A List For The Ages

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I was at the in-laws’ house, chopping wood for the fireplace.

The next-door neighbor came out and said, “Need firewood, do you?”

“No, I just hate trees,” I told him.

Bill Engvall could not be reached for comment.

In an oblivious nod to wordplay, my health insurance said they don’t cover baldness.

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It bears repeating: if you are in it, you ARE traffic.

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Monday, I woke up with random splotches of hair on my head.

I went to the doctor.

He diagnosed me with non-pattern baldness.

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Unusual sign you’re an artist: if your cat vomits on the floor and your first thought is whether decorative beads would enhance the design – or detract from it.

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Two-part anecdote: the lock on my community mailbox was inoperable. Instead of waiting on the postal tech to replace the lock, I forced the key in to get the treasures I knew I would find. Among them was a custom deck of playing cards I had made for someone unlucky enough to be related to me. (Note: I had to break the key off to keep people from getting inside the box pending alleged scheduled repair.)

Also, and much to my surprise, a fellow Aficionado of Shenanigans had honored me with a pleasant surprise. The envelope was addressed to: “President of the Avian Minstrel Society, NWA Chapter.” I assume I’m the president. My wife never mentioned an interest in anything either minstrel nor avian, unless cooked in the oven and coated in gravy. Inside the envelope was a page from the best/worst book ever published. Its pages are regarded as both awesome and awful, depending on the dosage of whatever medication you’ve been overprescribed.

It is advisable NOT to attempt to make sense of the contents of the page.

P.S. I bet Zuckerberg never imagined that Facebook would ever have a post as weird as this one.

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Note: don’t try to suck the cork out of a bottle of wine, no matter how much Walmart drives you to it during winter weather. P.S. I did drop a bottle, though – and felt terrible, especially since I successfully passed it 15 yards. (Does anyone else see a bird in the accidental mess?)

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I rarely post other people’s pictures. This one, however, bears such an uncanny resemblance to my mother-in-law that it made me look twice. No word on what my sister-in-law might have prepared for lunch that day.

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“…As for you, if you’re 60 or older, you were born closer to the 1800s than today…”

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Regarding the almost-road conditions: 99 Problems But The Ditch Ain’t One…

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I walked in with a couple of scratches on my face.

“Attacked by a pack of coyotes?” a coworker asked.

“No, a pack of cigarettes.”

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“Monday is ranch dip with a hidden cockroach in it,” the man said, fairly loudly.

I laughed. It’s a good line.

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Possible tourism slogan for small towns in Arkansas: “It was more real than I imagined it would be.”

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“I’ve been working like a dog,” my boss said.

“Yeah, you get distracted every time someone passes by.”

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I can see for miles and miles, if I choose. I’ll stay here, though, and grimace at the walls in front of me – and recoil with each mundane complaint from those around me. It’s out there, though, the wide expanse of world. I could see for miles and miles. If I chose.

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At 4 a.m., the rain violently washed away all the accumulated sins. Unlike with yesterday’s social media rants, people drove with caution as their cars skidded on the impromptu rivers eddying across the roads. To avoid a fully-clothed shower, I detoured through the cavernous hallways as I walked. A woman absently exited through a side door ahead of me. She muttered to herself as my steps fell only two feet behind her. Halfway down the hallway, she jumped in surprise at my unexpected presence behind her. “You startled me,” she said, laughing. “Yes, just like the day will,” I cryptically answered. We both laughed and went our separate ways.

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Though it’s early February, I’m out under a gazebo, jacketless, enjoying the breeze pass over me. I can’t gather impetus or enthusiasm to immerse myself once again in the literal confines inside the place in which I trade my finite minutes for small, rectangular green pieces of paper. Inside I must go, leaving the breeze and approaching daylight. I take a tiny portion of the darkness with me as consolation.

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I’ve abandoned my plan to publish a yearly Non-Farmer’s Almanac.

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“Can you drive a stick?” the snarky senior citizen asked me.

“Yes. Where do you want me to take it?”

I bowed.

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Things might have been different if Ted Kaczynski’s neighbor had been prone to sudden staccato bursts of trumpet playing at random intervals.

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For 5 consecutive days, I’ve successfully printed a form and reduced it 5% each day without anyone noticing. I’m proud of this achievement and hope fervently to reach 1/2 size on the form before someone has a panic attack.

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An epitaph I wrote for someone who died last year…

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Regarding the almost-road conditions: 99 Problems But The Ditch Ain’t One…

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