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I am pushing the envelope of life, liberty, the pursuit of better tee times and age 61 (age 60…that’s 16 Celsius, which sounds a whole lot better). And I have opened the envelope to monthly USPS missives on the ravages of COPD, AARP life insurance and my friends at the Neptune Society. Yes, we have become something of a Cremation Nation. Keep those cards, letters and email submissions coming. After all, my personal spam filter sucks and I don’t feel so good myself.
Yep, the above headline and subhead refers to yours truly. Some who read this may be snickering with former knowledge of this, or nodding your head vigorously in agreement. To you I offer up a heartfelt apology. I don’t know what I was thinking. Actually, brainpower probably didn’t have much involvement. I have no excuses and I’m sorry for my behavior.
A flake is defined in the Urban Dictionary as: (n.) An unreliable person; someone who agrees to do something, but never follows through.
Hey there, dear reader-and-a-half. Again, I have been tardy in fulfilling my columnist duties, and for those of you who couldn’t find anything to wrap your Haddock and chips in, I apologize. I pondered penning a column about the amusing folly of designer Michael Kor’s Astroturf bikini (a veritable bargain at $540), but that subject turns out to be quite skimpy, both literally and literary. Plus I’ve had more pressing matters on my mind lately.
