A 12-year-old walks into a bar.

The bartender says, “Kid, what are you doing?”

The 12-year-old says, “Tough day. Give me a shot of Jameson.” The bartender can’t believe it. The kid adds, “And leave the bottle.”

“Beat it, kid.”

“Why? I’m 27.”

“Yeah, and I’m a 6’8” Pygmy,” the bartender says.

The kid starts moaning about how he just bombed a test, hates his gym teacher and has all these chores at home. “Man, it’s rough. I feel like I’m 27, maybe 28.” The kid shakes his head, “Dog years, man, I’m talking dog years.”

The bartender motions with his thumb, outta here.

The kid ignores this and climbs onto the barstool. He says his grandfather runs marathons and always says, “Age is just a number. Make it a double.”

Sheesh, I write a happy-thanksgiving-to-all column and some people took it to mean I was gonna be Mr. Happy and Peppy (and bursting love). There’s not much to be happy about when it turns dark around 1 o’clock. 

I hope I don’t win Powerball during this time of year. I’d be such a buzzkill. You won $650 million! And they’d present me with that huge check and I would be like, yeah, but it’s gonna be dark right after lunch. Sucks.

The only thing that makes me happy is knowing there are so many

Johnny Cash would’ve never had a hit song. These days, you can name a boy Sue and never have to worry about him getting in a brawl in Gatlinburg in mid-July.

Now, if you heard a boy was named Sue, you wouldn’t (or shouldn’t!) bat an eye.  Though you might ask if that was spelled S-U-E or was it S-I-O-U-X, like the Native American tribe.

Dana Andrews was a tough guy actor with a girl’s name. Michael Learned had a guy’s name though that didn’t stop her from being a lead actress on The Waltons

With Halloween coming up, someone asked me what my favorite candy was. Easy. Whatever I would steal from my brother’s Halloween bag. Or a couple decades later, whatever I swiped from kids. You know you could go out and buy any candy you want, but if you want full guilty enjoyment, you’ve got to pilfer the Snickers or Nestle Crunch from somebody else’s loot.

They could keep the Mary Jane bar. Ugh. I mean, Mary Janes had their fans. Don’t ask me why. The candy was like a little brick and part of

Just because I don’t like hugs or waiting on line, doesn’t make me a curmudgeon—which is what somebody called me the other day. Curmudgeon or curmudgeonly, big SAT word, more or less, means grumpy. I confess to opening a thesaurus to be ready for other similar attacks.

A curmudgeon might otherwise be known as a sorehead or grouch. Jeez, I haven’t heard ‘sorehead’ since the 70s. I think a sorehead is more likely to lose his temper than a curmudgeon. A curmudgeon is a basic Debbie Downer or a

I just can’t stop at one candy column. It’d be like eating one M & M. Pretty near impossible. Yea, some people have matured and can act all intellectual and cultured because they can talk about a wine’s body and how it’s earthy yet pleases the palate, in a refined manner. But when they talk about a wine’s complex bouquet, I’m thinking about a Peppermint Patty.

Blindfold me and break a Peppermint Patty under my nostrils and I can tell you what vintage it was and what candy store sold it

I was watching something on the telly and realized I must be part British. Not cool British like James Bond or Paul McCartney. Or even Johnny Rotten. I’m just like an awkward old extra in a Miss Marple episode.

I’m on record as not being a hugger. For me, a chin nod with a pleasant expression is the same as someone else’s bear hug. I just cringe about how I’m supposed to interact.

Here’s one, what if I said hello to someone and then see them again five minutes later?  Do they get the same

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