by Regis Boff
Growing up, my father would send me out to set fire to wild kale. Sometimes he gave me a hand-held sickle demanding that I crouch low and keep the weed at bay at least temporarily with wide swings. It much improved the golf swing that never came in handy. That illustrated I admit that health was not a daily procedure when I grew up like it is today. White bread sugar and butter sandwiches make slender arguments against eating weeds.
My parents were not neglectful just simply ill informed. I remain unfairly stubborn on the subject and have been rejected by most of my Democratic friends as a fool. I get that, and I secretively understand they are right. I can be a dick. I ran into this picture this morning, and it made me realized just how marginalized I had become.