READ In Fifty Years We'll All Be Chicks...: . . . And Other Complaints from an Angry Middle-Aged White Guy A couple years back, I was at the Phoenix airport bar. It was empty except for one heavy-set, gray bearded, grizzled guy who looked like he just rode his donkey into town after a long day of panning for silver in them thar hills. He ordered a Jack Daniels straight up, and that's when I overheard the young guy with the earring behind the bar
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