The Groaners

I finished walking nine holes of golf this afternoon and almost
immediately I started groaning as in groan, groan, groan.

I bent over the little Weber grill at the camp-site. Groan, groan, groan.

Will the rib-eye taste tastier if I groan a bit more?

We ate inside the EggCamper because it was getting cold outside in the October Indian Summer.

I cut into the steak and I heard a groan emanating from the floor.

Boomer, the ninety-five year old Chocolate Lab, who had just finished a really nice bowl of really great dog food recommended by our vet, groaned as if on his last leg.

“Are you complaining or are you content?”

Groan, groan, groan.

Me, too.