I think I now know why I drank so much in my youth, especially at social events: I was always so uncomfortable with small talk that I had to keep my hands occupied . . . and it was nearly always with more and more drinks. It might have been easy for a naive young South Dakota lad to become an alcoholic, but I don't think it was ever in my makeup. I didn't want to give it that much time. Booze is a full-time occupation.
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I love a good joke but I think I may have had my fill of them now. Every day I have a menu full of e-mails from well-intentioned people who believe I need the latest ream of jokes they received somewhere on-line. I don't. Please, if you're one of the senders, stop sending. Thanks, but no longer thanks. It might be different if a friend or acquaintance spotted a joke they thought was so good and so perfect for my personality they just had to send it on. But not twenty or thirty jokes sent not only to me but to several hundred other people they're just sure will really enjoy them. That's a little like getting a Christmas present that required no thought or personal attention. Sort of a universal gift. No thanks.
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The nature of hate is that it does absolutely no one any good. The object of one's hatred isn't any worse off for it, but the hater often finds his own soul poisoned, life gray and grainy, nights sleepless, tension in the belly that just won't go away, a whirling in the brain as he gets so caught up in the hate he forgets about all the good things in life.
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Proper response to the babbling female: "You should give that nasty cut under your nose a chance to heal."
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Description of a bore: It's hard to find many men of his caliber--about a .22 small bore, firing shorts instead of longs, or maybe even dum-dums.
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