I take seven pills a day for various doctor-detected ailments.
One pill is to control my handsomosity as extreme good looks can be dangerous even on an innocent stroll through the mall. I often emerge from my favourite household goods store with my face covered in lipstick, liberally applied by amorous women
Another keeps my geniosity under control. This is necessary to keep my ability to outsmart people, even myself, in check.
A third pill tempers my virtuosity as I am too good to be believed. I’m a Ten Commandments commander.
A fourth pill manages my inventivosity. The others curtail my intelligensity, my profitablosity and my bullshitosity. That last pill, I’m afraid, is not working very well lately.
I need a new pill to counter the effects of my over medicating family physician. That’s right. I am suffering from a very bad case of doctorosity.
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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