By Jim Hagarty
The rage around our place these days is ice coffee. I am offended and refuse to participate in this hideous concoction. I want my coffee to burn my lips, my throat and my crotch when I spill it in the car. I am a pariah now at home. I have proposed ice soup. No takers. I have proposed microwaving our chocolate sundaes. More cold shoulders.
It’s getting hard for curmudgeons to get any respect these days.
I believe I will have a boiling cup of Pepsi and go to bed.
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Author: Jim Hagarty
I am a 72-year-old retired journalist, busy recovering from a lifelong career as an unretired journalist. This year marks a half century of my scratching out little fables about life. My interests include genealogy, humour and music. I live in a little blue shack in Canada and spend most of my time trying to stay out of trouble. I am not that good at it. I also spent years teaching journalism. Poor state of journalism today: My fault. I have a family I don't deserve, a dog that adores me, and two cars the junk yard refuses to accept. My prized possessions include my old guitar and a razor my Dad gave me when I was 14 and which I still use when I bother to shave. Oh, and my great-great-grandfather's blackthorn stick he brought from Ireland in the 1850s. I have only one opinion but it is a good one: People take too many showers.
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