THE CONFESSIONS OF JOSH TATE

I hate parades, and yes, Mom, I know that hate is a strong word. I'll even compound my sin by doubling down and writing it all in caps- HATE, HATE, HATE!!! I really don't understand their appeal.

THE CONFESSIONS OF JOSH TATE

I remember when, as a young boy, I opened the door of our family's station wagon as we were speeding down the highway. My Mom barked at me from the front passenger seat, and I quickly let the door shut claiming it had been accidental, but for a moment I had seen the blur of the pavement and felt the wind pushing against the plane of the door. It was no accident. I got what I wanted.

THE CONFESSIONS OF JOSH TATE

Whenever I hear someone suggest that America is dependent on illegal laborers because they are willing to do the sort of menial, back-breaking jobs that Americans won't* my pride gets injured and I am instantly tempted to march right out and apply for such a job.

I'll show them! Lemme at that field of strawberries! These yankee fingers'll fly like fury.

* I can't dispute that this is true, of course. It's absolutely true. I just resent the implied accusation that I, personally, am too proud or too soft for such work, which I have to own may also be true, but I resent it just the same.

THE CONFESSIONS OF JOSH TATE

It was me.