Flight delays are dreary. That’s because airports are dreary places. Long before they started hiring proctologists to greet you at the gate, all the humanity had been chased out of the whole process of going from here to there. Things could only go from bad to worse, and boy howdy, haven’t they?
Don’t get me wrong. Any man might sing, but it’s what they sing that matters. It’s how you separate the wheat from the chaff that determines if you’re qualified to stand with a pint and your hand and roar along with the rest of them, the best of them.
For instance, real men don’t sing Helen Reddy songs. They’re not interested in karaoke versions of selections from the Flower Drum Song. Real men go missing when Barry Manilow comes on the jukebox. Demi Lovato songs don’t enter into it.
Back before the Star Wars/Star Trek debate. Before the Samantha Stevens/Jeannie dilemma. Back before the Morticia Addams/Lily Munster dustup. Back before the Ginger/Mary Ann contretemps. Way back before all that, there was the Charlie Chaplin/ Buster Keaton controversy. Who was the best physical comedian in the world? It’s still an open question.
October 9th is Leif Erikson Day! I’ve been waiting all year for this one. I’ve been working on my parade float for months. It’s mostly covered with the skulls of my vanquished enemies. Don’t worry, I’ve also got big stew pots for boiling lambs and missionaries, and tubs of barley porridge for everyone!