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Bare nubs 

Here's another column of distilled wisdom for those with attention spans short already and getting shorter all the time. Pithy observations.  Boiled down to just the bare nubs. Nuance-free. Money-back guarantee if you're not completely satisfied.

OK, then, here we go.

You think you know what's important in life ... and then the toilet stops up.

Doesn't it make you wonder what high elective office Warren Carpenter would be about to assume if only he'd lived this long?

We're all kidding ourselves because not one among us can squirm through the eye of that needle. Unless you give it all up — and all of it really does mean all of it — you can't get there from here.

Think what a swell government we'd have if we held congressmen to the same standards of performance and behavior that we do Boy Scouts.

2010 U.S. voters used their ballots to punish themselves similar to the way European flagellants in the Middle Ages used scourges embedded with metal spikes — long solemn spattered processions flogging themselves to hamburger. That old way was gorier, probably more effective, certainly more honorable.

There's no esthetic component now. All Calvin or Cromwell, their way or the highway, be there or be square.

I'll not have anything to do with anybody who uses the expression "Spot on."

Saraspeak rules now so why go on wasting space — this space right here, for example — with the old Jeffspeak? If you hold truths to be self-evident, why enumerate them? Just say yodda yodda or you know.  The whole GettAdd when just the of, by & for would suffice. The whole quaint DecInd when all you need is the life, lib and happy chase. Eliminate most of the old-timy verbiage and you eliminate most of the remaining pesky thought. Discourse, ratiocination — who needs 'em?

Deer season notes: (1) You don't have to hunt deer now. They find you. (2) A deer don't have no filet mignon. (3) Where you see a dollar bill, a hunter sees both a buck and dough.

On a church marquee: "Jesus said if you love me feed my sheep." Trouble with that, they get to expecting it.

A good run of luck at the track lately reminds me of a metaphor in common use at the old House of Dominos: "He's so lucky right now he could shit into a swinging jug."

Seems to me a big part of the problem is that we've lost all ability to exteriorize things. Dancing pixils have lured us into a kind of  subjectivism that thinking people abandoned with embarrassment two centuries ago.

Far as I know, there's not a whit of scientific evidence to back up the claim that friction heat emanating from a single Duggar bedroom has been determined to be a significant contributing factor in global warming.

I wonder if those who indulge the popular zombie motifs give any real credence to the happy afterlife metaphors that festoon most newspaper obituaries these days.

Remember V-E Day (May 8) and V-J Day (September 2), when we'd always have a parade (not a big one, no) and a modest tribute by a Normandy survivor at one and by a Bataan survivor at the other? When do you think we'll get our first V-A Day, marking the triumphal conclusion of our purpose-driven campaign in Afghanistan? Before or after Hell freezes over?

This is Kansas: "All we are is dust in the wind." This is Assmunch: "Yeah, so?"

This is Pascal: "We say in vain, he has grown; he has changed. He is also the same."  This is Assmunch again: Very little that I used to consider funny is funny to me now. That's not because the material is different; it's because I'm different. Something else is also different but I don't know what.

The first part of this century will be remembered as the time when human beings actually typed text messages on tiny wireless telephone keyboards and sent those messages to friends and relatives, and received and read instant replies from those same friends and relatives, and from other people, while at the same time inattentively piloting giant steel vehicles at high speeds along crowded streets and busy highways. We did some other things, too, but none as impressive as that.

I've received an inquiry about a proposed historical melodrama that presents David O. Dodd, the Boy Martyr of the Confederacy, as a black youngster.  Not black black but more woodpile for plausibility. I can't get my mind around that, but I would like to see a treatment with the Boy Martyr as gay. I don't mean a lot of nudge nudge wink winkery, or byplay with Gen. Steele over being well "hung," etc. It could be subtle. Only problem, they didn't have gay people back then — but I'm thinking that could be finessed.   

You shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. Or in the other end either.  

Got debts? You don't have to pay them off or do anything responsible like that. You just hit something called the Reset button and they magically disappear. A bankruptcy lawyer here can show you how. I learned about this from his TV commercial.

It's obvious from George W. Bush's book that he found the presidency boring. He seems always to have found life itself boring. What you'd expect from a man whose hobby was cutting brush on the ranch — fake brush on a fake ranch. Imaginary sling blade.

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