Doug Blough

Well, yet another year is upon us and that makes about 2,025 of them, give or take. After so many, I can't help but reminisce about how scared I was back in the 80s when I heard Nostradamus had predicted it would all end around at or about my 30th birthday. My ever seeing the year 2000 seemed like an antiquated, outlandish notion. Mired in spiritual upheaval and living direct opposite of recommended by our Pentecostal preacher during my formative years, I was often shaking in my Beatle boots!

Oh, I had end-of-world dreams alright, but I guess they weren't vivid enough to discourage me from popping slopping down beers every night after work, or prevent my hungover, NFL Sundays from proceeding with two cigarettes burning in the same ashtray and hundreds of bucks riding on NFL games. Yes, I was an extremely conflicted young man on his way to hell in a hand basket ... LITERALLY!

But here it is all these decades later, and I'm at least slightly less spiritually conflicted and no longer have beer for breakfast on Sunday mornings coming down. In taking stock of the past year, it was certainly an exciting, eventful one with plenty of big changes here at the Blough Musty Manor. I purchased several new mousetraps for the stove whack-a-mole games, and also a new shower curtain. One must keep things new and exciting.

All seriousness aside though, the past year was a pretty regretful affair. My body held up just fine, thanks to my faithful dog Naomi insisting on daily, heart-healthy walks, but my mind hasn't fared as well. Yes, I've had overwrought thoughts in knots while wearing culottes. (I just threw that in for rhyme sake; I haven't worn culottes in years). But I have been living through two-plus years of mental doldrum for no apparent reason.

About five years ago after leaving our wildly popular radio show, Sports Nuts of the Round Table, I darkened the door of Brewgards and ordered me up a beer. A smiling lady down the bar turned and asked, “You're Doug Blough aren't you? Are you as funny in person as in the newspaper?” I deadpanned, “Not even close; I think you'll find me quite dull face-to-face.” And that was her first clue I might indeed be a humorous cat.

A rubbernecking clown behind me named Eddie rested his chin on my shoulder and butted in with, “I'm his ghostwriter.” This lady, who I'd soon learn was Janice Barton, quipped, “I've been talking to you the last hour, and I KNOW you're not his ghostwriter.” She then introduced me to her brother Eric, and we did nothing but laugh the remainder of the evening.

We, along with a vital cog later thrown in, Eric's wife Diana, have been close friends ever since and the laughter seldom stops when we bend elbows. Fast forward though till this last year and I feel — no, I know, I've let the crew down. Anyone now asking me if I'm as funny in person would be disappointed to learn I'm pretty much a walking stiff. (And yes, also walking stiff).

If you don't believe my self-analysis, just ask Dave “the Dream” Beemer and Myron “the …” well, just Myron Heny how much fun I was to golf with last summer. They may answer I was about as much fun as sleeping under sandpaper sheets. They might add that 83-year-old Myron beat me a round or two, but they'd be darn near lying!

So don't let my eerily insightful and wildly entertaining columns fool you; I'm mired in a maddening funk that has nothing to do with being depressed per se, or wishing I had more money or wishing I'd have married and had children. Sure, I'd accept a charitable handout if one was offered, but for the most part, I'm plenty content with the hand I was dealt. Just reading Trena Eiden's columns tell me I should be glad I never married!

Ah, but I kid Trena and Gar, (if that IS his real name). They sound quite happy, but I am not. As stated, it's not like I'm depressed for any discernible reason; it's more of an inexplicable, unexplainable loss of spontaneity. I've gone from class clown to dormitory dullard and can't find my way back.

So, please pray for the humor writer impostor. I sure don't want to have to hire a ghostwriter — especially one named Eddie.