It has been a hideous year. A wretched, stinking, hideous year. It was the kind of year that immerses you in hopelessness. The kind of year where even a raise was turned on its head and became a liability.
Not surprisingly, the thoughts that collect in your brain resemble the pus that pools in an open wound. They are yellowish and opaque and resemble congealed gravy.
Most of them are sour. A few are jocular. Some aspire to profundity. Of course, there is a difference between aspire and success. Consider this your warning.
Is there a more-perfectly named basketball player than Tim Duncan?
The tragedy of the eighties was that Hinckley missed and Chapman didn't.
If the Koch brothers earned a combined $910,000 per hour in 2015, can't we make $15?
The FBI processed more background checks in 2015 than in any other year on record, meaning more fire arms were purchased than ever before. Are we safe yet?
Does former Bears coach Lovie Smith deserve early consideration for the Hall of Fame because he reached the Super Bowl with a team quarterbacked by Rex Grossman?
If not for wrapping your brain around the myriad of exclusions, exceptions and conditions that affect your coverage, predicting your needs for the coming year and dealing with the reams of paperwork that arrive (none of which contains the bill—at least until three days before it's due)—all under the threat of a government-imposed fine—we wouldn't need health insurance.
Is there a more-appropriately named street in America than Wall Street?
Do black lives matter only when they're taken by white hands?
Anyone who votes for Donald Trump deserves Donald Trump. But leave those of us with IQs out of it, OK?
And speaking of America, wasn't it a great idea?