It’s like modern baseball, lousy with conspicuous, shameless artificial additives and cheap con jobs.
It’s now almost an obligation to stand at first and signal your dugout for group approval — a shallow ritual — after hitting a checked-swing bloop single.
But diminished standards have become standardized. Even the natural act of laughter has been compromised to a con.
If I tell you, one-on-one, a joke, and your response to the punch line is to stare at me while emitting a loud, sustained, “Woo!” rather than laughter, I’d think there was something wrong with you and that I’d wasted my time.
