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I was at an end-of-the-line thrift store, the place where items that don’t sell at regular thrift stores go to be heaped into bins for one last public mauling before they chipped up, melted down or shot into space, though one of those final outcomes may not be as commonplace as the others.
It was the first phone call home from our newly minted college student, coming less than 24 hours after we unpacked her belongings, shook her hand, wished her well and told her to write when she could.
Our daughter is inheriting my wife’s car to begin her college adventure.
As I have said before, people will steal anything.
Editor’s note: Scott Hollifield was preparing this week for his daughter’s departure for college (weeping, writing checks, etc.) This edited column was originally published in 2001 when his daughter was 4 years old.
Six days before the 45th anniversary of astronaut Neil Armstrong’s “small step” onto the surface of the moon, a NASA astronomer made a bold prediction.
The situation at the CDC isn’t A-OK and officials must take corrective measures ASAP before we all end up sicker than a DOG.
As I predicted in a column back in July 1951 headlined “Robots will soon take over the world,” robots are taking over the world, or at least my portion of the world.
In nearly three decades at a small-town newspaper, the one true constant has been the blare of the police scanner.
Independence Day will soon arrive with a bang.
Update: Cosmically speaking, I am still $20 in the hole.
Out in Spokane, Wash., Sheriff Ozzie Knezovich wants to make this perfectly clear: Serve and protect but keep your pants on.
My daughter will graduate from high school on June 13 and leave for college in the fall. That’s given me the opportunity to take a look back at some old columns in which she was the reluctant subject. I hope you enjoy this one from 2004.
What’s the most impressive thing about Godzilla?
Twenty bucks later, I realize I may not be as good at reading people as I thought.
If I had a time machine, the first thing I would do is go back to 1965 and ask the head honchos of the newspaper for which I now toil why no one on staff bothered to walk a few blocks to the Post Office at 3 p.m. on Nov. 13 and take a picture of “the world’s strongest wrestler” pulling a car through town by his hair.
As a man who has learned a few things in nearly 50 years on the planet, I sometimes like to use this space to offer words of wisdom to our youngest readers, who, considering the newspaper industry’s current demographics, are around 47 years old.
Miley Cyrus owes me $30.44.
It’s still early, but here is my favorite Associated Press story of the month: A Maine man hunting for wild mushrooms sees a porcupine hit and killed by a car, cuts the porcupine open in search of a magic stone that reportedly forms inside porcupines but instead finds an unresponsive baby porcupine, which he massages back to life and takes home to bottle feed before he turns it over to a licensed wildlife rehabilitator.
Recently, according to ABC News, a woman was briefly jailed and charged with child endangerment – a charge that was later dropped – when a waitress at a restaurant in Conway, Ark. called the cops after seeing her simultaneously drinking booze and breastfeeding a baby.
O, do I have a possum problem.
Editor’s note: Scott Hollifield claims he was too busy arm wrestling Vladimir Putin in an effort to end the crisis in the Ukraine this week to write a new column. Enjoy this one first published in 2004.
By SCOTT HOLLIFIELD
In 1928, Herbert Hoover’s party promised a chicken in every pot and a car in every garage. Eighty-six years later, Texas political hopeful Tink Nathan wants roadkill in every garage, awaiting every pot.
There is nothing more low down and despicable than a dirty, rotten sled thief.
Here’s a helpful household hint: Sucking a nickel into a decades-old upright vacuum cleaner will produce a smell akin to setting fire to a recap tire and a sound one might associate with feeding an aluminum baseball bat into a wood chipper.
The American public, at least the miniscule portion that regularly reads this column in some of the finest newspapers still operating in the mostly rural South, has demanded it and I intend to give it to them: an in-depth, no-holds-barred investigation into the explosive dangers of cow flatulence.
For the first time in 100 years, my town has no movie theater.
My dog has until Feb. 28 to prove herself a hero and win both of us a trip to Hollywood, a pocketful of cash for our favorite charity (The Scott Hollifield Foundation for Underpaid Columnists) and a star-studded night on the town with the sexy and vivacious Miss Betty White.
According to a news release I received in my professional newspaper editor’s official email inbox, most Americans believe the greatest weekend ever — I repeat, the greatest weekend ever to be experienced by anyone on the face of the planet – would be spent schmoozing with a sports celebrity and slurping barbecue sauce.
The clock on the wall says it’s 2014 — I have one of those fancy yearly clocks — and a plethora of new laws are in effect across the nation.
I will need complete silence while I gaze into my brand new crystal ball — it’s a 50-inch, LED 1080p model I bought on Black Friday after trampling an elderly woman and kicking a small child in a stroller out of the way to grab it first — and predict the major events of 2014.
While on my knees in a parking lot — rarely a good place to be — I learned that library patrons, in addition to being some of our more literate citizens, are quite observant.
This time each year we can count on three things: Leftover turkey sandwiches, horrific stories of shoppers trampled at Black Friday sales and the new list of the top 10 toys most likely to send Junior to the emergency room with a knot on his head or worse.
By SCOTT HOLLIFIELD
It was a wildly enthusiastic email from a reader that caused me to spring into action. (I hurt my back while springing awkwardly and will file a workers’ comp claim soon after the completion of this piece.)
To me, the scream sounded like someone being attacked by a rabid, radioactive, ax-wielding, fire-breathing shark.
There is nothing people love more at a street festival than winning a kitten in a game of chance.
According to a recent survey, people enjoy polls.
America is facing a toilet-related crisis.
I knew the moment the orthodontist pried the metal braces from my daughter’s newly straightened teeth, handed her the molded removable retainers that would keep his expensive handiwork in place that those retainers would eventually disappear.
Mars needs women – and men, for that matter – and more than 200,000 of them have applied to colonize the Red Planet through the Mars One Astronaut Selection Program, aiming to turn the fourth rock from the Sun into the peaceful paradise we’ve made of our own planet.
I don’t like home-improvement projects. I tend to like things the way they are. It’s easier that way.
The only bigger recent news than Miley Cyrus shaking her moneymaker from one end of basic cable to the other was the release of the Farmer’s Almanac’s highly anticipated 2013-14 winter weather forecast.
Sometimes, government regulations on the interstate transportation of 46-year-old dead stuffed polar bears used for years as quirky conversation pieces in Pennsylvania restaurants can go too far.
I can add this to my resume: rat wrangler.
I sat at one of the long tables in the Baptist church fellowship hall, elbow to elbow with my wife’s kin and friends of my wife’s kin, trying to keep the gravy from the country-style steak out of my chicken pie.