Le Monde de Fromage de Kate

Yesterday, while visiting Leif and Anders (and Janet, too, I SUPPPOSE), my Mom drew a few tiny pictures in the corner of a piece of paper (fruit, a conifer, cereal, etc.), then Leif took over. After a while he handed the completed masterpiece back to her saying, “Here is your ECTOMORIAM.” Ah, yes, an ectomoriam. Here is a scan of said “ectomoriam”:

Here’s a more comprehensive view of my Mother’s Ectomoriam:

Oh – What IS an “ectomoriam,” you ask? Well, Leif penned a detailed description of an “ectomoriam” on the back of the work of art:

So there you have it. That was very…illuminating.

I would like to point out my favorite character in Leif’s magnum opus. It is this one:

My Mother started drawing the character. Says she:

It was supposed to be Elmo, but my markers weren’t working correctly.

Hmm. What is it that they say about “blaming your tools?” Whether or not she considers her illustration a failure to realize the true face of Elmo, I LOVE it, because I think it makes him look like he’s wearing a Lucha Libre wrestling mask. (I also really like his left leg, which is 7.5 inches long – FIVE TIMES the length of his entire personage!!!) Elmo as Lucha Libre, somehow, just seems right to me; I did, after all, learn most of the Spanish I know watching Sesame Street. You know – abierto. ¡Cerrado! ¿Abierto? ¡CERRADO! This will come in very handy when I go on my “open” and “closed” tour of Mexico. I can also say “I’m sorry,” “I don’t understand Spanish,” and “One moment, please,” so that should cover everything else. Oh – but wait – my trump card is: blanqueador sin cloro. (That means “non-chlorinated bleach.”) If I say if with FEELING…

Now this whole Lucha Libre Elmo thing has me thinking. We’ve had Tickle me Elmo®, the giggling sensation, and now we have Bird’s the Word Elmo, Sing & Hum Elmo, Shout! Elmo, Check-up Time® Elmo, Potty Elmo®, Hokey Pokey Elmo, Bilingual Elmo®, E-L-M-O®, Elmo Loves You®, Chicken Dancers Elmo, and, the mysterious T.M.X®, – I say be FRIGHTENED, very, VERY frightened – to be released on the tenth anniversary of Tickle Me Elmo®. Why NOT Lucha Libre Elmo? Perhaps Bilingual Elmo® could just don the costume and change his phrases to wrestling-related terms. It could work.

Yes, it’s true: Internet Explorer HATES educational television. TWICE, now, when I’ve prominently featured links to The Learning Channel or the History Channel (see “STAY IN BED or Learn THIS!!!” and “Musha ring dum a doo dum a da…“) Internet Explorer gets its panties all in a wad and messes up the way my blog columns wrap (I HATE the word “panties,” so that’s quite severe effrontery coming from ME). I cannot figure it out. I finally gave up TRYING to delve into the problem the first time and shall probably end up utilizing the same cop-out method for yesterday’s entry, too.

So why bother even mentioning it? Because I want to EMBARASS the browser. As a matter of fact, I am WRITING this using Internet Explorer instead of Firefox (which, in case you haven’t noticed the slightly OBVIOUS clues, I rather PREFER). SHAME and DEGRADATION, IE, for your obvious aversion to educational television. SHRINK BACK those excessive column widths out of MORTIFICATION!!!

That should do it.

Now EVERYBODY SING: There’s whiskey in the jar-o!*

And, yes, I GIVE UP. Internet Explorer DOES hate educational television. So go HERE to read this year’s Saint Patrick’s entry, or just go HERE and read last year’s entry.

Or FORGET IT – JUST FORGET IT!!! **sniff**

Oh, Fact of The Day (FOTD), what have you done NOW?

Take a look at one of the most recent “factual” tidbits I received:

A tanka is a Japanese verse form of 31 syllables in 5 unrhymed lines, the first and third having 7 syllables each, and the others 7.

Hmmm. I haven’t had cause to do all that much arithmetic in recent years, but something strikes me as ODD about the above-mentioned FOTD. Perhaps it is because I recently found out that I could, indeed, still pass eighth grade math that I find the previous calculation suspect.

You Passed 8th Grade Math

Congratulations, you got 9/10 correct!

And yes, secretly I took the test several times over until I could figure out which question I was getting wrong, so now I have a score of 10/10.

With my freshly-reinforced mathematics acumen I have deduced the following:

Doesn’t “add” up, does it. And if you, as I, were dying of curiosity to see which lines in the “tanka” form had a different number of syllables (ideally FEWER than seven), look here.

Instead of asking you the day AFTER if you bewared (bewore? Be-ware-ed?? BEWARNEDDED???), I shall warn you now:

Tomorrow (March 15, 2006) is the IDES OF MARCH.

Take the age-old advice and BEWARE!!!

The soothsayer said, and one must LISTEN (or, in this particular case, BEWARE) when the soothsayer sayeth the SOOTH!!!

Teenagers these days. A few weeks ago Sarah got FIVE TATTOOS on the same day. I kid you not, FIVE. And if she thinks she can keep them all hidden, she is mistaken. I will now supply artist’s renderings of EVERY SINGLE ONE:

Yes, these are ACTUAL SIZE

Okay, so the doctor gave Sarah the tattoos in order to prepare for the low-level radiation treatment she’s been having. Shirleen was explaining the process to William, as he, true to his fetal-man status, had completely missed that it was going to happen at all. After she had clarified the treatment for a bit, William asked:

Will she get super-powers?

Granted, he was being facetious (okay – he was being – oh, let’s say 85% facetious; he has seen Fantastic Four one too many times). Shirleen enlightened him further, telling him that the radiation was low-level, and that it would be directed to a very specific area of her “mantle” or chest region. He then surmised that perhaps she would just have a super-powered bust. True, that’s a very fifteen-year-old boy thing to say, but I admit to being rather amused at the myriad costume possibilities for a person with such super-powers. The most important part, obviously, would be the brassiere, of an exceedingly stalwart construction. The title options are fun to ponder as well. “LOOK – it’s a bird, it’s a plane – no – IT’S Phenoma-BOOBS!!!” Or, if you’d rather, “The Breast Avenger.” Maybe “Princess Super-Bust” with “Hooter-Powered DOMINANCE?”

Question: If you drive for miles and MILES down the freeway in a snowstorm behind a car with vanity plates reading, “Tropic,” can you blame the snowfall on Universal Irony? Or, better yet, can you blame the drivers of the “Tropic” car?

Confession: Yesterday I did a three’fer. First, in walking the five feet from one room to the adjoining one (in the dark, I grant you – but it was only five feet – RIGHT?) I hit the door-frame with my left cheekbone. I iced that one for a while (I try to keep the bruising OFF of my face as much as possible). It hurt.

Afterward, I had a doctor’s appointment, and I was going to be late (come on, one can FEIGN amazement), so I was running up the stairs from the basement. On the fourth or fifth stair, I somehow tackled BeBe. I, in truth, LANDED ON HER. Now, I’ve stepped on my share of cats (ACCIDENTLY – they DO stand right under your feet sometimes – and they get there so quietly – with “catlike tread,” you know), and have even squashed the wee paws of my own Kitten Children with my clogs that have huge solid wood platform bottoms. They have, thus far, survived without injury. BeBe, however, did not respond well to my substantial mass alighting directly upon her. She ran and hid under the bed in the guest room. In my defense, I must point out that BeBe is INVISIBLE in dim light (or, as one might logically conclude, in the dark), so I could NOT see her at all. I HAD to check and see if she had any serious injury, but she would NOT come out from under the bed. Usually, the rattling of tartar-control treats in a little Tupperware® container causes her to come running from ANY part of the house; if she’s beneath the bed she will pop out so fast you’d think there was a fire under there. But she was evidently too traumatized to respond even to the alluring clatter of TARTAR-CONTROL TREATS! I beseeched and entreated and cajoled, but she was having NONE of it. She’d eat a treat from my hand if I put it right in front of her (with a look on her face like she was doing me a HUGE favour) but that was it. Finally, I had to DRAG her from under the bed to see if her small limbs were intact. After a very cursory examination she ran away so quickly that I was left with the impression that she had no critical wounds. But MY knee hurt.

Lastly, I was in an examination room at the doctor’s office, waiting for my physician to finish with her previous patient. I somehow FLUNG the contents of my largish water bottle to the ground. On its way, it managed to THOROUGHLY soak the chair and chair seat (and my generous posterior in the process), saturate the paperwork on the OTHER side of me, and make a huge puddle on the floor. I used about a bazillion paper towels in the process of soaking it up. When my doctor came in, the floor had a large area covered in spread-out paper towels and I was sitting on a paper towel “cushion.” Upon entering, she asked, “How are YOU?” And I said, in a VERY tragic voice (as though announcing the heartrending deaths of EVERYONE related to me), “I just spilled my water all over.” I have a sneaking suspicion that I ended up with stronger medication than I might have if I hadn’t opened that way. (It was “medication assessment” visit – you know – where I go and say, “That didn’t really work either, but at least it didn’t make me want to hurt anyone or have overwhelming and obsessive thoughts of death.” That’s how it’s gone for the past four years, at any rate.)

Okay, SECRETLY I have one more question. Does this material really appeal to anyone’s perverse sense of amusement? At least then my hurts and wounds and STUPIDITY would have a purpose…

And I am such a COLOSSAL wiener that I cannot even think of a more clever title.

I usually try to see as many Oscar® nominated films as possible. Firstly, I am most fond of movies, in general, and secondly, it’s such a festive challenge (even if you are by your lonesome and not officially in a “contest”) to see if you can predict who and what will win. Last year I managed to get most of the “big” films in – even though it was just under the wire. I did a film marathon the day BEFORE the Oscar® broadcast and I believe I even managed to fit one in the day OF the broadcast.

Not this year. In fact, I’m mortified and embarrassed. I am looking at the Printable Oscar®.com Ballot, and let’s just say good intentions pave the road to HELL and ARTISTIC IGNORANCE. I MEANT to see so many of these films and, for whatever reason, I DID NOT. I considered jamming in the single most complicated film marathon EVER over the last couple of days, and I did not see a SINGLE FILM. I take that back; so help me, I watched Yentl AND Armageddon on television. SHUT UP! I love Yentl! Mandy Patinkin looks through my SOUL with those exquisite brown eyes.

But what of THE 78TH ANNUAL ACADEMY AWARDS®? Let me inventory the films I’ve seen. I’ll divide them into two groups; Group I includes well-respected films that may even be nominated in more than one category (and COULD win) and Group II includes movies that are in the somewhat more “humble” categories (wherein one goes for snacks or takes a restroom break during the presentation thereof):

1. GROUP I:
2. Pride & Prejudice: This film received four nominations. And I give it ALL LAUDS AND HONOURS AND BOW DOWN TO IT WITH ALL FITTING APROBATION AND VENERATION. Amen.
3. March of the Penguins: It’s a DOCUMENTARY, so it won’t get much Hollywood-type recognition, but I liked it very much. The penguins were so, SO CUTE (please ignore the fact that I gush like a fifteen-year-old girl) and it was so poignant when their egg died or whatnot.

Yup, that’s it. We’re on to the second unit:

1. GROUP II:
2. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire: Don’t get me wrong, I quite liked this movie. But let’s face it; it’s part four of a SERIES and it’s only nominated for Art Direction.
3. Batman Begins: I admit, I liked this one, too (Christian Bale, being such a pretty, PRETTY man gave the film SOME bonus points just because he showed up in it). However, it wasn’t THAT great, and it’s only nominated for Cinematography. Fodder for bathroom breaks.
4. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory: What can I say? It WAS rather a mess (what with all the chocolate…), but Johnny Depp is fascinating no matter what. Oh yes – and a pretty, PRETTY man. Besides, my family watched the DVD special features and I had the unparalleled pleasure of watching my Father, Shirleen, Sarah and William do Oompa Loompa dances – hysterical, if not vaguely surreal. Anyway, I suppose if you make a giant blueberry outfit you deserve a nomination for Costume Design.
5. Star Wars: Episode III – Revenge of the Sith: “Hello, my name is Kathryn and I saw Revenge of the Sith.” “Hello, Kathryn. GET OUT – YOU SUCK!” Something like that, anyway. Don’t EVEN get me started on this film. Just the inequities in health-care between the Dark Side and The Force make me SEETHE. Annakin gets turned into, shall we say – a smoldering, carbonized LUMP, and they can still REBUILD HIM FROM SCRATCH. Okay, so he has to talk more slowly because of the special respirator, but it just makes him sound more authoritative. And the special “suit” just looks evil and threatening – he’d no doubt custom order such an ensemble from his tailor (and then strangle him WITH THE MERE POWER OF HIS MIND if it was too tight in the crotch). Padmé, on the other hand, dies in childbirth. They can reconstruct Annakin/Darth Vader from a charred blob of NOTHING, yet she DIES IN CHILDBIRTH. DROIDS (no doubt straight off the moisture farm) are her caretakers, and all they do is discreetly cover her with a large, metal, gynecological horn o’ plenty and just let the babies pop out willy-nilly. WHAT IN THE HELL? And yeah, yeah, there are those who would claim she died of a “broken heart.” PLEASE. Apparently The Force isn’t any help for a “broken heart.” Like she found no reason to live FOR HER CHILDREN as opposed to pining away for her HUSBAND, who was EVIL INCARNATE (and unforgivably whiny even when he was “good”). Darth Vader, who was, you might say “heartbroken” when Padmé died, was effortlessly patched up by The Dark Side.

That’s it. I have failed you terribly, Jon Stewart, my BELOVED (if you weren’t married with two children, that is). Maybe next year…

WARNING: Do not think that my complete ignorance of the bulk of this years Academy Awards film canon will stop me from commenting on it like I know what I’m saying. It’s not as though being uninformed has ever stopped me from discussing pretty much ANY subject, ad nauseam.
Happy Oscar® Day!

I was this close – THIS CLOSE – to exploding or imploding, depending on the prevailing winds and the presence or lack thereof of vacuum-like conditions, with complete and utter AGGRAVATION at those despicable Fact of the Day (FOTD) people. Hari-kari* even seemed like an apt choice. Why? Because there, in my text message inbox, was the DAMN MUSHROOM COLLECTING MESSAGE AGAIN. Oh, how many times have I absolutely FUMED about the redundancy of this message – not to mention the fact that it was so SILLY in the first place – does everyone on the earth suffer from a COMPLETE lack of common sense? Let’s see, I believe I mentioned it here, here and – oh yes – HERE. Those dim-witted FOTD Purveyors owe me scores and scores of pennies!

But WAIT! Perhaps I’ve been too rash… It is not that exact message I’ve received about a bazillion times previously. They have appended a phrase onto the end:

An elementary rule of mushroom collecting is never to place edible and poisonous specimens together. The slightest touch may contaminate.

There it is: “The slightest touch may contaminate.” The wisdom – the acumen – contained in that one sentence makes all the difference. Oh, FOTD Purveyors, I NEVER KNEW! Perish the thought – the slightest touch…

This, however, begs the question: “WHY IN THE HELL DO PEOPLE DELIBERATELY COLLECT POISONOUS MUSHROOM SPECIMENS IN THE FIRST PLACE?” If one can, indeed, tell the difference between edible and poisonous varieties, as the FOTD Mongers would have us believe, why don’t the mushroom collectors LEAVE THE POISONOUS SPECIMENS ALONE???

I can come up with only one rational hypothesis. This advice is meant, and has ALWAYS been intended for homicidal mycologists with somewhat limited botanical expertise. It’s a call for SEPARATE GATHERING CONTAINERS. Evidently, there has been one too many mix-ups of the delicacies and the fatal toxins. The FOTD Providers are subtly implying a more clear-cut fungus collecting policy for Murderers by Mushroom. Let’s imagine the following scenario:

Ah – white liquid called ‘latex’ oozing from the gills – here is the delectable Lactarius hygrophoroides, commonly known as the Hygrophorus Milky. I shall carefully place that in the BLUE basket to include in tonight’s pasta; it will be scrumptious! But WAIT – could it be? Only closer examination will tell… The cap is slippery, wide and smooth, with greenish-yellowish pigments; it’s adorned with several patches of thin white veil tissue. The gills are white, crowded together, and very finely attached to the upper stalk. The stalk is pallid with a large rounded bulb at the base – and SAINTS BE PRAISED – the stalk and the tell-tale, sac-like volva are buried in the soil!!! Oh, YES, YES, YES – I’ve happened upon the MOST DANGEROUS MUSHROOM IN THE WORLD, Amanita phalloides or The Death Cap. I’ll put that into the RED basket for the DEMISE SOUP. Ha ha HE HA HEEEE HAAAAA HEEEEE HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA [and other maniacal laughter]!

Now imagine what could have happened WITHOUT separate baskets!

That’s the only likelihood I’ve postulated, so it must be correct. This leads me to put forth an astute proposal of my own:

Never, EVER eat the “Demise Soup!”

It may sound French, but it AIN’T.

*A variant of harakiri, sometimes called seppuku.

Nearly a year ago I asserted that today’s teenagers were not “fair dinkum.” I would like to correct that sweeping generalization. Let me say that about fifty percent of teenagers today ARE fair dinkum and the other half – well, let’s just say they aren’t going to win any humanitarian, philanthropist, “good Samaritan” awards any time soon. REPROBATES!!! Perhaps that’s a little strong (then again, perhaps NOT – DEGENERATES).

Let me attempt to explain how I came to this amended conclusion. Ironically, it was prompted by two separate incidents from the very same day. Let’s see – good first, then bad? Or bad, then good? Hmmm. The bad is probably more amusing…

As I mentioned the other day, William’s wee (SO tiny) little dog Zeke had gone missing. Everyone was very concerned, particularly because he was not wearing his collar, and if someone took him in they wouldn’t necessarily think to search for a microchip. Moreover, if you weren’t looking closely you could step right on him (oooooh!), not to mention the threat of cars and trucks and SUV’s of death AND cougars (we DO have cougars here – don’t laugh – and Zeke would be a perfect, bite-sized hors d’oeuvre for a big cat like that). Therefore, many flyers were distributed and posted and so forth. As luck would have it, a teenager (guess YOURSELF whether this individual is a wretched troublemaker or not) found itsy-bitsy Zeke (he really is a diminutive, miniscule, teeny lil’ pooch – I’m myopic and if I weren’t wearing my glasses he’d probably be almost invisible) after he’d wandered clear down past Geneva Road. He’d been out all night; he was freezing and terrified, as well as filthy and wet. This teenager bathed him, tried to get him to eat, and attempted to comfort the little nipper. Fortuitously, this individual attends the same school as Sarah and William, so they saw one of the posters and called Shirleen immediately. ALL LAUDS AND HONOURS TO THIS TEENAGER AND ALL ACCOMPLICES THEREOF.

As for the OTHER half, I SPIT ON YOU! I BLOW MY NOSE IN YOUR GENERAL DIRECTION (Well, I am at the moment beset by allergies, so I must blow my nose in SOMEONE’S direction – why not in the general – nay, PRECISE – direction of good-for-nothing rascals)!!! Here’s the bottom line: I was trying to rescue a bird from the wood stove chimney, and I almost had a BIG FAT ACCIDENT – not my usual little smidgen of a mishap, but a SERIOUS CONCRETE CALAMITY.

See, the bird was in the chimney. I’d wondered why my Kitten Children were paying unusually close attention to the wood stove (Fiona stands up on the stove behind the chimney when it rains as though it were the most scintillating phenomenon in the world, but it was NOT raining), and then I heard wings beating. I opened the flue and removed some of the lining bricks from the inside of the stove thinking that if I could get the bird INSIDE the stove that I could get it into a box and then outside. But the bird didn’t listen to my knocking and beckoning and such. I realized that I’d have to get on the roof to get a better view from above of what was happening. Besides, that chimney is completely overgrown with grapevines, which probably caused the befuddled entry of the wayward bird down the chimney in the first place. I collected my tools: leather work gloves, medical gloves, a container of suet, a flashlight, a ladder and a pitchfork. I put on my sunglasses and a germ-barrier mask (oh, the things to which you have access because of cancer patients…) – you know – because of the avian flu (NOT “flue,” like where the bird was stuck or “flew,” no doubt what the bird wished it had done) and I was ready to go. I quickly recognized that I needed some extra height to get to the roof using the ladder I’d found, so I set up on the front porch. This may sound ill-advised, imprudent, a tad reckless, and – oh – to call a spade a spade – REALLY, REALLY STUPID. But I thought I could get away with it. I donned the gloves (medical gloves on the inside, naturally), and first put my other supplies on the roof. Then I attempted to climb up myself. This involved some tricky maneuvering past the rain gutter, as I had to perch the ladder dangerously close to the porch edge in order to avoid the overhang. Just when I though I’d figured it out – I had one hand ON the roof, the other grasping one of the big bolts that runs through the rain gutter (very secure, thankfully), the ladder started to teeter – and I don’t mean wobble just a bit – I mean it was lurching – and not TOWARDS the house, but OFF THE PORCH. I managed to glance down and saw that one of the legs of the ladder had somehow become wedged up on the bottom of the porch railing, and I was basically trying to re-balance it (or CATCH it, even) with one foot (the other I’d taken off to boost myself up). I was, in essence, hanging from the roof. I, at this point, intoned a little mantra of a quickly repeated curse word (appropriate for the occasion, I might argue). It was something along the lines of, “Oh, blankity blankity blankity blankity blankity blankity blankity blankity blankity blankity blankity blankity.” I also said, “Help me, Help me,” but I admit I was too embarrassed to, in fact, scream for assistance, so it was more of a timorous little, “Hey – help me? Help me – I could fall and injure myself MIGHTELY, but I wouldn’t want to trouble anyone too much with MY insignificant problems.”

Enter the reprobates (to, I think, faint strains of Send in the Clowns). The bus for one of the junior high schools picks ups and drops off right next door. Just as I was perilously dangling and wobbling and swearing and whatnot, the school bus showed up and the students began to de-bus (you “de-plane” – therefore one should “de-bus,” yes?). They casually walked away from the vehicle in little groups, this way and that, hither and thither, having deep conversations along the lines of (please imagine the droll accent I would use to recount their banter if we were face to face):

I can’t BELIEVE she said that! And then he goes, “I broke up with YOU.” I about PEED MY PANTS. AND did you see that she copied my new outfit – she always copies me – it is so LAME. And she looks like such a POSER! But he is such a HOTTY!

So help me, not ONE of the little cliques even gave me a sideways glance! Shirleen said later, “But they are raised to stay away from crazy people who frighten them.” She thought the swearing might have scared them, too. But I must answer to both counts: THEY GO TO JUNIOR HIGH. As though they don’t hear CUSSING in JUNIOR HIGH. And as though JUNIOR HIGH is not the most FRIGHTENING PLACE IN THE WORLD. Are they really going to be daunted by an unsteadily suspended “Lady” – they would all call me Ma’am – that’s if they had manners – but I just KNOW they would call me “Ma’am” because I’m “old.” I am, as it happens, evidently unworthy of their slightest attention. I honestly think the ladder could have toppled off the porch, I could have fallen TO the porch and then “KERBANG, KERBANG, KERBANG” down the cement stairs (more math – as I’m a scientist – “kerplunk” + “bang” = “KERBANG” – which is a necessary term for HARD smash ups) and not a single little neophyte would have batted an eyelash.

I did, somehow, manage to steady the ladder with my foot and pull it off the porch railing. Then I proceeded to climb up onto the roof (after all that I was GOING TO DO IT NO MATTER WHAT). I assaulted the vines with the pitchfork and my bare (okay, gloved) hands. I had to throw one nest off the roof (it was right next to the chimney – it had to be done). Then, I took off the work gloves, opened the suet, and hurled it off the roof as a peace offering to the poor creatures whose beloved homes I had to destroy (you were wondering why I needed medical gloves – were you not? Suet is greasy, GREASY, so I used and then discarded those gloves to open the package). Work gloves back on, I yanked and whacked and pulled and pushed until the chimney was free of vines. I did leave a HUGE overhang of branches that I just pushed off the roof edge with the pitchfork (we later chopped the top off) because I didn’t want to disturb the nests down inside any more than necessary. When the chimney was clear, I took the flashlight – which, ironically, worked PERFECTLY on the ground and suddenly was exceptionally DIM and tried to see where my bird friend was caught. I thought perhaps I caught a glimpse of it on a small ledge that’s must above the stove chimney, but I couldn’t be sure. So then I started talking down the chimney – you know, the things you say to rescue wildlife – “Little birdie – GO DOWN! Little birdie – GO DOWN IN THE STOVE SO WE CAN RESCUE YOU!!!” The disembodied voice wafting from the stove apparently scared the hell out of Shirleen, who’d come over after picking up Zeke from his rescue champions. She came to see WHAT ON EARTH was happening on the roof. This was, indeed, providential, as I called down the chimney for her assistance (in holding the ladder) when I was finished de-vining.

So, as I’ve CLEARLY proven, some teenagers are fair dinkum, and some are VILE, DESPICABLE REPROBATES. Hmmm. Perhaps this is a good metaphor for ALL humanity; half fair dinkum (lauds and honours to YOU – and you know who you are), and the other half consists of base and debauched, slimy gobs of putrescent pond scum on legs. Now I am a scientist AND a philosopher.

In the end, don’t you think we’ve all learned something? I’ve learned, with a deep and abiding conviction, THAT DAMN BIRD IS STILL IN THE CHIMNEY. All my beseeching, imploring and Morse code tapping (ha – didn’t really do that – people these days don’t know the simplest Morse Code, our avian friends shouldn’t be expected to do any better) was for naught. I currently am devising a plan wherein I climb onto the roof again (with ASSISTANCE, I promise), give the bird one more verbal request to kindly move down into the stove (if it’s not dead already – how poignant!), and if it does not or cannot move, I thought I could knock it off the ledge with one of William’s Airzookas (the “fun gun”).

Need I say I am OPEN TO SUGGESTIONS?