Jack Ungulate is a strange bird.
When he drinks beer, he licks his index and middle finger, swipes the bottle opening, and then pauses, with the bottle raised to his mouth, before turning it upside down.
Each time, every time.
He also has a routine with his steel-toe boots. The left one must go on first, then the right. But he takes them off in reverse.
And then there’s his ritual when buying large ticket items like a car: he sends his wife to the lot while he sits in the garage, waiting for her to call.
When people talk to him about saving for his children’s college fund, he quickly cuts them off to inform them there is no fund because he’d prefer to cultivate a sense of ownership by encouraging them to pay their own way through school.
He enjoys the scowls that appear on their faces.