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A warning to readers who are contemplating getting naked and unruly: You could be Tasered. As one of the few professional journalists who has not been laid off (as of this writing), I try to spot important trends in the news - failing financial institutions, government watchdogs doing the dirty boogie with the watchdogees, previously unknown bespectacled Alaskan women rocketing to the forefront of national politics - and explain them to you, the reader, in a way that leads you to believe I know what I'm talking about when nine times out of 10 I don't.
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It's time some courageous person exposes the global epidemic of mass dog weddings. I'm waiting. I'm still waiting. All right, I'll do it.
Here's how I figured it would happen: I'm sitting in a greasy spoon off some steaming Georgia blacktop, flirting with a red-headed waitress and waiting on a diablo sandwich and a Dr. Pepper, when in walks none other than Jerry Reed. He shakes off the road dust, orders a couple of burgers for his flop-eared dog outside in the big rig, glances at the bikers in the corner booths, then looks me straight in the eye.
America, our God-given right to eat hot dogs without worry is under siege.
The worst thing about the downturn in the newspaper industry, aside from massive layoffs, careers in ruins, frozen salaries and the grim realization that my only other marketable skill is frying hushpuppies at the fish camp, is the cutback in good, old-fashioned monkey coverage.
Area: Lake Hickory
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