t on the 17 or 18 year olds’ wish list of things to do on a Sunday or Monday night.

I blame my brothers for many of my abominable sins.  Their Youth Group sessions were on Monday nights.  So, when I was home watching Monday Night Football with our father, my two older brothers would leave the house heading toward St. John’s for their weekly 6 o’clock pain dispenser.  I’d smile wryly as they’d leave the house.  They’d do it by way of the nearest pizza parlor providing the game on television.  Not only did they skip the meetings, one of my brothers, a senior in high school, had a fake identification card so he could buy the pitchers of beer.  (he is now a reverend, compliments of the Internet) It didn’t take me long to figure out why they were so happy and a little wobbly when they’d return.  I was old enough to figure it out.  I was also smart enough not to rat them out for fear of a severe beating.  You didn’t have to sign in to these meetings, and the twenty something teacher never called our home to ask where they were, probably afraid of the same thing I was afraid of.  I think my wise mother figured it out and didn’t care.  Dad would be in bed when they’d return so there was no time for questions.  We already knew how to recite the Our Father, Hail Mary, The Apostle’s Creed and dozens of other written statements pounded into our head once a week at church.  If there were questions, my brothers would open a bible and pick any book according to Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John and quickly discern something they hadn’t discussed in a class they didn’t attend.  It was one of their favorite nights of the week.  Now I have to repent for confessing someone else’s sins.  I just recited ten Hail Marys.  That should be good enough to move on to the following paragraph disclosing one of my own.

By the time I was a senior, after attending the classes religiously as a Junior, I thought that was enough.  My brother, the future reverend, was now living in an apartment on the Spokane River.  This became my fortress of irreverent solitude on Sunday nights.  Although Greg, (oops, I said his name) worked weekends, I had befriended his roommate (an agnostic) who was old enough to buy adult beverages.  Instead of going to Youth Group, which became Youth Puke to us, I’d head to their place to drink beer and watch The Simpsons. It was delightful.  I swear I learned more from The Simpsons than anything I’d learn at Youth Group.

It was there I’d eventually receive my certificate of confirmation.  Never getting bed wetting drunk, just a few beers, I’d leave reciting a semi genuine act of contrition and, by grace of God, return home safely.

In the name of The Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,


The Blessed Virgin Meltdown

Fight-before-christmas-publicity-photoFondue and my sister Mary … a combination both annual and epic.  Mary would invite the neighborhood to her Christmas Eve party, leaving the guests with a sense they should have left left before the damn, or water, was breaking.

Christmas Eve, for me, was the best of holidays, with the exception of Thanksgiving.  My brothers and I would show up to Mary’s catered event, with first class service from Sister Mary,  knowing we would eat and drink well.  We were never disappointed.

We also knew when to properly leave.  My brothers, Tom, Greg and I could smell the fondue turn when it was time to leave.  It must have been limburger cheese.  The event began with Mary welcoming you into her abode with deviled eggs and a beer before you crossed her porch rug reading, “Proceed with caution.”  The devil?  Eggs?  Beer?  What could go wrong?

It only took us, Mary’s  brothers, two hours to consume the appetizers, beer, and atmosphere.  All of which were terrific.  The younger generation would follow without extreme caution.  We knew better when it was time to leave.

FondueMuch like limburger cheese, Greg, Tom and I could smell that fondue melting.  Chairs were tipped over, plates were falling on the floor or being flung across rooms.  I don’t know what it’s like to be cremated, but my brothers and I witnessed Mary’s first layer of skin drooping from her once jovial face.  Now, it was transforming to a grimace.  Sorry, Mary, but we must get going.  “Good! You better leave before I have to kick these other assholes out of my house.  I’m ready to take a flame thrower to this place!”

We’d exit peacefully and look forward to her annual call the next day explaining why the devil wore an ugly sweater that night.  We didn’t care.  We loved it, and we loved her.

Mary Christmas.


The Drive In Rookie

With winter around the corner, the drive in movie theater my wife wife works the concessions for, The Foggy Window, will be shutting down soon for the season.  It made me a little nostalgic with regard to my first experience at a drive in theater.

In 1977, I was four years of age when Star Wars hit the big screen. Apparently, I was too small for the big screen, so I was left at home while my older brothers and sisters went to the movie during the holiday season.  I vaguely remember being upset, but my mother made up for it by donating an extra gallon of egg nog to its most worthy organ……my stomach.  Three years later, some of my older siblings returned from working in Alaska for an annual visit.  That was always terrific because they had a load of spending money, and they would be very generous to the youngest siblings still living at home.  Maggie, 8 years my elder, Greg, 6 years ahead of me and Tom only four above.  Two of my sisters returning from Alaska, and I don’t remember which two, would show us some high old times in the city of brotherly tolerance, Spokane, Washington.  There was pizza, Chinese food,  skating at the downtown Pavilion, and of course carnivals.  My older sisters were always pleased to pay for everything even though our old man would kick in  a few bucks each to pay for some of the festivities.  He wanted them to save their hard earned money,  and they wanted to blow it.  Maggie, Greg, Tom and I didn’t give a rat’s constitution.  They were the limo drivers and we were riding first class.

Drive In Movie TheaterOne of my sisters, it could have been Anne, Theresa, or Dorothy, read in the Spokesman Review an advertisement for a drive in movie viewing of Star Wars being shown that night.  She thought it may be fun if we went, even though everyone had already seen it but me.  They all wanted to see it for a second time, and were thrilled to know I’d never seen it.  I was elated.  I can go?   I’m only seven.  My sisters said, “It’s PG, who gives a crap. You’re going, Ben.”  Hell, the movie could have been X rated for all they cared.  Even if the movie was titled, Ben Does Baltimore, they wouldn’t have given a crap.  They weren’t going to watch the movie anyway.  The drive in movie theater is a terrific place to baby sit and drink beer.  So, we loaded up the station wagon (limo) with people, beer and a few sodas from our own refrigerator, and headed to the local theater.

I’d heard tall tales about drive ins such as people hiding  in the trunks of cars getting  in for free.  I wasn’t in for that.  It seemed like we would be crossing a border,  and that was terrifying to me thinking I may never see my mother and father again.   Plus, it was a sin.  However, it would have given me ammunition for confession since I wasn’t much of a sinner in those days.  I still wanted to play for the Team of Jesus, rather than the Satan Slaves I’d heard so much about in church.   We went straight.  No laws had been broken, yet.

Greg, Tom and I hit the concessions like it was an Ali/Frazier rumble.  Popcorn, (extra butter flavoring) licorice,  gum,  soda, (we had already pounded the ones from home on the way to the movie) milk duds, M & Ms and anything else to keep us awake.   We were ready to head to a different galaxy loaded with Jedi Knights, some guy in a bigfoot costume making weird noises, a band of goofy aliens playing disco music, and a dude named Vader.  I’d just hoped it was better than Star Trek, the movie, because that sucked.

Before the speakers were set up properly,  all you could hear was laughter the medieval hand full crunches of popcorn and the opening of beer cans.  I didn’t know if that was legal or not, but I didn’t care.   Let the drivers get loaded.  I wasn’t doing anything wrong.

With the speakers set up, I noticed the sound was similar to the crunching of popcorn.  You could basically hear every third or fourth word of what was being spoken on the screen.  With the lot packed we had no choice but to listen, or not listen to the movie that way.  Looking back with the sounds of my beer drinking sisters’ laughter mixed in with the sheer volume of their normal conversation voices which couldn’t even be measured in decibels, would have drowned out whatever was being said through the speaker.  No chance in even a civilized Hell could I dream of shushing my sisters.  They seemed to be having fun and our bellies were more than satisfied.  That’s when I decided to utilize a talent I had developed during dinner time at the short table during the holidays.  I could read lips.

Always disappointed not being able to sit at the tall table with the adults, I was the oldest and angriest at the short table with my booger eating nephews and nieces.  What a crock.  Trying to ignore the youth at our table, I could always hear belly laughter at the big boy and girl table with several of my brothers telling stories which were apparently hilarious.  After grace was delivered, there was no pious nature at that table, and I wanted desperately to hear what they were saying.  I love to laugh more than I love a terrific stuffing laced with mounds of sensational gravy.  So, I would figure out who was providing the laughter and watch his or her lips to decipher what they were saying.  My nephews and nieces must have thought I was crazy, because I would join in on the laughter.  “What the hell is he laughing at?” they would utter during my fits of heavy chuckling.  It became a gift I would use at the drive in that night.

Unfortunately, I was not able to catch every word, but I could follow the plot, which was dandy for me.  However, my gift would soon turn to the dark side.  Darth Vader, a pretty significant character in the movie, wore a mask.  How the hell do I read lips when someone doesn’t even have lips?  I could only hear muffled breathing through the chunks of speaker remaining after Greg became impatient and gave it a few whacks with an old shalalie he found in the back of the station wagon commonly used as a threat when we’d get unruly in the car.

When the movie ended, I asked a few questions about what I may have missed, but I knew I’d eventually see it again, with sound.  Just being with my siblings, both young and old made me happy.   Camping in a sugar, butter, and booze smelling tavern on wheels was enough for me.  I think Greg drove us home.  He was only 13, but he was sober, and even drove us off road in a local field pretending he was captain of the Millennium Falcon dodging asteroids while my sisters screamed with laughter, begging him to go faster and faster.  Without seatbelts, we were flying around the station wagon like stove top Jiffy Popcorn. It was fantastic.

We made it home safely, and tried to clean the car as best as we could.  My sisters made sure the 24 cans of beer consumed remained at the theater grounds.  Dad wouldn’t have enjoyed seeing them the next morning in the trash.  It was a hell of a night for the Gannons.  No arguing, no bullying, no fighting, no atomic wedgies, no religion, no politics, and no sound other than laughter.  I’ll take that any day or night.

When I told my wife this story, it convinced her to apply for the tech support job opening at Foggy Window Drive In next Spring.  She’s pretty good with that sort of stuff.  I wonder if needs people like her.  I hear they pay pretty well.  We sure could use the extra scratch.

The Buffett

Cheeseburgers can become paradise.

Although I didn’t love the song by Jimmy Buffett, “Cheese Burger in Paradise”, I learned to love his music and free beer.  So did my wife.

People believe Disney Land is the happiest place on earth.  I beg to differ.  For one night, a Jimmy Buffett concert in the glorious sun tanned coconut city of Seattle, he made it the happiest place on earth.

My wife had no interest in attending this concert.  She only knew two of his songs.  I told her to trust me.  She did and didn’t regret it.  It wasn’t just the music which was terrific, and additionally not the entertainment, equally as terrific…. It was the atmosphere.  People were happy.  Every paying guest was relishing in what can be good and peaceful in this world.  There were no tears…only smiles and people handing you beers. Jimmy and his band made us, for two hours, forget how ugly things can be.

Facing difficult times, sometimes we forget about the paradise too often hidden around us. I hope and pray this current cheeseburger can once again become a paradise.

RIP to my favorite pirate.

Rulers and J.D.

What seems to be a million years ago, I was a teacher of sorts.  When Autumn comes, someone can either rise or fall.  One of the most brilliant students, sadly, was not in my classroom.  I taught English, and my next door teaching neighbor was an art instructor.  Requiring rulers was my neighbor’s first and second mistake.

One of his students enjoyed art, manual labor, and breaking things.  He also was from a broken home, and he placed his anger on rulers.

On a teaching budget, rulers can be a bit costly.  Each ruler costs a buck.  Ninety students times one buck….ninety bucks. That’s simple math.  Complicated math manifests when one student begins breaking half of the rulers.  Ninety divided by two is forty five.  He was on pace to break a record by the second week of school.  Sort of the Roger Maris of breaking rulers instead of home runs.

Our art teacher provided this student an ultimatum.  For every ruler you break, you owe me a dollar.  The student then busted out his wallet filled with at least fifty one dollar bills.  He then snapped a ruler in half and tossed his teacher a buck.

Turns out, this twelve year old was working part time at a gas station to help his alcoholic parents pay some bills.

Another teacher of his called me for assistance in her classroom one day.  The same student had a fifth of Jack Daniels on his desk during math class.  She didn’t know how to deal with it, so, as a part time drinker, I was intrigued.  Upon showing up to help this fellow employer out, I smelled the bottle, and it was filled with apple juice.  He said it was the only empty bottle he could find in the house which could contain the apple juice he made for himself that morning.  Although feeling sorrow for the student, I did inform him even bringing a bottle of Jack Daniels filled with apple juice could get him suspended.  He didn’t care, because he was making more money working at a gas station than he was at school.  I had to laugh, because he was a really affable fellow.  I then confiscated the bottle, saving him from a suspension and bought him a plastic bottle of apple juice from the school’s vending machine.  He was very thankful for the offering.  I was upset his bottle of Jack Daniels wasn’t filled with Jack Daniels.  It would have saved us both some cash.

As long as he’s only drinking apple juice, he’s probably a millionaire by now.


As with every morning, I awake to feed our dogs, cats, squirrels, and my wife.  Today, I didn’t have time to feed myself because of gambling and the month of March.  It’s that time of year when some may succumb to the evils I once left resting, snoring, or throwing up on a blackjack table.

I may lose twenty bucks during this March Madness, but I will forget the twenty dollars and relish in the fact I can feed the dogs, cats, squirrels, and, once in a while, my wife.