Lee Pitts

Every year, my in-laws make it a point to invite someone to Christmas dinner who is poor, downtrodden and an outcast from society. Usually it’s me, so it’s no surprise when I receive a polite request every year to drive five hours one way to attend their annual Christmas feast.

I love art, and the walls of my home are covered with it. I’m talking real art, not that abstract/impressionism garbage like the stuff shown at a modern art show in New York years ago where the judges accidentally gave “Best In Show” to an air conditioning vent that wasn’t even entered in the competition.

I don’t do meetings because once you’ve been to an FFA meeting, everything else is amateur hour. Attend any meeting today, and you’ll see folks holding a discussion without a motion on the floor, no flag salute and no knowledge whatsoever of Robert’s Rules of Order.

I could never be a purebred breeder because I couldn’t get all the paperwork done, especially naming the animals. It’s hard enough coming up with titles to my weekly columns, but to have to name 500 or 1,000 cattle every year would drive me even more crazy.

It seems like if you are anyone of significance these days, you simply must have your very own personal assistant. You know, someone to organize your closet, wrap your packages, run your errands, manage your life, pay your bills and offer lifestyle advice.

I read in the Wall Street Journal that children born today have a good chance of living until they are 150. Just imagine how the obituary page might read then: