Facebook post from an annoyingly rich dude: Just bought a new Lamborghini. I couldn’t decide on white or silver. I opted for white because it came with this super model. Her name is Mackenzie. Or maybe it was McKenna. Sure is great to be me.
I remember a time when life was simpler and far less annoying. Back then I actually spent most of my free time doing productive things like reading books and helping my kids with their math homework.
That all stopped, however, in February 2004, the month that Facebook launched. It forever changed how we spend way too much of our spare time. 21 years later, I still squander too many minutes each day scrolling through photos of people’s haute cuisine restaurant meals or recently completed home renovations.
Too often my news feed is bombarded by photos people post touting their nine-year-old’s amazing little league accomplishments or broadcasting their latest promotion to a position like Global Vice President of Strategic Strategizing, which they clearly posted primarily to point out that their career has been far more successful than mine ever was. Thanks for the reminder.
Technically, I can’t prove that Facebook is the brainchild of Satan, but that’s my current working theory. If you ask for my opinion – and trust me, my adult children never do – Facebook is the ideal social media platform if you’re interested in learning how much better everybody else’s lives – and children – are than yours.
After 30 minutes on Facebook, I rediscover just how much more successful a human being most of my friends are than I am. As a bonus, today I learned about a creative eggplant & cauliflower soup recipe from Carla. (I probably should mention I don’t care for either of these foods – or Carla.)
I always feel inadequate when I come upon self-promoting Facebook posts like these:
Humble bragging announcements, like this one from Rich Boasterman:
“I was stunned to learn I’ve been awarded Miami-Dade County’s Person of the Year – again. I feel so humbled and honored to be recognized for my countless humanitarian achievements. All I did was mentor 2,000 at-risk teenagers and build a state-of-the-art homeless shelter – and several other selfless things I will mention in four separate posts. There were so many other worthy people who were almost as deserving of this great honor as I am.”
Over-the-top proclamations of everlasting love, like this one from Faith Lovingheart:
“I’m blessed to have finally found my soulmate after so many years of searching. Brian and I are officially engaged. He is the love of my life, the wing beneath my wings, the sun to my moon. Every day he makes me want to be a better person. And I knew we would be happy together forever the moment I met him two weeks ago at the craps table at Caesar’s in Vegas.”
Facebook post from a successful architect: I just finished building my 2nd log home. This is just the servant’s quarters. The great room’s 20-ft. wide stone fireplace came out nicely, as you will see from the 15 photos I have posted.
Gloating posts crowing about how awesome their child is, like this one from Joyce Bettermom:
“I can’t begin to tell you how proud I am of my son Henry. But I’m going to, anyway. Not only did he become valedictorian of his class, but he was voted MVP of his soccer team. After med school, Henry plans to be a brain surgeon and cure cancer. I can’t wait to see what he achieves next year when he enters first grade.”
Or posts intended mainly to make you jealous of their life, like this one by Chase Oceanview:
“Life for me and Veronica has been so busy refurbishing our Aspen ski-out chalet this summer that we’ve barely had time to visit our Catalina beachside bungalow, let alone our vacation villa in Corsica. Here are photos of our remodeled 7,000 sq. ft. cliffside cottage in Maui. Today, I think I need some self-care, so I plan to go for a drive in my new Bugatti Chiron Super Sport Noire.”
I think Facebook should create an algorithm that blocks any post from my feed that will make me feel bad about myself. Personally, I would like to a lot more honest, truthful posts, like these…
Honest posts about people’s marriage, like this one from Rashida Loveless:
“This is a photo of me and my husband Ralph on our wedding day. Can’t believe it’s been it’s been 15 years since we both said, ‘I Do.’ I probably should have said ‘I Don’t.’ Since then Ralph’s put on 50 pounds and I barely get four hours sleep a night, thanks to his snoring. I think he loves his LEGO collection more than me. But at least our marriage is not like Ken and Marge’s. Talk about a train wreck. Glad we’re not them.”
Career updates that sound far more realistic, like this one from Herb Wurkzadrahg:
“After twenty years with my company, I’m still chained to my cubicle and not making nearly enough to pay for my kids’ college education. But hey, at least I now get a third week of vacation for having survived this toxic hellhole for another five years. I seriously need to update my resume. This job sucks.”
Facebook post from a bragging mom: This is my eight-year-old son Bradley. He just finished performing Prokofiev – Piano Concerto No. 2, considered one of the five most difficult piano concertos ever composed. He just got a full scholarship to the Yale School of Music. So disappointing. We were hoping for Juilliard.
Accurate news about their child’s more modest achievements, like this one from Kathy Hopedphermor:
“My son Curtis is doing well enough. He’s only in fifth grade but I can already tell that grad school is out of the question. He’s just lazy. But he raised his GPA from 2.0 to 2.3 this semester, so I guess that’s a thing, right? Did I mention he recently earned the high score on Call of Duty 5. Is that a good thing? I really have no idea anymore.”
Vacation updates that sound more down to earth, like this one from Albert Campzalot:
“A cruise to the Mediterranean looks increasingly unlikely again this year, given I’ve been out of commission with a back injury from raking leaves. So, this year, we’ll probably do another staycation here in Buloxi. Either that or maybe spend a week at my sister’s house in Beaumont, TX. God, I hope her college kids won’t be there. They are so obnoxious. And they love to terrorize my labradoodle Cosmo.”
Yeah, these sound far more honest than most of the Facebook posts I see in my feed. Why can’t we get more posts like these? I’d be happy to give them a or even a .
Well, I need to go. I need to log onto Facebook and post a few photos of our incredible vacation to the Galapagos. Did I mention we stayed on a 100-foot yacht? It was nice, but I miss our vacation home in Cabo right about now.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Likeor sharing this post on Facebook.
This is a recent photo of me. For 70 years of age, I guess I look okay. My teeth are a little crooked, My hairline is receding, both my knees have been replaced, and I still could use to lose 20 pounds. This old body is slowly falling apart. Nowadays, I’m just above average. And that’s okay with me.
Of the first ten numbers in our counting system (if you don’t count zero) 7 is my favorite number. When I was a kid and more superstitious than I am now, 7 was my Lucky Number. Many great athletes wore that number: Mickey Mantle, “Pistol” Pete Maravich, soccer legend Cristiano Ronaldo, not to mention Tony McElhenny of the Binghamton (NY) Rumble Ponies minor league baseball team. Tony played short stop for one season before the Rumble Ponies released him – which is why I should have followed my own advice “not to mention” him.
There are seven days of the week, Seven Wonders of the World, Seven Colors of the Rainbow, and Seven Harry Potter books. The night before my wedding, my then-fiancée and I hosted a “night at the races” pre-wedding party at a local horse racing track outside of Philadelphia. The seventh horse in the seventh race was named “Michele du Nord” (Michele of the North). I placed a bet on it to win. And it did! I saw this as a promising omen for our future life together since my wife is not only named Michele, but also, being from Canada, she was literally Michele of the North.
I feel like I have strayed off from the point I was trying to make. Where was I going, anyway? Oh, right. My point is that in many ways, my life on a 1-to-10 scale has also been like the number 7. Not a perfect 10, but far from a 1 or 2. So many aspects about my life, my experiences, and my capabilities could be ranked as a 7, in other words, Above Average.
You can call me Mr. Above Average – because in most things, that’s where I tend to land – unless it’s knowing how to build or fix ANYTHING on my own. Then I’m an absolute zero. I love sports of all kinds: tennis, racquetball, pickleball, golf, you name it. How good am I? I’m slightly above average in almost all of these sports, about a 7. People who excel at sports love to play me because they are all but assured of winning and feeling better about their athletic prowess afterwards.
It’s been this way most of my adult life – except when it came to the joys and struggles of parenting – in which case I routinely felt like a ping pong ball bouncing back and forth from a joyful 10 to an exasperated 3 (or a lower number during their teenage years). Parenting is an extreme sport.
I’ll admit I’m no 10 in the looks department. In my heyday, nobody ever compared me to Brad Pitt or Paul Newman. Although once someone said I looked like I could be John Lithgow’s brother for some reason. (I was never sure whether that was a compliment or an insult.) As for my wife, I’d have to say in terms of the 1-to-10 scale of physical perfection, she is probably a.. um…Perfect 10! (Every once in a while, she reads this column, so why take chances?)
Ever since I was a young boy, I’ve loved sports of all kinds. I play tennis, golf, pickleball, basketball, skiing, and many others. The one thing all these sports have in common is that I’m not great at any of them. I’m just okay, slightly above average really. Pretty much like most things I set my mind to in life.
I have come to terms with the fact that I don’t really excel at most things in life. (That said, I can microwave a “perfect 10” frosted cinnamon pop tart, but I’m not sure that’s worth bragging about.) I envy people with remarkable talents, like my wife’s incredible skill as a portrait artist. Many of my closest friends have exceptional skills like my friend Jerry who built his own home. It seems that most people who live in my community are extremely artistically gifted. That’s why I’ve unfriended most of them on Facebook.
I have long ago decided that for most things in my life good enough is, well, good enough – except when it comes to pizza, in which case, good enough simply won’t do. When I have a serious pizza craving, I refuse to cut corners. (I’m talking to you, Dominos.)
I don’t feel bad that I can’t afford the fanciest new car. I don’t beat myself up that I lack the ability to create stunning works of artlike my life partner or play the piano like a prodigy. I’m content to live an above average life, take an above average hike in the woods, relax on the couch patting our above average cats while watching an above average detective series on Netflix. And a couple times a week, I will go to the local pickleball courts to lose several games to older players who are much more above average than I am.
As I looked over this week’s column, I have to say, it’s not one of my best. But it’s not one of my worst. I’d say it’s above average. And that’s okay with me.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it aLikeorsharing this post on Facebook.
As the vast majority of American agree (and Donald Trump routinely reminds us), he’s the greatest president since Abraham Lincoln, the most brilliant military strategist since General Patton, and the most beloved, gracious international statesman since Benjamin Franklin.
According to polls conducted by Trump University, Trump’s popularity as president has shattered all previous records. In the past six months, everyday Americans have signaled their overwhelming approval of his brilliant chess game-like on-again-off-again tariffs, daily ICE deportation raids on elementary schools, dismantling of the totally useless Department of Education, de-funding of the radical leftwing Corporation for Public Broadcasting, pushing to remove permanently all Palestinians from Gaza so he can turn it into a Trump waterfront golf resort for rich American and European tech bros, and so many other gobsmacking, um, achievements.
Canadians are demanding to be added as our 51st state, insisting Trump choose them ahead of Greenland, Panama, and Vatican City. Every day our glorious leader furiously bangs out more than 50 inspirational ALL CAPS Truth Social posts (slightly fewer on the three days a week he typically reserves for golf).
His administration is staffed with the most dedicated team of professional sycophants of any presidential administration in history, from his genius pick of oft-times sober Pete Hegseth as Defense Secretary to vaccine denialist RFK Jr for Health and Human Services Secretary. Every day our widely respected president, who is adored by world leaders (from Putin to Kim Jong Un) works tirelessly from the time he gets out of bed at 11am until almost 2pm to focus on the needs of the average American (by which he means any Caucasian male with a net worth of $15 million or greater).
Here is just a small sampling of the president’s latest bold proclamations (to distract his supporters and critics), along with the glowingly positive reaction from his devoted followers:
President Trump announced this week that he will block the Washington Commanders football team’s efforts to build a new stadium in DC unless they agree to his demands to change the name back to the Redskins, which, according to his own internal polling, 97% of Native Americans think is a fabulous idea. His MAGA supporters love this idea too, with one person rave-tweeting, “The thing about changing the team’s name back to the Redskins is that … Donald Trump is on the Epstein list!!”
Recently, Israeli President Benjamin Netanyahu announced his plans to nominate President Trump for the Nobel Peace Prize (presumably for his decision to bomb the crap out of Iran – just after they safely removed all the uranium and the centrifuges from the places that were bombed). A Republican Trump supporter in Mississippi enthusiastically gave this idea two thumbs up, saying, “The only thing that could make this news any better is to finally once and for all release all the Epstein Files.”
Trump’s Department of Homeland Security announced, under Trump’s directive, that they will now start deporting anybody who has a Spanish-sounding accent (with the exception of Antonio Banderas) and will expand plans to build more Alligator Alcatraz facilities at middle schools throughout the nation. Rightwing white supremacist podcaster Nick Fuentes praised this decision, adding, “What are you hiding, Donald? Release the Epstein Files once and for all.”
At a recent press briefing Trump convincingly explained there was nothing in the Epstein files of importance. Just boring stuff. But if anything incriminating about him turns up, then it’s all fake news deviously plotted by Joe Biden in an attempt to destroy America. Everybody felt that his explanation addressed all their concerns.
Last week, in response to a reporter’s question about Artificial Intelligence, Trump explained at length how his uncle John Trump was a brilliant professor at MIT and even had Ted Kaczynski (AKA the Unabomber) as a student. Despite the fact that Kaczynski went to Harvard, not MIT, Trump was lauded by conservative media outlets for his creative storytelling, with one commentator adding, “For years you told us you’d get to the bottom of the Epstein cover-up. And now you are telling us there never were any files. Release the goddamn Epstein Files. All of them.”
Trump also announced recently that he is thinking about deporting Rosie O’Donnell and hinted that he wants California Senator Adam Schiff, one of the lead prosecutors on the January 6th Committee, executed for treason. At a rally in support of Trump’s comments, hundreds of vocal Trump loyalists held up signs reading, “STOP THE COVERUP! RELEASE THE EPSTEIN FILES!”
Trump also is receiving overwhelming praise for the passage of his Big Beautiful Bill, which among other things will result in loss of Medicaid healthcare coverage for over 11 million Americans and cause over 22 million struggling families to lose some or all of their SNAP (food stamps) benefits. With almost universal support, according to recent Trump Administration polling, thousands of Americans on Medicaid recently cheered his bold new legislation, explaining, “The only reason Trump could possibly have to shut down the FBI investigation into the Epstein Files is that he’s in it, and it’s really, really bad.”
A news story came out recently stating that Attorney General Pam Bondi has ordered the FBI to assign 1,000 personnel on 24-hour shifts to mine over 100,000 Epstein-related records for anyreference to Trump’s name. “Clearly, this is something you would only do if you knew Trump’s name was going to show up over and over, and you planned to delete all these references to avoid criminal prosecution,” said an enthusiastic longtime Trump supporter, as they tossed their red MAGA baseball cap and gold Trump sneakers into a burning dumpster.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Likeor sharing this post on Facebook.
Long before Tinder was a thing, I went out on a computer date. Turns out our fleeting, star-crossed love affair was doomed from the start. The computer concluded we were a perfect match. The computer was wrong.
This is a true story about the shortest date in my life. Now, technically you could make the case that my wife was my shortest date, given that she tops out at 5 feet 0 inches.
But I’m not talking about the shortest person I ever dated. No, I mean the shortest date in terms of hours… um, make that minutes. Because my shortest date lasted exactly 37 minutes. Despite its brevity, this date still doesn’t rank as my worst date. That would be another date you can read about.
As much as this may come as a shock to some of my readers, I was not exactly a Ladies’ Man in my youth. That’s because I went to a private all-boys’ military prep school from grades one through twelve. I had literally no interaction with girls, and thus virtually no dating experience, until I headed off to college.
In my first year at the University of Virginia, the dorm I was assigned to was an upperclassmen dorm, because they’d run out of space in the freshmen dorms. I lacked the self-confidence and charisma to approach any of the female upperclassmen in my dorm for a date. I asked out precisely one girl during my freshman year, named Jocelyn. She was a cute girl in my Astronomy class. But when I asked her out in October, she replied (and I will never forget her exact words): “I’m going to be pretty busy until April.” To this day I regret not having the presence of mind to come back with, “I hear you. I’m pretty busy, too. How’s the month of May looking?” So, no, we never went out.
I actually did have one date my freshman year. My dorm-mates, always up for a fun practical joke at my expense, decided to enter my name – without telling me – into a computer dating dance party. To participate, you filled out a form with information about yourself, your personality, likes, etc., which information was fed into a computer database. It then matched you up with another student the algorithm determined was compatible with you. Like a primitive version of Tinder but without the ability to swipe right.
A week later, I received a notification that I had been matched up with a computer date. WTF?? How did this happen? Then realizing that I had had roughly about as much sex in my freshman year as a neutered Boston Terrier, I decided to “go with the flow” and see where this unexpected opportunity might lead.
The rules explained you were supposed to meet your match prior to the actual event. Her name was Judy Spivey, from Suffolk, Virginia. When I knocked on her door, she immediately greeted me with an almost guilty look on her face.
I quickly determined why she had that almost guilty look on her face. Because after ten minutes of mindless, mundane conversation about “what are your favorite hobbies” and “what’s your major,” my soon-to-be date dropped this bomb: “Tim, you probably should know something before we go out on this date. I’m engaged.”
“I’m sorry. You’re engaged? Engaged in what?” I replied, pretending not to understand what she’d just said.
“I have a fiancé,” she clarified. “We both decided to enter our names in this computer dating thing, just to see what kind of people we would get paired up with. We meant it as a joke.”“Wow. Hilarious. So, I’m the joke, is that it?” I thought to myself, realizing this was a complete waste of my time.
“I got paired up with you,” my not-so-dream date sheepishly explained.
“Oh, I see. And who did your future husband get paired up with?” I asked, barely hiding my annoyance.
“He didn’t.” [Insert long, extremely awkward pause….] “But we both agreed that I should go through with this date” – like it was her civic responsibility, like jury duty – just an unpleasant commitment she’d have to endure, spending an evening with me.
The dance was two days later. I knocked on her door. She was dressed in a knee-length red dress. I was wearing my finest lavender corduroy bell-bottom slacks and matching red-and-blue striped shirt, with what in retrospect was a way too wide white tie (hey, give me a break, I went to a military school, so I had zero fashion sense).
After we arrived at the dance, we sat nervously for about fifteen minutes, sipping our Diet Cokes as I struggled to keep the conversation going with cliched questions like “Do, you think Uva will have a good basketball team this year?” and “So, how did you and your fiancé meet?”
Before long, I noticed Judy kept diverting her glance to something in the distance. Make that, someone. Who was she looking at? Now, don’t get ahead of me. Then she looked back at me, noticeably agitated, and said, “Pardon me, I’ll be right back.”
In case you were thinking I made up this entire story, I did not. This is a photo of my computer date from our college’s book that showed the names and faces of all the incoming freshmen.
She headed off to talk with the person in the distance. You guessed it. Her fiancé had been watching us the entire time. In retrospect, it probably was the right call not to try to slow dance with her in front of her future husband. Decades later, I still remember Judy’s words when she returned to our table: “Would you like to see World War Three begin? Or would you like for this date to be over right now?”
If this had happened today, the far more self-confident, wise-cracking version of me would have grinned and said, “Thanks for giving me a choice. I think I’ll go with the first option, Judy.” But the shy, freshman college student version of me instead said, ”I understand. I wish you both the best of luck.” What a wimp. Then I looked at my watch. 37 minutes had elapsed since the start of our first and last date. As I plodded back to my dorm, it occurred to me that I could have stayed in my room and watched an entire episode of Hawaii Five-O. It would have lasted much longer than my date.
Now and then I look back on our surreal, aborted courtship and wonder whatever happened to Judy. I tried to look her up on Facebook but without success. I will never know. But I like to imagine her future without me. Maybe – just maybe – she had a miserable, tumultuous marriage, and her husband left her for a younger woman he found on Tinder. That makes me smile.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Likeor sharing this post on Facebook.
Recently I created a bit of a panic with a buddy of mine who became deeply distraught over my wife’s shocking passing – because I texted him that she had been killed. Let me back up a bit. Like most people, I use my phone for texting all the time. But I don’t like typing, because it takes too long. So, unless it’s a short message like, “okay” or “I’ll be home in 10 minutes” or in the case of one of my daughters, “No, I won’t loan you $800 for a new iPhone,” then I usually dictate my text using the voice recognition feature. Saves me so much time.
Which brings me to the subject of my wife’s death, which – and I can’t stress this enough – never happened. She’s fine. Honest. If you’re a regular reader, or even if you’re someone who’s irregular, you probably know by now that throughout our marriage, we’ve always had cats. We’ve also fostered kittens – dozens of them by now. I love cats. Heck, I even sing to them – mainly to annoy my wife.
We had this one adorable calico kitty named Mischief. But over time, I gave her the nickname of Misha. She was a sweet furry companion, a real lap cat. She would routinely follow me to bed at nighttime and sleep on my pillow. She’d often knead my hair – adorable, I agree – and occasionally painful. I loved Misha deeply, which is why I was profoundly saddened to learn one day that she had escaped out the front door, ran off, was hit by a car and killed.
The next day, I got a text from a buddy of mine named Frank, reminding me about our lunch plans. I texted him back and told him that I would have to pass on lunch. I was not up for it because, as I texted, “I’m feeling a little down today. Misha was killed last night.”
Only that was not how my dictation came through. The message Frank received was: “I’m feeling a little down today. Michele was killed last night.”
“OMG I’m so sorry, man. Howd it happen?” Frank texted back in shock.
“She was hit by a car,” I nonchalantly replied, unaware of the typo that changed Misha to Michele.
“A car? A car??? Did they catch the guy? Was he a drunk driver? Were you there when it happened?” a stunned Frank replied.
“No idea what happened or who the driver was. I was watching an episode of The Simpsons at the time. You know the one where Homer almost blows up the nuclear plant he works at when he falls asleep on the job. Pretty funny episode, I have to say,” I wrote back.
“Tim, U okay? Do U want me to come over, buddy?” Frank inquired.
“That’s okay. I have a busy day today. I need to go to Costco. And after that I have to go to the post office,” I casually explained.
“Tim, buddy, are U sure U should be doing a Costco run after what just happened?”
“Well, I’m almost out of Twizzlers and granola bars, And I could use some more detergent,” I clarified.
“Wow, I have to say, not sure I could handle this tragedy as calmly as U. Tim, I think maybe U R in shock,” Frank probed.
“Nah, not really. To be honest, she was getting pretty old anyway. I figured she wasn’t going to be around much longer,” I wrote back.
“Seriously, dude? That seems a bit callous, pardon me for saying. She had a lot of good years left in her,” Frank wrote back, now starting to freak out.
“Well maybe you’re right. I don’t know. I sure miss her,” I sighed in response.
“I know this might be a bit premature to ask, but are U thinking about any sort of memorial service?” Frank asked, feeling uneasy about what to say next.
“Nah, I don’t think so. I don’t want to go to all that fuss. I’ve been through this a few times before.”
“Tim, What are U saying???!!! R U thinking clearly, my friend? How can I help?” Frank implored.
“Well, I was planning to bury her in the backyard. You don’t happen to have a shovel, do you, Frank?” I asked.
“A shovel? A SHOVEL??? Of course, I have a shovel. Dude, U R really not thinking clearly right now,” Frank texted back, increasingly concerned about my mental state.
“I don’t want to impose. I was going to get a shovel at Costco anyway,” I calmly texted back.
“Enough about the shovel! Jesus, Tim. I think I better come over. On my way,” Frank wrote back frantically.
Then I texted back, “You know the saddest part about all of this, Frank?”
“I can’t imagine. Tell me, buddy.”
“Turns out she was pregnant. And I had repeatedly told my wife that we needed to get her neutered so that she would not get pregnant. But my wife never got around to doing it,” I wrote with a bit of melancholy.
“Pregnant? Seriously? Oh My God! This keeps getting worse and worse. Tim, I had no idea your wife was pregnant. I hope she and her baby didn’t suffer,” Frank wrote back in utter disbelief.
“What are you talking about, Frank? Michele’s not pregnant.”
“But you just wrote – wait, hold on. Michele’s not pregnant? But you said she was killed in a car crash. You have me totally flipping out, buddy!” Frank wrote back in exasperation.
Eventually we both figured out how this dialogue went off the rails. I explained that it was our cat Misha, not my wife Michele, who had died.
In case you were curious, this kitty’s name was Mischief, AKA “Misha.”
I guess the lesson is to carefully re-read my texts before I press SEND. In fact, now I always check my texts BEFORE I press SEND. Well, most of the time, anyway.
That’s all for now. I need to go. It’s my turn to make dinner tonight. I just dictated the following text to my wife: “Sweetie, dinner will be ready at 6pm. It’s your favorite: Barbecued Chicken.”
My wife immediately fired back a snippy response: “What’s wrong with you? Why in the world would you think my favorite meal is Barbecued Children??”
Uh, oh. I did it again….
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Likeor sharing this post on Facebook.
or even a 
.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Like or sharing this post on Facebook.
