I don't have a degree in it, but I have studied mannequinology a bit.
If so, you might want to call Cheryl. Or not.
There must be a segment of the population that would, right?
Methinks Cheryl gets handicapped parking on account of being delusional.
...it's going to be a 5-second job. Just grab a toilet seat and go.
And then I'm in Menard's and find this:
That just isn't fair. I didn't study for this kind of test.
Turning to Google, I find out that cardinals are the unofficial bird of Christmas. They can’t get free meals at Cracker Barrel, at least not now, not until they’re official. Why are they the Christmas bird?
Most “why” questions can be answered with this word: Money. But not this one. The cardinals are not bribing Hallmark.
They’re red, that’s why. Red equals Christmas. Plus, the campaign on social media – started by whom? – to have us believe that cardinals come around to show us that Aunt Bessie, who died last year, isn’t really gone. She sent the red-winged guy to remind us that she loves us.
We’ll be seeing more of these critters on Christmas cards in the future. Aunt Bessie will see to it.
And while we’re forecasting the future, there is this: If history has taught us anything, sometime soon we can expect the females to organize protests and chirp their way to equality. They’ve been underrepresented on Christmas cards and they’re just a bit pissed about that.
Comes a time when we take another look at the December cards we received, and that time came last night. Two piles: keep, recycle.
This one is in the keep pile because it’s unusual. I’m assuming the dude is Santa, although I have to allow for the possibility that it could be Jesus.
Nah, it’s Santa all right. The long white beard nails that down. There are no photos of Jesus with a white beard.
But Santa isn’t delivering toys, and he isn’t wearing his red uniform. Instead, he’s taking a stroll through the woods in the snow, resplendent in his white robe, pale blue jacket, and pine cone necklace. His destination is unclear. Is he delivering a wreath (left hand), an owl (right hand), or a bunny (sack slung over his shoulder)?
Wait – I don’t think Santa has a destination at all. Just posing for a portrait. Those aren’t work clothes, right?
Kudos to the photographer for catching Santa, the owl, and two rabbits all with their eyes open. And kudos to the owl for pretending he isn’t aching to rip the rabbit’s throat out. Must have been a Christmas truce.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
So spoke Macbeth. Well, Shakespeare said so anyway.
More than 6 decades ago, I was required by Mrs. O’Brien to memorize those lines for an English class. Today, I could remember most of those words; Google helped with the rest.
Excluding the short-term variety, memories are stored in the hippocampus, the neocortex, and the amygdala. The Macbeth quote must have been scattered around those 3 places, because I couldn’t quite extract it.
Another memory that sprang forth today, from whatever dark corner of my brain it has been lying dormant for several decades, is this one:
The angle of the dangle is proportional to the heat of the meat, if the mass of the ass is constant.
Back to Google, where I learned that there is a website called urbandictionary.com, and therein you will find several pretty cool variations of the dangle angle maxim.
