Once upon a time, many years ago, there lived a guy named Hank. He was a regular fellow, and at about thirty or so years of age, he lived in the poorer part of a small town in the mid West. Each day, Hank would sweep out the local grocery story, and when he’d finished his stocking chores, he’d shoot the breeze with his buddies in the local bar or at someone’s home, and they all drank lots of beer. Hank had a good flair for telling stories and weaving some homespun philosophy into them, and people listened to him, usually agreed, and they always looked to him as a local friend. We can all live in peace, he had said, and the folks all agreed. He never had a girl friend.
