King Of Plain

You will never see me sporting a single black fingernail.

You will not suddenly notice one day that I have a large tattoo on my back depicting Marilyn Manson or “The Day The Music Died.”

You will not usually see me in a shirt or a pair of pants that cost more than 20 bucks.

You will not find me at one of the finer eateries ordering a meal that I cannot pronounce.

You will never see my hair undergo anything more complex than a “haircut.”

I wore white socks in grade school. I wore white socks in high school. I wear white socks now.

I would rather watch an hour of cartoons than do the New York Times crossword puzzle.

I will not ask for substitutions on the menu.

You can’t go wrong buying me a cone of vanilla ice cream.

Cloth napkins make me nervous.

Chances are that my burial plot will probably be within two hours of the place where I was born.

I could quite happily while away the afternoon listening to the same music I enjoyed 30 years ago.

Having a tuna salad sandwich for lunch one day does not automatically cancel out the possibility of having one the next day.

I don’t see why the word “man” is in “manicure.”

The whole CD thing still throws me.

I think I would find being anything other than heterosexual simply too complicated.

You will not find me rhapsodizing about the salient qualities of a particular wine.

I look “up.”

I do not look “out.”