Yesterday was one of those blah days for the old guy. He was out of orange juice to start the day. The coffee was weak and too sweet. The toast was burnt, and it just started to rain. The dog wanted to go out, then she wanted in, then she wanted to go out. Chest pains from recent garden work were probably the first sign of a heart attack. His morning cigarette was hot and harsh, and the cough after lighting up was probably cancer. The sty on his eye was still working its magic, and the delights of a fever blister on his lip was making its presence known. He needed a shave and his eyes were blurry and burny; probably losing his eyesight. His legs were cramped and full of kinks, another sign of a heart attack. The birds at the feeder outside were all staring intently at the old guy through the kitchen window, looking for their morning handout, rain or no rain.
It was kind of day where Insider just did not want to do anything and doing nothing did not appeal to him. On the radio, Johnny Williams was playing all of the wrong kind of music, and the steady stream of television commercials were unappealing. Through it all, Insider kept concentrating on the one bright spot in his life. He finally got rid of his athletics foot. Us old-timers know all about those types of days. Young-timers call them hangovers.
It’s a fact that every year more and more people opt to evacuate the cities. Something like a thousand families a month bug out for greener pastures. At the same time, traffic in the cities grows worse every year. With so many people leaving town, where are all the motorists coming from?
On the rare occasion when Insider is forced to use the Ladies Room, he’s noticed that he always leaves the seat in the up position, and does so on purpose. Is it because he wants the ladies to know they have a stranger in their midst or is it some kind of “Zorro” complex?
And speaking of Zoor, last week a mystery reader sent the old guy a giant box of Goldenberg Peanut Chews. The box was unsigned, not even a “Z”.
Insider has paid tribute to I. Harry Goldenberg, creator of the famous Peanut Chew, who had recently gone to that great candyland in the sky. This week the old guy received a thank you note from David R. Goldenberg, grandson of the company founder, reassuring him that the peanut chew was alive and well and living at a factory in Philadelphia. Insider suspects David baby was the source of the giant peanut chew gift.