What’s the Record for Shortest Resolution?

barry currin, stories of a world gone mad, beaverdamusa.comEvery year during those glorious and precious-few carefree days between Christmas and New Year’s, I make a list of things I want to accomplish.

Most of the items on the list are business related — ideas I think are fun, exciting and hopefully profitable that I want to explore during the year.

If I told you about those, some of you would be intrigued, but most of you would think I’m a nut.

This time around, however, I dedicated part of this list to personal goals I want to accomplish.

I decided doing this was necessary right after a momentary lapse of reason around Dec. 30 when I invented chocolate eggnog.

You should try it.

Here we are beginning the first full week of January, and I can report that a few of my New Year’s resolutions are already on life support.

I won’t go into too much detail about them. If you make resolutions, yours are probably similar to mine for the most part — exercise more, lose weight, cut back on the chocolate eggnog.

Some of my resolutions, though, are a little different.

One is to let go of the things I cannot control.

This is going to be a challenge. Right now, someone behind my house is running a chainsaw. They’ve been running it for the past 4 hours, and it’s not even lunchtime yet.

I complained about noisy leaf blowers here a few months back.

This is worse.

A few years ago, I diagnosed myself as having what is called a highly sensitive personality. Among other things, this means loud noises affect me more than they may affect you.

I’m not sure how much I can change this. It’s how I’m wired together.

But since I’m going to try, I guess this is where I should say, “Blaze up that Poulan, Bubba, and cut down everything in sight. You’re not bothering me one bit.”

Of course if I did actually say that, he couldn’t hear me over the horrible, relentless, constant racket.

Obviously, this one is a work in progress.

Another resolution that didn’t get off the ground too quickly was not sweating the small stuff as I sometimes do.

I mailed a five-page contract to someone last week. I put two stamps on the letter to ensure it had plenty of postage. I even put a double-stamped return envelope in there to entice the person to hurry up and sign it and send it back.

Then I dropped the envelope in a commercial mailbox — one where you can’t go back and get your letter back out.

Don’t we all know how this is going to end.

When I got back to my office, I realized I had left out the page where the signatures go.

Since the signature page is pretty much the essence of the contract, I was fairly disappointed in myself.

What did not disappoint me, however, was the plethora of creative ideas I had to get the letter out of the mailbox.

The best one included a piece of string, a rock and rubber cement.

You know, I’ve heard those country club Federal prisons aren’t too bad. I would be put in minimum security. Martha Stewart never missed a beat.

And I’ll bet if I were a model prisoner, I could even get chocolate eggnog.

My Shopping Declaration Backfires Again

barry currin, stories of a world gone mad, beaverdamusa.comBy the time you read this, all the gifts have been opened, “All I Want for Christmas is You” is mercifully done for another year, and the people who decorated the day after Halloween have already taken it all down.

Congratulations, you survived another one.

I hope I do, too. But right now, it’s Christmas Eve, and I’m exhausted.

Kim and I didn’t finish up our Christmas shopping until the 23rd. We — she especially — aren’t too proud of that. But that’s just the way it worked out this year.

We went to four stores, which took the bulk of the afternoon. When we finished, I declared I would not go into a store on Christmas Eve for any reason.

The same exact thing happens every time I declare something.

It is around noon on Christmas Eve, and I just got back to the office after leaving my seventh store of the day.

Seven stores, on Christmas Eve.

To beat all, three out of the seven are the same stores I was in yesterday.

When I have to run errands on a regular day, I map out exactly how I will do it to minimize left turns, and avoid the worst intersections and slowest red lights in town.

All that goes to pot around the holidays, though.

It’s not all my fault, though.

There is 10 times the traffic this time of year. I am convinced zombies make up part of it.

At one point today, I was sitting behind a car at a stop light, and when the light turned green he squealed his tires and flew to the next red light where he did the same thing when it turned green.

I followed him onto the divided four-lane that runs through the middle of town.

He tailgated the cars in front of him, and zigged and zagged. I thought maybe one of his passengers was choking on a chicken bone, and he was heading toward the hospital.

Finally, he turned into the left-turn lane and instead of crossing over into a parking lot, he proceed to head north in the southbound lanes.

Miraculously, he only met a couple of cars during his 50-foot wrong-way jaunt. Finally, he cut diagonally into the parking lot of a fast food restaurant.

Give me fries or give me death, I suppose.

A few minutes later, I saw something almost more peculiar.

It was a car with a sticker stuck to it which I believe was a picture of the actor Bill Murray.

I’ve always liked Bill Murray. In fact, “What About Bob?” is one of my favorite movies. If you’ve never seen it, you should.

But who puts a picture of Bill Murray on their car?

Christmastime zombie people, that’s who. Maybe it’s their signal to each other. I’m going to be on the lookout for more.

Then after that, I saw what appeared to be a pretty significant car crash, and it made me sad because that’s the way those people are going to remember Christmas for a long time.

I sure hope it wasn’t you.

I also hope you had a joyous season, regardless of what or how you celebrate.

And if you’re one of those holiday zombies, hopefully I’ll see you again next year.

A Christmas Carol for the New Millennium

barry currin, stories of a world gone mad, beaverdamusa.comIt was Christmas Eve, 1978. 

Little Johnny and his sister Cindy slept fitfully. Just down the hall were their parents, Jack and Martha.

Suddenly, a loud thud rattled the family awake. They rushed down the steps to see a figure lurking near the Christmas tree.

“Santa!” Cindy said.

“Ho, ho, ho, everybody. I’m not just any Santa. I’m Santa from 2018, and I’m about to give you a Christmas from the future.”

The bewildered family took a seat on the sofa while Santa spilled gifts from a sack.

“They’re kind of small,” Cindy said.

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” the jolly old elf answered. “Here, open yours first.”

“A Barbie doll!” Cindy exclaimed. “Why is her hair two colors, Santa?”

“That’s called an ombre. If you don’t like it, don’t worry. You can make it pink for New Year’s and green for St. Patrick’s Day.”

Cindy was on the verge of tears. “Doesn’t anybody love her, Santa? Her only shoes are flip-flops, and her bluejeans have holes ripped all in them. And what’s that awful blue thing painted on her leg?”

“Oh, that’s just a tattoo she got during her study-abroad MBA program in Thailand. Wait ’til you see where the other five are!”

“But I want my Barbie to be a teacher.”

“Oh, little one, teachers don’t make any money. This Barbie lives with her labradoodle named Hillary in DC and works for a progressive think tank. Her rent is $2,700 a month, and she’s already over the mileage limit on her Lexus lease with 14 months remaining. That’s why she comes with her own little bottle of merlot.”

“Where’s Ken?”

“Barbie left Ken behind — something about him hating coffee shops.”

Santa turned to Johnny. “Here’s your bike!”

Santa handed Johnny a headset attached to goggles with black lenses. “It’s a virtual reality bike, Johnny. You can pretend to ride anywhere in the world without ever leaving your chair.”

“But I like to go outside.”

“You’ll get over that soon enough. Now, Jack, I didn’t forget you. You’re getting your shaving supplies delivered monthly right to your front door for a year. How about that?”

“But I like going downtown to the local pharmacy.”

“Aren’t you getting a new Walmart, Jack?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll thank me soon enough.”

Santa handed Martha a small box. “I saved the best for last, my dear. It’s your new phone!”

“We already have a phone,” Martha said. “It’s on the wall in the kitchen. It’s avocado — matches the dishwasher.”

“That phone is just for talking,” Santa said. “People rarely talk on these phones. Look, you can play games, make pictures, and show all your friends what you do all day and everything you eat.”

“Why would anybody care what I eat?”

“I’m afraid even Santa doesn’t have all the answers.”

St. Nick watched them all for a couple of minutes, then nodded in approval as Johnny slipped into his virtual universe, and Cindy and Barbie began binge watching “This is Us” on Barbie’s little laptop. 

Oblivious to everything, Martha took a barrage of selfies.

Jack took Santa aside.

“What’s the 21st Century like, Santa? Is the world a better place?”

Santa shook his head. “No, but I can help you enjoy it more.”

“How’s that?”

“In about 3 years, you’re going to hear about a business named Apple. Buy some stock.”

What’s Going on in her Furry Head?

barry currin, stories of a world gone mad, beaverdamusa.comWho says you can’t teach an old dog new tricks?

Well, maybe dogs are a lost cause, but our 15-year-old cat just learned a new trick.

MacGyver has discovered the video screen.

I’ve written about MacGyver before. After someone tossed her out as a 4-week-old kitten, I rescued her from the briars in the fence row beyond our back fence. We reluctantly decided to keep her — in no small part because she had the most beautiful blue eyes.

It wasn’t long, though, before her eyes turned brown and she turned into the devil’s spawn.

She dislikes everyone except me. And, everyone she hates seems to think that is wildly ironic. I don’t know why.

The other day, I was sitting in my chair typing away on my laptop, and she jumped up on the arm of the chair.

Usually when she does this, she looks at me condescendingly for a while then jumps down and demands to go outside. But this time, I noticed her eyes following the cursor on the screen.

I found that humorous, so I started making the little arrow do circles and figure eights on the screen. Her eyes locked in on it. She hunched down and her ears perked up.

She had always hissed at her reflection in the mirror or the refrigerator door, but this was brand new.

Then I googled “videos for cats to watch.”

I had no idea these existed. Some of them are 8 hours long.

Most of them involve birds and squirrels darting in front of the camera to eat from a pile of food. Others are animated mice or maybe fish moving in random patterns.

She loves to watch. She bobs her head with their motions. She looks up toward the ceiling when a bird flies away.

She has even looked behind the screen to see if they’re back there.

She paws at them. She sometimes tries to catch them with both front paws. 

This would be more funny if I had never attempted to block a field goal from the living room floor. 

The other day I pulled up one of the darting bird videos on my phone and laid it in the floor. She pawed at it until the screen went black.

If Kim is in the room, MacGyver will go back and forth between her and me — I’m convinced — just to see whose screen has the most interesting thing on it.

This is a particularly large development in our house since MacGyver has never sat with anyone but me.

She’s watching me type right now. It’s like she’s reading what I’m writing. (Obviously that’s not true, because she’s not laughing uproariously.)

She has even started sitting in the floor and watching TV.

I catch myself trying to find her something to watch that she hasn’t seen before. I don’t want her to get bored.

I’m starting to wonder what else she could learn to do. Maybe she could do something in the circus. How much do those drug-sniffing dogs at the airport make?

I am going to use MacGyver as inspiration.

Yesterday, she was licking herself and spending the entire day sitting on the heating vent.

Today, she’s trying to figure out how a bird can eat so much and still fly.

I’ll let you know if she figures it out.

My Simple Thanksgiving Miracle

barry currin, stories of a world gone mad, beaverdamusa.comI’ve had a Thanksgiving miracle.

To beat all, it came four days before Thanksgiving.

I love to cook meat in a smoker.

For years and years I had one of those barrel smokers with the firebox attached to it.

I smoke all kinds of meats, but pork shoulder is my favorite.

In the wood-fired smoker, it took a pork shoulder about 30 hours to finish up. And, I had to check the fire every hour or so, which meant getting up a half dozen times a night.

A few years ago, I gave up that nonsense and got an electric one.

It had all kinds of digital controls and little beepers that went off for all kinds of reasons. It worked fine when it worked. I replaced several parts on it over time until it completely died.

Then I got another one. Almost from the get-go, this one started giving me problems. The digital display would go crazy and tell me the temperature was something like H3E instead of 250. Then it conked out completely.

Fast forward to last Sunday — 4 days away from Thanksgiving — and I had no smoker to cook the turkey on.

I went to the store, fully expecting only to see smokers with buttons and beepers.

And then the miracle happened.

Sitting right there on the shelf was an analog electric smoker. It had a simple dial to regulate the temperature like an electric skillet. It had an old-fashioned thermometer with numbers printed on it and a hand that tells you how hot it is inside.

It didn’t have any buttons. It didn’t have any beepers. It didn’t have a schizophrenic digital display.

It is now on my back deck.

I knew I had to give it a spin before Thanksgiving, so I bought a beef brisket.

It took me several minutes to get the temperature regulated, which never was a problem on the digital model, but I chalked it up to inexperience.

Then after a while I realized the wood chips weren’t smoking. Before I put them in, I wet them to make them burn more slowly; so I figured I had too much water in the chip pan.

Being unable to leave it alone, I opened the door to add some dry chips — because everyone knows that letting all the heat escape an oven always makes it cook faster.

When I closed the door, my good old-fashioned thermometer told me the temperature had dropped to around 100 degrees inside.

So I waited for the little orange light to click on to tell me it was heating again.

It didn’t click on.

I resisted the urge to nudge the control knob. I resisted the urge to thump it. I pulled up a chair so I could wait for it to start heating again.

It was like a scene on a Lifetime movie where I was sitting by my grandfather’s hospital bed waiting for him to wake up from a coma.

Before too long, though, it did click on, the chips soon started smoking, and I forced myself to walk away for awhile.

I’m a little gun shy when it comes to these contraptions, but hopefully this miracle will live on for a while, and I will learn to let it do its thing.

Stay Away From the Cheapest… Somtimes

barry currin, stories of a world gone mad, beaverdamusa.comI like to save money as much as the next guy.

I don’t obsess over it like some people, though. I think that’s because my parents were so — shall we say — thrifty.

Mama wouldn’t get the car out to run just one errand. She would always wait until she had two or three places to go before she went out. 

She would save the wrapper from the stick of butter to grease a pan.

When we would go to a ballgame, I could get a Coke or popcorn, but rarely ever both.

I think I sometimes subconsciously rebel from them being that way.

Lots of times though, I do buy the cheapest product when I have an option, but only when it makes sense.

Sometimes the cheapest product is just as good as the name brand, and sometimes it isn’t.

Here are a few examples.

I’m a name-brand guy when it comes to trash bags. One of the worst feelings in the world is the catastrophe caused when a full garbage bag breaks.

We don’t buy the cheapest paper towels at my house, either. Our paper towels don’t have to be the quicker-picker-upper, but they can’t be the never-picker-upper, either.

The same goes for toilet paper. Single-ply toilet paper should be illegal.

Kim bought three pairs of reading glasses at one of those everything-costs-a-buck stores the other day.

The first pair broke and fell right off her head the first time she wore them.

The second pair didn’t last much longer.

I’m not sure whether or not she has tried on pair No. 3 yet, but I have a pretty good idea how it will end up when she does. I also have a pretty good idea that moving forward, she will spring for the ones that cost $2.75.

With some things, quality doesn’t depend on how much something costs.

I’m mystified by how quickly socks get holes in them, regardless if they’re cheap or expensive.

The other day, I saw a pair of socks I liked, but they cost $22.

I will never pay $22 for a pair of socks, especially when I figure a couple of toes will make an appearance before Thanksgiving.

I make fun of grocery stores a lot. They deserve it, though.

For a long time now, we’ve had a couple of name brands for each product along with the cheaper store brand.

Nowadays, almost every product has an even cheaper brand than the store brand.

When it comes to canned foods, or things like mustard and ketchup, I always go for the cheapest option. I know for a fact many times these things come from the same factory with different labels on them.

I have a friend in the snack cake business, and let’s just say you can spend the extra money if you want to see that little girl’s picture on the box, but it’s unnecessary.

I learned my lesson buying cheap tires a long time ago. They wear out quicker and slip and slide more than good tires do.

I don’t buy cheap tools, either. Few things in the world are more useless than a shovel with a broken handle.

This week’s column, however, appears to come pretty close.

The Drama of the Parking Lot

barry currin, stories of a world gone mad, beaverdamusa.comParking lots are nuts.

I’ll take Atlanta’s I-285 full of crazed lunatics at 5 p.m., on a holiday weekend in the rain any day over a busy parking lot.

I’ve never watched any of those fantasy shows like “Game of Thrones” or “The Hunger Games,” but I have seen the commercials, and from what I can tell, those are based on people’s behavior in a parking lot.

You never know when someone is going to cut through a couple of vacant spaces and cut in front of you.

You never know when an abandoned buggy is going to come gunning for your passenger-side door.

And you certainly never know when someone will back out and not see you.

Before you email me, I’ve been on both sides of all of these situations. Heck, I play the game, too.

I have to.

In the parking lot, you either conquer or you’re vanquished.

Many times, when I do see a vacant spot and put the pedal to the metal to beat my inferior foes to it, the spot turns out to be a buggy return.

The people who make those monkey bars-looking buggy returns must use some kind of secret space-age spy paint that makes them invisible until a car gets within 10 feet. Either that or they pop up out of the ground at the last minute.

And the reserved spots are getting out of hand.

My favorite is the spot that says “Reserved” and nothing else.

One day, I’m just going to assume the spot is reserved for me and slam the car down right smack dab in the middle.

And then there are all these new types of reserved parking spots that will never apply to me.

I’m never going to be an expectant mother or a new mother.

I’m never going to be the employee of the month.

I’m probably never going to be a police officer, though I haven’t totally given up the dream.

But why does a police car need its own spot? If there’s an emergency, the officer is going to park next to the door so he or she can rush inside.

And if this is about picking up a loaf of bread, the officer should probably just find a spot like everybody else.

And now, stores have a half dozen spots reserved for people who ordered their weed whacker online and are driving to the store to pick it up.

Let me get this straight.

The poor old shleps like me who have the audacity to drive down to the store and look at the weed whackers that are already there get penalized in favor of Mr. McCellphone who buys the thing from his tablet while sipping sweet tea in his easy chair?

Similarly at restaurants, anytime you see a couple of vacant spots next to the door, they are reserved for people who called ahead or ordered online and are taking their food to go.

Just once I would love to pull in a parking lot and see a vacant spot right up next to the door that says, “Reserved for some guy who overslept this morning and sure could go for some pizza right now.”

That’s a cause I could embrace.

I Wish I Could Go Back for a While

barry currin, stories of a world gone mad, beaverdamusa.comI haven’t had a grape soda in more than 40 years, but I’m sipping on one now.

And it is providing me a flood of glorious memories.

When I was a kid, we would visit my great aunt Dena every other Sunday afternoon.

Dena, or Pops as she was called, never married. She lived alone in a little frame house under huge shade trees on the banks of a creek in the tiny village of Bunker Hill, Tenn., which was 10 or so miles from my house.

Every time we pulled in the driveway, Pops would run out to meet us. She would smack a big kiss right on my ear which always hurt considerably.

Then with one ear ringing, I would make a beeline to her kitchen and open the refrigerator.

Inside, front and center, would always be a Grape Nehi.

Every time. Every single time for umpteen years.

By the time I found the bottle opener and opened it, the grownups would’ve had time to sit down. In the summer, they would sit on her little porch or under a shade tree in the yard. In the winter, of course, they would visit inside.

Pops had somewhat of a boyfriend. And it was a real treat when he happened to be visiting, because I would get to play in his cigarette smoke which would be illuminated by the light shining through the window. I would draw in it with my finger or maybe just fan it.

Times were different then. 

While I’m at it, I might as well mention that she heated her house with a coal-burning fireplace. And she had a 3-by-5-foot piece of asbestos attached to her mantle to make sure an ember didn’t float to the ceiling.

She would jokingly call it “besastos.”

No one ever got Mesothelioma.

Outside at Pops’ house was a wonderland. In the summer I would wade in the creek wearing last year’s tennis shoes with the toes cut out.

A cave behind her house provided the entire town with its water supply. Every house in the town had a pipe attached to a big metal trough inside the cave that overflowed with water. 

I spent hours inside that cave. It was only accessible by walking a foot log which spanned the creek. The floor was wet and slick. Water trickled down the walls. It was always cool regardless of the outside temperature.

Occasionally on Saturday nights I would stay with her while my parents went to a basketball game.

Pops would always make popcorn, and we would snuggle in her recliner. Her neighbor would sometimes drop by, and we all would watch the Red Skelton show on her snowy black and white TV.

If I spent the night, we would walk to church on Sunday morning.

I wish this story had a happy ending, but it really doesn’t.

Pops died when I was away at college during final exams, and I wasn’t able to make it to the funeral. Part of me still feels guilty because I am sure I could’ve gotten permission from my professors to make up the exams if I had pushed the issue.

But I didn’t, and I will always feel a little guilty for it.

The grape soda is helping a little, though.

She Threw a Party and Everybody Came

barry currin, stories of a world gone mad, beaverdamusa.comMy mother-in-law, Ava, decided to throw my father-in-law an 80th birthday party picnic.

I was in the room the first time she floated the idea by Kim on the phone. I heard every word.

I truly thought she would sleep on it and decide having a nice family meal inside a cool restaurant would be a much better alternative.

But, she didn’t; and the party planning began.

First the guest list was 40 people. Then it grew to 50. 

It topped out at 60 and contained all the relatives from both sides of the family, friends, neighbors and people from church.

Red — that’s my father-in-law — has lots of friends.

Labor Day was hot, and the pavilion at the park didn’t offer much relief. Soon after we got there I was handed a bag of charcoal and a bunch of wieners.

This was a state park grill. You know the type. No lid. A big heavy-duty grate with the charred remains from a half million burgers stuck to it. A stick to stir the coals left there by the last people who used it.

I love to grill, but I like the home-field advantage.

Of course, it’s hard to mess up a hotdog. But since I was cooking in front of 60 people, I figured I had a fighting chance to do just that. 

And besides, barbecue was the main course.

I was sweating before I even lit the fire, and it only got worse when Ava asked me to say the blessing.

I should note here that about three-fourths of the family serve a church in some capacity.

They either currently are or have been deacons, elders, Sunday school teachers, choir directors or whatever other church titles you can think of.

It was like Bill Belichick asking me if I wanted to quarterback the Patriots on Sunday. 

“Surely I am the least qualified person here to do that, don’t you think?”

“Well,” she said, “I want you to know you were my first choice.”

I don’t know if it was the searing heat, or the holy spirit, or what, but I agreed to do it.

By now my shirt looked like I had just been baptized in the lake. Lighting the grill made it that much worse.

I put on the dogs and started practicing my blessing.

I considered pulling out “God is Great, God is Good” but figured I could do better than that.

When the dogs came off, we bowed our heads and I muddled through it.

It was short and sweet, but I guess I did okay. None of the relatives gave me any pointers, at least.

Now is when it get’s weird, though.

Since Kim and one of her cousins continued replenish the food while everyone went through the line, I decided to hold off eating until she ate.

I asked the old, “Is there anything I can do?” question, fully expecting to be told no.

“You can cut the desserts.”

Say what?

I can grill, even on a dinosaur from the ’50s. I can even pray in front of a bunch of people who are way better at it than I am.

But give me a red velvet cake and a knife, and I am a lost ball in tall weeds.

I think I ended up with 13 trapezoid-shaped pieces in a variety of sizes.

As long as the birthday boy got one of the big ones, I don’t guess it really matters.

I’m Not Sure We’re Ever Coming Back

barry currin, stories of a world gone mad, beaverdamusa.comEvery time I think we’ve hit rock bottom, we manage to sink lower.

This past weekend was a mind-numbing example on two fronts.

On Saturday, the news of Sen. John McCain’s death spread quickly.

I always respected McCain. He was a patriot in the truest sense of the word who dedicated his life to public service.

He was an example of decency — something that is getting harder and harder to find these days.

But on social media several of the comments on the late Senator were vitriolic and most of all, disrespectful.

And it seemed every negative comment I saw about him came from people within his own political party.

Anytime I read a political story on social media I always tell myself, “don’t read the comments, don’t read the comments,” but I almost always do.

I do so primarily because I always have a glimmer of hope that the positive comments will outnumber the hateful.

And I am almost always wrong.

The first comment I saw about McCain began, “He was an idiot…” Most of the rest couldn’t be printed in this newspaper.

It’s sickening. We are a sick society.

The second example came in the wake of the mass shooting in Jacksonville on Sunday.

A Christian religion page I follow posted a quote from a church official in Florida who called for a public response to gun violence.

He pointed out the Jacksonville incident was the third mass shooting in Florida in 3 years. He also said this was the 232nd mass shooting in the US this year.

Since I am dumber than a sheep that can’t stop running into an electric fence, I clicked the comments.

I really expected to see some compassion for the victims and agreement. I actually thought people would agree.

It’s a church page, for heaven’s sake — pun intended.

But oh, no. Not in 2018 America.

The first debate took issue with the claim that we have had 232 mass shootings this year.

People started posting links to stories which had the number in the mid-100s.

Oh, dad-gum you, preacher. We’ve only had 150 mass shootings this year. What a Philistine you are.

Actually, I googled it and found a source listing 291 so far in 2018, and that didn’t even include Jacksonville.

Then, the conversation — more correctly stated, the argument — turned to how we should even define mass shooting in the first place.

Several people gave their opinion on this. Some people think the number of smoking hot shell casings dancing around on the pavement should determine whether or not an incident should be called a mass shooting.

It was mind blowing to read how a large contingent of human beings didn’t have one bit of compassion for the innocent people who died.

So it seems only having a mass shooting every three or so days is okay. And, if the body count is acceptably low enough, it shouldn’t even count at all.

These are uncharted waters for our country. We can’t come together to respect a life-long congressman who died; and we can’t agree on how many people have to get shot in public before it even matters.

But here’s something I believe we can all agree on.

We are doing a dang good job at showing our backsides here lately.

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