I don’t own ANY dresses.
Seriously, though — I actually stood there for a second pondering what sort of sort of slovenly dresses women had worn in order to prompt management to make the rule. (Was it a wild Saturday night?) Because I am slow on the uptake.
True fact — I didn’t really know what red pandas were at one point and I kept referring to them as “those cinnamon raccoons,” and there are still people who laugh at me about it.
Photo credit: Mathias Appel, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons
Gonna make me a t-shirt with that slogan and get filthy rich.
Update — Hey! My friend Laney made a meme out of this just now and it’s pretty cool!
Suppose you had a colonoscopy completed, but someone burglarized your doctor’s office and stole all the imagery.
Would you report a … stolenoscopy?
I haven’t thought about these candy bars in over 40 years. Then my friend (and famed journalist) Jason Brooks shared this meme on Facebook.
These were sooooo good. And they were such a pain in the ass when you were asked by your school to sell them. (I was assigned the task along with all my classmates in Catholic grade school in … 1981? 1982?) As an adult today (arguably), it strikes me as a little odd, because my parents were paying tuition for me to go there. I also question the prudence of sending a young child to sell candy door-to-door.
I even remember that weird white box that they came in. I also seem to remember there being a contest or something if you sold a high number of these. And there were a couple of kids who sold like a dozen boxes or so. The scuttlebutt around school was that their parents worked in large offices and sold them on their kids’ behalf.
Anyway, World’s Finest Chocolate is still around. (And my astute fellow comic book fans will know that they should not be confused with {World’s Finest Comics. )
A truly bizarre thing happened to me this afternoon. I was walking through a parking lot and smelled smoke — then discovered it emanating up from the the dried mulch in one of those divider islands that separate the sections of the parking lot.
I promptly stomped on it — but it wasn’t enough. The first tiny triangle of flame flickered into life at my feet.
I nearly panicked, then successfully stomped out the nascent fire — and then I tore into the mulch bed looking for any more signs of it. Then I just hovered and stomped for a while just to make sure. I must have looked like a madman to other people in the parking lot. (And there were several.) Or maybe like someone playacting Godzilla.
Life is weird. The fire’s genesis is a mystery. (I was expecting to find a cigarette butt, but there were none to be found.) Maybe it was ashes from a cigarette smoked by someone who’d already departed the lot?
(And hopefully low-sugar too? I honestly don’t know. My girlfriend told me that grapes and mangoes have a lot of sugar in them, and that seems cosmically unfair.)
Disclaimer — I am a neophyte when it comes to any kind of diet. I cannot replace your doctor, no matter how much the idea might appeal to you. But feel free to refer to this, if you can read my disordered, hyperactive chicken-scratch. (Under the “Yes” column, for example, it is supposed to be “B-E-A-N-S,” and not “bears.”)
My source here is primarily the Mayo Clinic. But I also had help from the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, and from my girlfriend, who is far smarter than me in all subjects, except possibly free-verse poetry and 1990’s-era comic book villains.
Eric Robert Nolan, Author 