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Shakespeare inhabits it; so do Will Rogers, Booker T. Washington, William Butler Yeats, Swift, Pope, Keats, Dickinson and two hundred other giants. It is the 1948 book, âLeaves of Gold.â Each week on these pages, our columnist gleans more pearls from its pages.
All we ever seem to do is complain.
In my real job, transitional assistance to the poor and displaced, I have up to 1,000 clients.
No matter what the government does for them (i.e. what other taxpayers are doing for the disenfranchised who, in almost all cases, do not pay taxes), it is never enough.
Many of them are single women who have had several children out of wedlock with many different fathers and get no child support from any of them. They receive food stamps, cash assistance, day care assistance, public housing at a fraction of the real rental cost, fuel assistance and on and on.
And the last time they were in a good mood was 1999.
They scream at you â especially if they are born in the 1980s, but that is another column for another time.
They want it all. They want it now.
They donât understand and shriek when they donât get it, and they want you to do it all for them. The sense of entitlement and ingratitude is, frankly, astonishing.
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