Small & Big

I can‘t decide. Which is a better profile pic on Tinder? Me as the madam of an 1800s Gold Rush town or me standing behind you at the bank thinking about cutting my toenails later? Choice A) Madam of an 1800s Gold Rush town Choice B) Me standing behind you at the bank thinking about cutting my toenails later Vote by commenting.

Dear Plimouth Sentinel, I can assure you that the statue toppling of our earnest and forthright town forebear, the Honorable Judge Moses Carbuncle, onto the town green was an unintended consequence of the zoo stampede, mostly of the hippo. Let us accept this as an act of Nature in truth, and on the insurance claim. Please permit me to explain the events as I encountered them for it is my hope that my fellow citizens will see clear to forgive and, perhaps more importantly, to forget what was previously announced in this venerated newspaper. As you know we experienced quite a snowfall last Monday night. You’ve heard of everything going black? Well everything went white. Ha ha! I, like my agreeable neighbors, possess a driveway that I employ traveling to and fro. The following morning I brought out my trusty Massachusetts Snowplow, a white pick–up truck I call Wendy, and proceeded to clear my driveway. As you know, the Massachusetts Snowplow is less plowing, more smushing. There is

“For one of my son’s plays he had to write up a little bio. His bio says he's been acting since he was five. He's nine. No way, I say. He insists. He has been in a lot of plays. He was the lead in ‘Sleeping Beauty.’ They changed it to ‘Sleeping Handsome.’” —Anonymous

“Like many girls, our oldest was a piece of cake. She woke one morning a few months before her third birthday and declared that she was going to wear 'big girl underwear.' Just like that, she was done. Our boys, however, paid us back with interest. Both of them had to be dragged into the bathroom and cajoled with promises of presents and special treats. Our middle boy would only sit on the potty if he could listen to '70s-era country music. To this day, every time 'Rhinestone Cowboy' comes on the car radio, I involuntarily check the back seat.” —C.J. Kaplan

Dogs get all excited when we come back in the house, it doesn’t matter if we’ve been gone three weeks or three minutes. Some scientists see this as evidence that dogs (heh heh, first I typed it “dongs”) cannot distinguish the passage of time, that neither Mr. Wigglebutts III or Miss Poppy doesn’t notice the difference between three minutes and three hours. Hogwash. The real reason is dogs are happy to see their people. Happiness, pure and simple. How do I know? Your dog told me.

“A typical lactating Holstein produces about 150 pounds of waste—by weight, about two-thirds wet feces, one-third urine—each day.” Henry Fountain, New York Times

When you're interested, you find what you're interested in everywhere, eh? Because you always "look interested." Never thought of Time as a humor rag but I'm interested in humor so I came across Joel Stein's review of the KFC's Double Down sandwich, the one with fried chicken substituted for bread buns. Do they still sell that? I got to this part and laughed out loud: Here's a fun diagram by illustrator Jason Lee on how foods would be eaten if the bread part wasn't included:

The following romantic vows are suitable for pretty much any nuptials. I promise to cherish you forever but will snatch the last cupcake for myself. For the rest of our blessed life together I promise to get our anniversary wrong by at least a month.  I won’t listen to your advice until it’s coming out my mouth. {Farts that sound like} “Never. Hog. My blanket.” I will become vegan for two years. (It will feel much longer.) A love of Shakespeare will provide untold opportunities for me to mispronounce weird words in public, like swoltery and quatch. My vocabulary won’t get gooder I pick only you, and my nose. I will never tighten lids or close cupboards but I will always love you. (Should you ever become trapped in said jar or cupboard, You’re welcome.) People shed. Expect to find my loose hairs knotted around your junk. Unless they’re yours. I promise to rewrap chocolate bars to appear there’s nothing been eaten. Once a week, when you least expect it, I promise to slowly