Friday is here again.
Which alone, as a statement, gives me the willies if not simply because I once knew a guy in college who would always say the macho combo two pound beef burrito is here again when he’d enter the dorms after making a late night trip to the local Del Taco, only to warn you that he was about to ingest two pounds of beef and some shreds of lettuce and about two hours later you would be wishing he was nowhere near you.
But I try to get over that when Friday arrives.
This week, WFME good buddy Annabel Lee writes: “Hey Pauly, I was wondering… Could you be my imaginary friend?”
It’s all a complicated, elaborate ruse.
It may have started in the 70’s when the little ten year old bastard that lived down the street from me got stung by a bee and his face swelled up like one of those actors who pretends to be fat in a movie so they can win an Oscar since acting from inside a fat suit is almost like portraying an idiot savant (which has also garnered Oscars in the past).
I remember seeing the result of the bee sting, and the horrifying allergic reaction and thinking to myself, “I think I’m really allergic…deathly allergic to bees.”
With all the trouble these days with political lobbyists and corrupt leadership and appointing people to the Supreme Court who may, in time, reverse all the worthwhile decisions made over the last 50 years…
It got me to thinking about the United States Constitution and how aware our citizens are of the actual verbage that shapes their world.
And then it got me to thinking about The Brady Bunch.
If you were to ask ten of your friends to name ten laws in the United States Consitution they would probably mention something about freedom of speech and then incoherently mumble about all men are created equal and then probably stuff their mouth with french toast so they wouldn’t have to talk about it anymore. But replace the Constitution with the lessons learned from The Brady Bunch and everyone would be on the same page.
Look at me.
Are you looking at me? Laying there on the floor next to that sewing machine? No, I don’t know why I’m laying next to the sewing machine but can you see that my chest isn’t moving? No, not moving at all. Lean in closer. Put a mirror in front of my mouth to see if there’s any breath. There’s not? No breath, no chest movement, no nothing?
Voila! I am so good.
Pretending to be dead isn’t something you can just decide to do like you decide to take out the garbage or take up a hobby like knitting or old record cover collecting. Pretending to be dead is a skill that takes years of practice and decades to perfect if only for one very important aspect of the “I’m really dead, I swear” process.
If you understand the subject of this post, then you and I will be fast friends.
Not to be a fingernail snob or anything like that, but I happen to have pretty normal looking fingernails. There’s an equal, symmetrical amount of space all around each fingernail (the skin) and each nail itself looks happy with its existence. There’s the half moon at the base, the mid-section, the curvaceous and smooth cuticle and the not-too-long tip of the iceberg — the scratching portion of the nail.
This is a damn fine looking fingernail.