Do we love the unexpected, or are we just crazy for crazy?

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I want a man who’s kind and understanding. Is that too much to ask of a millionaire?” Zsa Zsa Gabor

“My boyfriend gives our dogs their own voices,” one woman wrote on Reddit’s Ask Women the other day, describing the antics of her boyfriend who appears to have way too much time on his hands. “It gets hilariously ridiculous sometimes,” the woman added, “but I love it.” No doubt the dogs love it, too, but barking only gets you so far in this world.

Another woman said her boyfriend’s turtle has its own Instagram account. Again, funny, charming — a…

The sad truth about politics and people in America.

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Beware of false prophets, which comes to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they’re ravening wolves.” Mathew 7:15

Donald Trump isn’t particularly worried about this election. He should be, but he isn’t. He’s done the job he set out to do. There were glitches, and people saying he was a disaster, but so what? He never ran for office expecting to do anything. Like every politician in Washington with a keen sense of self preservation, the more you say, the less you have to accomplish.

Maybe he learned this from his mentor and fixer, Roy Cohn, the right hand to…

Where else can you go when John Fogerty tells you to take a hike?

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They’ve got everything for you men to enjoy…” The Village People (YMCA)

President Donald Trump doesn’t pay much attention to lyrics. His favourite song “Is That All There Is?” sung by Peggy Lee, describes watching a house burn down and turning to drink. Why does Trump like it? “It’s a great song because I’ve had these tremendous successes,” he said. “And then I’m off to the next one.”

Missing a song’s point seems to be standard with this president. It’s like there’s a little man on one shoulder doing the “daddy dance.” On the other, he’s singing something else entirely…

Baste your bird, don’t debase it, for crying out loud.

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My cooking was so bad, my kids thought Thanksgiving was to commemorate Pearl Harbor.” Phyllis Diller

As history describes it, turkeys were first introduced to the Thanksgiving dinner table way back in the early 1600s. No record explains exactly why the Pilgrims chose turkey for this historic feast. They weren’t the plump and juicy turkeys we know today— in fact, they were embarrassingly skinny by comparison. Then again, so were cows and sheep.

No, the choice of wild turkey remains a bit of a conundrum, although it might have been because the Pilgrim’s guests were the Wampanoag tribe.

The Wampanoag…

Talking is what we know and what makes us feel safe.

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Everybody’s talking at once in a hypnotic, hyper din: the cocktail party from hell.” Maureen Dowd

“Reading is 4 chumps, brotha,” Mew16 wrote on reddit, an opinion shared by many in the discussion group — and not just brothas. As one woman explained, “Maybe it was being forced to read for 12 years, and the whole thing associated with shitty teachers and shitty people and shitty memories.”

Whether “shitty” memories can account for not reading, or the content of books themselves, certainly there’s a turn-off rate. …

A short story by Robert Cormack.

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Celia and I talked earlier this afternoon—or she did, anyway. It was the first time we’d spoken in over a week. She kept telling me there was nothing left to say. I thought there was. I thought there was a lot more to say. She didn’t want to hear it. “I’m hanging up,” she said, and then she did.

The month before, I’d sent her a birthday card. I wasn’t sure she got it. She’d been living with her mother, Marguerite, but something happened. Celia wouldn’t talk about it. By then, she’d left and moved in with her father, René…

A short story by Robert Cormack.

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A whole stack of memories never equal one little hope.” Charles M. Schulz

I’d just moved into the main floor of an old Victorian house. Above me were four flight attendants, two girls and two guys. They came in at all hours. One night, I was just getting home myself. We arrived at the same time. They introduced themselves. “I’m Jacqueline and this is Elaine,” Jacqueline said. They were both pretty, early thirties, still in their uniforms. “That’s Claude and Howie,” Jacqueline then said, pointing to the guys. I’d heard Claude and Howie on the stairs different nights. They giggled…

To Mencken, with love and squalor.

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Nobody ever went broke underestimating the tastes of the American public.” H.L. Mencken

At one point in my career, I made $10,000 a month. I only mention this because a week before that, I was broke. I didn’t even own a warm coat.

Being without a warm coat in Canada is very un-Canadian. We’re serious about coats. Certainly more so than, say, Georgians. They’re serious about conspiracies and presidents with bad hair who talk about conspiracies.

I’m glad Canadians are more serious about coats.

I digress. You want to know how I made millions from writing. Was it a screenplay…

Now you clap?

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To his dog, every man is Napoleon.” Aldous Huxley

There’s an old joke that goes like this: A hooker meets up with her pimp and hands over her night’s earnings. The total is one hundred dollars and twenty-five cents. The pimp says, “Who’s the cheap bastard who gave you twenty-five cents?” “That’s the problem,” she replies. “They all did.”

I face a similar dilemma, one I’m sure others have faced without being hookers. I’ve always earned a living as a writer. That said, you’d think I’d know how to be popular by now. For a time, I thought I was…

A short story by Robert Cormack.

Photo by Viktor Keri on Unsplash

I’d rather be ashes than dust.” Jack London

Floyd was sitting at the kitchen table, looking at the ash on his hands. He got up, went to the sink, washed away what he could, then looked out the kitchen window. The snow was still coming down outside. It was the kind that melted when it hit the ground. He wasn’t expecting snow this early in November. He also wasn’t expecting to have his father’s ashes on his hands.

That afternoon, he’d gone out to rake the leaves. Dark clouds were coming in from the west. He was in the garage…

Robert Cormack

I did a poor imitation of Don Draper for 40 years before writing my first novel. I'm currently in the final stages of a children's book. Lucky me.

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