When I reached the age of 60, my body started requiring several new replacement parts. So, recently, I’ve endured some of the unique joys of aging: knee replacement surgery, colonoscopies, and most recently, cataract surgery. And they call these the Golden Years? Yeah, right!
I’ve never claimed to be the bravest man in the world. I never served in combat zones like both my parents did. That said, I’d like to point out I did attend an all-boys’ military school (grades 7 – 12) in which I had to march with a gun in several parades. So, that’s on par with serving in ‘Nam or Iraq, don’t you think?
I’m pretty sure I’ll never win the Pulitzer Prize in Courage. (Or is it the Nobel Prize? I always get those two confused.) For decades, I’ve struggled with two longstanding crippling phobias. First, there’s my chronic fear of snakes. If you want to know why, just read my article called I HATE SNAKES.
But my single greatest fear is my morbid anxiety about anything – or anyone – possibly slicing into one of my eyeballs. Okay, make that my second greatest fear. I just remembered my terrifying fear that Trump might actually get re-elected for a second term. But a close second has to be my eyeball phobia. In fact, just typing the word “eyeball” makes me a little queasy.
How severe is my phobia? I’ve worn glasses for the past 25 years. In all that time not once did I ever consider switching to contacts. Just the thought of peeling contact lenses off my eyes grosses me out. To this day, I still can’t go anywhere near a pier where people are fishing for fear someone will cast their line and somehow hook my eyeball.
Recently, it all came to a head – make that an eyeball. That’s because ten years ago, my ophthalmologist told me I had early stage cataracts in both eyes. Eventually I was going to require surgery. If you’re curious as to exactly what happens during cataract surgery, don’t ask me. Go look it up yourself. I don’t have the stomach to read the graphic details of what actually happens during this procedure. I’d probably faint before I reached the third paragraph.
On the cover of the eyecare firm’s brochure it shows a smiling older woman supposedly happy to have regained her youthful eyesight. But tucked away towards the far back is a section with the header “MAJOR RISKS OF CATARACT SURGERY” (these exact words). These include swelling, infection, double vision, droopy eyelids, something called ghost images – the list of possible adverse side effects and complications goes on for several paragraphs. And then the copy sneaks in at the end, “and in rare instances, blindness or even death.” Holy crap! What did I just sign up for?
I am so squeamish about anything dealing with my eyes that I even have trouble looking at a Magic 8 Ball toy – because it reminds me too much of a human eyeball. I know, something’s wrong with me.
For weeks leading up to my surgery, several supportive friends told me they’d had the same procedure, that it was a breeze, and how glad they are that they did it. I learned the typical cataract surgery only takes 20 to 45 minutes – so, roughly the same amount of time it takes Domino’s to deliver my cheese-stuffed pizza.
I want to thank all the kind people who gave me calming words of encouragement. This list, however, does NOT include my racquetball buddy Raymond, who told me – and I’m not making this up – “I hope your doctor isn’t Dr. Witherspoon. He lost his license after he caused several people to go blind as a result of his botched surgeries.” Raymond decided he’d share this traumatizing story precisely one day before I went in for my operation. Thanks, buddy.
Here’s a fun fact sure to keep you awake at night if you’re contemplating cataract surgery: You’re CONSCIOUS during the entire procedure as they slice into your eyeball. Well, sort of. You’re sedated, but technically you’re still awake. That’s because they need to keep you conscious in order to ask you important questions like, “Are you feeling any pain?” and “Which eye did you want us to remove today?” and “Did you remember to sign the liability release form when you checked in today in the off chance Dr. Witherspoon is still hungover and things take a turn for the worse during the procedure?” At least that’s what Raymond told me.
Every year since that initial diagnosis, my eye doctor has reminded me the dreaded day was coming. Last week, after ten years, that frightful day finally arrived. I went in for cataract surgery on my right eye. And in two weeks – assuming I haven’t gone blind, died, or fled the area in a panic – I’m scheduled to go in for the other eye.
You should see what I did to the other guy! Uh, no, not really. This is a selfie I took the next morning after my cataract surgery. I’ll bet I know what you’re thinking: “Tim, I’ve never seen you look better.” Um, thanks.
Thankfully, they drugged me up so much that I had no idea what was going on during my procedure. But just to be on the safe side, as they prepped me, I described my extreme anxiety to the attending anesthesiologist and asked her to administer the maximum “knockout” dosage medically permitted. If it might accidentally cause me to lose my memory of all events that occurred since the year 2016, I told her I was totally okay with that.
I would now like to describe in gory, graphic detail exactly what they did to me in that operating room… but I can’t. Because I don’t remember a thing. Later that day, other than a very mild achiness around my eye, I felt totally fine. The doctor was a miracle worker.
He told me afterwards that I should not lift anything over 25 pounds or extend any significant physical effort for the next two weeks. Of course, I relayed to my wife that the doctor said to avoid any unpleasant physical labor for the next six months. So, it looks like this husband just got out of having to change the cat litter boxes and take out the trash for the foreseeable future – out of an abundance of precaution, mind you.
I just emailed my ophthalmologist to ask him if he could write a letter indicating it’s also not medically safe for me to empty the dishwasher, rake the leaves, make the bed, or assemble the gas grill during this time. I’d just hate for anything to set back my recovery.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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Most Canadians carry grudges for a long time. This is a scene from the War of 1812, fought near Montreal, in which the US navy kicked their butt. Canadians still hold a grudge because the Americans won this battle – and didn’t pick up their trash.
For years, people have screamed BUILD THAT WALL! Ever since Donald Trump became our nation’s Grifter-In-Chief in 2016, millions of Americans have been in a constant state of panic that our country’s borders were being overrun by Mexicans – or worse yet – Liberals. But they’ve all been looking the wrong direction. The region we most desperately need to secure is not our southern border. It’s our northern one – with Canada.
Oh sure, at first blush Canadians seem like nice, friendly, even-tempered folk. It’s all a ruse. Don’t fall for it. I should know. I made the egregious mistake of marrying a Canadian. We’ve been married for 36 years – and I still don’t trust her. At night she steals most of the covers and the next morning acts like she has no idea how that happened. Sure, sweetie. Sure…
Did you know that, at over 5,500 miles in length, the USA – Canada border is the longest unprotected border in the world? For the vast majority of this stretch, there is nothing separating the two nations other than a few thousand well-maintained Canadian backyard hedges to block their nefarious attack on our sacred soil.
Here’s a fact that should terrify you: In the past 250 years, more than 90% of Canada’s population has quietly amassed within 100 miles of the American border. Why is it that they’re all huddled so close to us? The answer’s obvious: They’re all freezing to death. They plan to invade the USA mainly to get warm – and to erect Tim Horton’s Donut Shoppes all over this once great land.
You may say I’m overreacting. I say you haven’t been paying close enough attention. One day soon you might discover that your innocent young child is being taught in school that the proper spelling is “colour” and “labour” and “theatre.” And they’ll tell you it’s 9 degrees outside. But that’s Celsius, so who really knows how cold it is? Do you want that for your children’s future?
Do me a favour, I mean, favor, and WAKE UP – before it’s too late. Canadians have long been jealous of Americans. They resent us for having more money, better football teams, and better beer. Okay, I’ve just been informed by my Canadian wife that Canada has better beer. But I’m not going to apologize for my error by saying, “Sorry, eh?” That’s what Canadians do all the time. Apologize. Canucks are annoyingly polite.
Canadians are highly skilled at curling. This is a curling stone. It could also be used as a weapon in hand-to-hand combat. If you’ve ever been hit in the head by one of these stones, you’d never forget it. The pain is excruciating.
Make no mistake. Our northern neighbors are preparing to invade us. Okay, I hear you countering with, “Hey, but didn’t Canada outlaw the sale of handguns and assault weapons? So won’t we have far superior weapons to defend ourselves?” Okay, so technically, you’re right about that. But in Canada, they have nine months of winter. As a result, they have accumulated the world’s largest stockpile of unregistered snowballs. And their Zamboni ice rink machines will crush you if you don’t get out of their way as they saunter towards you at 3 miles per hour.
Don’t think the Canadians won’t do it. They’re still pissed about the War of 1812, between Great Britain and the young United States – I forget which year it took place. Much of the war was fought on Canadian soil, and frankly, the American soldiers made a mess of several Canadian towns and villages and refused to pick up their litter. Most Canadians have not forgotten. And earlier this year, the USA women’s hockey team defeated the Canadian women’s team 6-3 in the 2023 Women’s World Hockey Championship. Our women beat theirs in their national pastime. So, yeah, Canadians have an axe to grind with Americans. It’s time to keep your kids safe inside your home because the invasion could be imminent.
Where exactly might the first wave of Canadian Mounties mount their attack? Experts have several theories. Perhaps, they might try a sneak attack by way of Niagara Falls. Personally, I doubt it, because it’s extremely hard to fit a Mounty into one of those wooden barrels, let alone their horse.
My best guess? Point Roberts, Washington State. Never heard of it? Neither had I until recently. Turns out Point Roberts is an exclave – the ONLY place in the entire lower 48 states where in order for an American to get there, they must travel through Canada. That’s because it sits at the bottom of a tiny appendage of land jutting out from Canada just below the 49th parallel. [See map below.] With no airport or ferry service, you can only get there from the rest of Washington state by car – which requires you to drive through British Columbia before re-entering a USA border crossing at Point Roberts.
See that sliver of land hanging down from Canada? That’s Point Roberts, WA. Canadians feel the border was drawn wrong and that the USA ripped them off by stealing this chunk of their land. And they’re itching to get it back.
I recently visited Point Roberts. I have to say, our border security there is non-existent. The most meaningful barrier to entry from Canada into Point Roberts is a trampoline set in Harriet Wilson’s backyard. Its side netting is very tall. Otherwise, you literally can walk right through the border, about as easily as my annoying neighbor Bert Higgins can meander into my backyard to let his dog take a crap on my lawn.
Point Roberts is a tiny sliver of American soil, not even five square miles in size. Only 1,100 people live there. A sleepy, tranquil, mostly forested peninsula with only one grocery store, one restaurant, and for reasons I don’t understand, three bowling alleys. But in my extensive research for this article (which consisted of googling “facts about Point Roberts”), to my shock and horror, I learned that Canadians own 75 percent of the properties in Point Roberts, USA. They’re pissed that the USA grabbed this miniscule slice of Canada and they want it back – but they are quick to point out they’re in no hurry, America. Canadians are every bit as patient as they are polite.
Not to alarm you further, but the invasion has already begun. Most American news networks have refused to cover this story. But before long, Canadians will quietly, politely be buying up property in border states like Washington, Wisconsin, Montana, Maine, Minnesota and Michigan – pretty much any state beginning with the letters M or W. But it won’t end with those letters, I assure you. I’m talking to you, Vermont!
This is an actual photo of the border between Point Roberts, USA (left) and Tsawwassen, Canada (right). It is literally divided by just this ten-inch concrete barrier. Totally impenetrable – if you were a tortoise or a clam.
While millions of MAGA hatters keep screaming about building a wall to keep out the Mexicans and LGBTQ+ supporters, Canadians will sneakily be pouring over our northern border riding astride their pet moose or polar bears. And then one morning you’ll wake up to learn that our national meal of pizza has been replaced by something called poutine, a fattening French Canadian meal of French Fries, cheese curds, and gravy. Disgusting.
It’s high time we built that high wall to keep out the ravenous Canadian horde. Don’t worry, we’ll make them pay for it. And since the Canadian dollar is worth only 76 cents US, it won’t cost them nearly as much to build. So, a win-win.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
Recently I competed in a pickleball tournament. That’s me on the far right. As you can plainly see, I WON A MEDAL. Admittedly, mine was for 25th place, but my wife doesn’t need to know that. If she asks you, back up my story that I took FIRST PLACE.
Recently, I signed up for my very first pickleball tournament. Previous to that the last time I participated in a formal athletic competition of any kind, Richard Nixon was our nation’s Commander-in-Chief. In case you’re curious what that previous sporting event was, it was a high school swim meet. I did the backstroke. I came in fourth, barely missing establishing a new school record for fastest time in the 100-meter backstroke by a mere 57 seconds. That was fifty years ago.
I signed up for our local pickleball association’s Labor Day Pickleball Tournament. I decided to throw my hat into the ring in part because in the official promotion on the website I read that several winners would win a new CAR. It was only after I arrived at the tournament that on a closer re-read, I discovered that I had misread the part about “several players will win a new CAP.” I’m starting to think I might be slightly dyslexic, I’m not sure.
The entry fee was only $20 – an extremely reasonable price for the opportunity to spend three and a half hours being repeatedly reminded how much I suck at pickleball. The doubles tournament format was Round Robin, which means for each new game you’re paired with a different partner. This afforded me the chance to meet lots of new people, not to mention enjoy playing seven different matches against a wide variety of competitors who took turns demonstrating how far superior they were at this sport than I was. Thanks, everybody! You all taught me the greatest sports lesson of all – humility.
At first, I felt pretty good about my chances. I was returning almost every shot my opponents sent my way. But then I was informed that this was just the pre-game warm-up, when people were supposed to gently dink the ball over the net. Once the games officially got underway, I was caught off guard by how hard the other players routinely hit the ball at me. It was almost as if all my opponents deliberately wanted me to lose. That’s not very sportsmanlike, if you ask me.
This may come as a shock to some of my regular readers, but, as with most sports, I’m not that good at pickleball. Over time, I’ve concluded that my primary role in just about any match I play in any sport is to make my opponent feel much better about their own athletic prowess. I am very good at this. So, no, I didn’t win the tournament. My dreams of winning a cap, much less a car, vanished quickly.
In my defense, the only reason I did not don the King’s Crown – or Queen’s Crown (just trying to avoid accusations of coming across as sexist) – as the tournament champion at the conclusion of the event was my relative lack of speed, power, accuracy, endurance, or any semblance of a strategy. Personally, I feel I more than made up for my severe athletic deficiencies with my above-average penmanship, good posture, and noteworthy personal hygiene. But apparently the judges didn’t take any of these into consideration in awarding the crown. So unfair.
In retrospect, I’m confident I would have fared better in the final rankings had I only remembered to stop at the bank beforehand to take out cash to bribe the judges. I believe I could have swayed at least a couple of them to alter the results had I just slipped a couple of crisp Andrew Jackson’s into their pockets.
This is me during one of the seven matches I played in this round robin doubles event. I remember that at this moment I was thinking, “I sure hope they serve ice cream at this event.” My partner was probably thinking, “How did I get paired with this loser?”
I’m pleased to report that in this tourney, everyone was a winner. Even me! Every participant was awarded a medal. In my case, I believe mine must have been for “perfect attendance.” That’s the only plausible explanation I can come up with for how I earned a medal. Of course, when I got home, and my wife saw the medal around my neck, I may have slightly exaggerated when I told her my medal was for First Place. For the first time in a long time, she was actually proud of me. Please don’t tell her I lied, okay? I’d hate to disappoint her.
“Then does this mean you won the new car you told me about in the brochure?” she asked excitedly. I didn’t have the heart to deflate her enthusiasm by explaining that I had misread the word “cap” as “car.” So, I told her, “Yes, that’s right, honey. It should arrive in four to six weeks.” By then I’m sure she will have forgotten all about it. Problem avoided.
I learned several valuable lessons from my first official sport competition since I began shaving back in 1973. First, it’s not just about winning. It’s about showing up and participating. Second, if I ever enter another pickleball tournament, I probably should take a few lessons to improve my game. And third, I should know better than to insult the judges by trying to pay them off with $20 bills. I’ll need to step up my game and offer them a few Benjamin’s instead. Those judges aren’t cheap.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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Check out this photo of Bert and Margaret Elsinger. They used to be such nice people. Then they got sucked into a dark, mysterious cult – the cult of Pickleball. Sadly, once elderly people join this cult, they rarely escape.
[Author’s Note: As a nationally recognized expert on mental health and the proud owner of a doctor’s white medical jacket costume I bought on Amazon.com for a Halloween party a few years ago, I periodically share emails I receive from some of my patients in hopes it may shed light on an issue others may be grappling with. This is one of those letters. – TEJ ]
Dear Doctor Tim:
I hope you can help me. I’m extremely worried about my elderly parents. They’re both in their mid-seventies. Until six months ago, they seemed to lead normal, albeit boring, lives. My mom, Margaret, spent most of her days sewing dresses for her grandchildren and reading romance novels. My father, Bert, liked to go fishing and do the daily word Jumble in the newspaper.
But something’s changed lately, and I’m worried about them. I think they may have joined a cult. I know it sounds crazy but hear me out. They’ve both totally given up their normal hobbies and appear to have compiled a completely new group of friends – strangers I’ve never seen nor heard about before. No, they haven’t shaved their heads and thankfully, they’re not speaking in tongues or anything like that. But they’ve definitely changed.
The other day I saw them holding these paddles and swinging them at each other wildly. Do you think they might have joined some freaky S & M cult that gets off on spanking? I really don’t know what they’re up to, but I think I need them to get a mental health evaluation. They disappear in the middle of the day for hours at a time, several days a week. And when they head off, they never tell me where they’re going. One of them usually shouts something creepy like, “I’m going to spank your mom again!” What the heck is happening, Dr. Tim?
Lately I’ve noticed that they’re using words I’ve never heard them utter in the past. Words like “Fake dink” and “doing an Erne” and talking about some guy called “Nasty Nelson.” Sounds like a bad dude. Honestly, it’s like they’re speaking in code or something. And just this morning, they got into a heated argument when my mom seemed to be getting on my dad’s case shouting, “You’re always in the kitchen, Bert!” Dr. Tim, I’ve known my father for fifty years, and one thing I know is he’s NEVER in the kitchen. He feels cooking is a wife’s job. (I know. Don’t get me started.) Do you think this might be a sign of early stage dementia?
They used to watch BritBox murder mysteries every evening, but now they sit in front of the computer and watch YouTube videos about how to make pickles or something. Obsessively. I mean, seriously, Dr. Tim, how many ways are there to pickle something? I think they’re losing it. I worry they might be in some bizarre cult. But why now? Aren’t they too old to join a cult?
Dr. Tim, is there anything I can do to pull them out of this dark mysterious sect they appear to have been sucked into before it’s too late? – Signed, Concerned in Camano
Dear Concerned,
I appreciate your sharing your understandable concern about your parents. I won’t sugarcoat this. Your suspicions are correct. Your elderly parents, Margaret and Bert, have in fact entered into a cult. The cult of Pickleball. The good news is, as far as I can tell from my research, it’s a relatively innocuous, non-violent cult, except for Nasty Nelson. But I must warn you, they can be aggressive in their recruitment tactics, sending out legions of their members to indoctrinate unsuspecting folks like your parents. Tragically, in recent years, I’ve seen several close friends get swept up into their strange, obsessed world.
“Pickleballers” as the cult members weirdly refer to themselves, often appear at first glance to be positive, friendly, and engaging people. But be careful. This is how they lure you in. They’ll tell naïve senior citizens things like “it’s a great physical activity for your age” or “it’s a fun way to meet new people.” What they don’t tell you is that all those new people you’ll meet are…. PICKLEBALLERS! And they can be insufferable, rambling on about their current DUPR rating (don’t ask – you don’t want to know, trust me), or they’ll compare pickleball paddles for no apparent reason.
Check out this couple, Elsie and Art Claxton, proudly wearing their 1st place medals for their age group. Sadly, ever since a “friend” recruited them into this cult, it’s all they ever talk about. Ask Elsie about the weather and she’ll answer by explaining why you “can’t stand in the kitchen” – whatever that means. Their adult children are worried sick about them. Such a sad story.
I’ve lost some close friends to this enigmatic sect. Good people, normal people, who once they picked up that paddle somehow could no longer talk about anything else.
It’s extremely difficult to de-program someone once they’ve become indoctrinated into this bewitched world. Some families have tried to help their elderly parents withdraw from the sport by introducing them to shuffleboard or lawn bowling or darts, sort of the way medical professionals try to wean addicts off of heroin by substituting methadone. But in most cases, the septuagenarians just can’t handle the cold turkey withdrawal from this sport they desperately crave. And before you know it, they quickly lapse back into the cult, cheerfully saying odd expressions like “I’ll dink to that!”
Trust me. I know how alluring this game can be. Because I’m a victim, too. I was recently invited to play a pickup game. I had no idea what I was getting into. And before long, I was hooked. I wish you luck in getting your parents back. The odds are not in your favor, I have to tell you. Just ask my kids.
Let me know how it goes. I have to wrap this up. I can’t be late for my 1pm pickleball match. It’s a round robin. Many of my new best friends will be there. And one of them, a great guy named Bert, just bought a new ONIX Z5 graphite carbon fiber pickleball paddle that’s USA Pickleball Approved. I confess, I’m really jealous.
– Dr. Tim
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
Author’s Introduction: Everywhere in the news I’ve been reading about how Artificial Intelligence (AI) and programs like ChatGPT will be eliminating thousands of jobs in countless industries. Thanks to recent advances in AI, fashion magazines can create images of fashion models that are so realistic, there may soon be no need for human models. Writers and actors are on strike right now in part because of very real fears that artificial intelligence will make their jobs obsolete. Why pay a few hundred background actors thousands of dollars when movie producers now can just create digital fakes to accomplish the same thing? Why hire writers when ChatGPT can write a complex script in minutes?
It got me to thinking. Is MY job as a humor writer at risk? You tell me. The other day, I asked ChatGPT to “write a satirical humor article about being an American man married to a Canadian woman in the style of Tim Jones’s View From the Bleachers humor website.”(My wife is Canadian.) … and this is what it came up with:
Title: “Oh, Canada! A Puckishly American Man’s Misadventures in Maple Leaf Matrimony”
Greetings, hockey fans and puck heads alike! Today, I’d like to share my unique experience as a proud American man married to a delightful Canadian woman, affectionately known as my “maple syrup sweetheart.” Strap on your helmets and get ready for a journey through the quirks and charms of cross-border romance.
Firstly, let me confess that I thought I was marrying just any other woman. Little did I know, I was committing myself to a lifetime of bilingual conversations and excessive apologies. Yes, you heard me right, folks–Canadians apologize for everything. I wouldn’t be surprised if they say “sorry” for breathing. But hey, as an American, I’ve got thick skin and a whole lot of misunderstanding to embrace.
Let’s talk about the cultural differences, shall we? I thought I was up to date with Canadian customs, what with my ice hockey obsession and my newfound love for maple syrup. But apparently, I was as clueless as a Zamboni driver on roller skates.
For starters, there’s the language barrier. No, we don’t speak entirely different languages, but it’s close enough. She’d ask me if I want to grab a double-double at Tim Hortons, and I’d wonder if she wanted me to join her for an espresso and some multiplication tables. Turns out, it’s just coffee with double cream and double sugar. Simple, eh?
Oh, and the food! Canadians have some bizarre concoctions that defy logic. Poutine is a greasy dish of fries smothered in cheese curds and gravy–because heart attacks should be delicious, right? And don’t even get me started on ketchup chips. Seriously, I never knew tomatoes and potatoes were such a match made in heaven.
Speaking of heaven, I’ve learned that Canadian winters are practically a pilgrimage for any self-respecting Canuck. They bundle up in parkas that make them look like walking igloos and carry enough hot chocolate to keep an army warm. Meanwhile, I’m shivering like a Chihuahua caught in a snowstorm, wondering why they don’t just move somewhere sensible–like Florida.
Now, let’s talk sports. I’ve always been a die-hard American football fan, but my Canadian wife has successfully converted me into a hockey enthusiast. I must admit, watching grown men chase a tiny black puck on ice is oddly entertaining. Plus, there’s the bonus of watching players’ teeth fly out like confetti during a fight. It’s like an episode of “American Ninja Warrior” but with blades on their feet.
Of course, every country has its politics, and the Great White North is no exception. The Canadian political landscape is like watching a sitcom on steroids. I can’t tell if their politicians are genuinely nice or just putting on a show. But hey, they’re so polite that even when they criticize someone, it sounds like they’re reading a bedtime story.
On a more serious note, though, I have to give Canada credit for its healthcare system. My wife brags about not having to sell our house if she breaks a nail. Meanwhile, I’m stuck navigating the labyrinthine maze of American insurance claims just to get an Advil.
Despite our humorous cultural misunderstandings and occasional icy banters, being married to a Canadian woman is a truly eye-opening experience. She’s taught me the beauty of poutine, the joys of apologizing incessantly, and that love knows no borders.
So, if you’re an American man considering walking down the aisle with a Canadian beauty, remember, you’ll need to embrace their unique charm, adapt to their lingo, and learn to love hockey. But hey, it’s all worth it for the joy of sharing your life with someone who can make you laugh, even when you’re stuck in a polar vortex.
Eh?
Author’s Closing Note: This entire piece (except for my intro and this closing paragraph) was written by ChatGPT. Scary, isn’t it? That said, I would know in a heartbeat I didn’t write this piece as I would NEVER in a million years recommend someone “move somewhere sensible – like Florida.“ Now, I already hear your internal gears working. So let me stop you, okay? Please don’t post a snarky comment about how “THIS IS THE BEST THING YOU’VE WRITTEN IN AGES!” Sigh…
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m …. Out of a job.
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