When I was a young man a lot of things in life didn’t make much sense, but I didn’t question them for a number of reasons. First, as a youngster, I didn’t feel I had the right to question people obviously much brighter than me. Second, I didn’t have the time. Third, I didn’t give a rat’s ear.
Now that I’m about as mature as I’m going to get, I question everything: Why do women grow unwanted hair on their legs while men are begging for hair on their head? How is it that Dr. Grobe can replace my hips, knees, shoulders and possibly my heart, but can’t cure my stinking cold or stop my nose from growing?
Over the generations, kids in cars have always complained the same way: “Are we there yet?”
You’d think, as smart as we’ve become, we would have found a way to stop them. All cars should have the taxi wall between the front seat and the rest of the vehicle.
I’ve pretty much given up on the old things that I’ve tried to correct since I’ve failed miserably.
A whole new world of annoyances have invaded my world in recent years: Texting, rap noise, Miley Cirus, dancing with the scantily clad bimbos, taking my shoes off at the airport and lying to myself about the calories in Cheetos.
One of the things that bugs me most nowadays are those little stickers they put on Fuji apples. Why must every apple have its own sticker?
When I go to the Casey’s market, “Fuji Apples” is printed on a large sign right in front of the apples. I will admit that the Fujis and the Golden Delicious sometimes intermingle on the shelf, but that’s a good thing. It keeps your mind sharp to bite into an apple and try to figure out if it’s a Fuji or a Golden Delicious. Biting into a sticker is a bad experience with no upside.
I’ve worn out many toothbrushes in recent years scraping the apple stickers off my remaining teeth. One time I left a Fuji sticker on my large front tooth and complained to Frankie at Casey’s.
Frankie just smiled, as he always does, and said, “You should brush that sticker off your tooth, Ed.”
