By Willis Cook
When I told my wife the title of this article she snorted her iced tea out her nose. “You’ve only got five hundred words!” she exclaimed. Perhaps the editor will allow me to make this a serial: forty months ought to be about right.
I don’t know what I have — “loathing syndrome,” perhaps. It is endemic among old people. I don’t go around with a chip on my shoulder, but more and more things drive me crazy.