Original post date: May 26, 2007 - Saturday
Life? Don't talk to me about life.
The front door to his house swung open and the sullen man strode inside. The visage instantly familiar to most of us... this, however, was not the man we knew. This was not the dignified, even striking, iconic figure... proud to be the very embodiment of the sacred southern stereotype. This was a being defeated... distant and forlorn. He didn't even break stride as he entered his home, wheeling the door shut behind him carelessly with his left hand, the same hand in which was crumpled his previously pressed white coat, which he then simply let fall to the floor. Simultaneously, with a single finger of his right hand, manipulated in a manner something akin to a fish hook, he tugged uncomfortably at his signature string tie. With a gloomy gait and a face that strongly radiated pain despite a complete lack of expression, the gentleman made his way to the liquor cabinet. He grabbed a lowball glass, one very obviously crafted of fine crystal, and dropped a couple of ice cubes in... the procurement of ice being more gesture than genuine. No need to chew up precious volume needlessly with ice. He filled the glass, just a hair short of the rim, with his preferred brand of Kentucky bourbon and made his way to his favorite chair. He took his seat, slowly and deliberately. Despite the extraordinary comfort of his setting, the venerable old man was at disease. And as the broken soul raised the glass to his lips, eager for the first sweet sip of the only thing that brought him comfort anymore, Colonel Sanders muttered to himself, "God damn, fried chicken".
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