Rena snapped a pic of me with her new cell phone tonight at the RC.
And when she showed it to me, what I saw was my father's head grafted onto Orson Welles' body.
God, it was bleak.
Seriously, if someone had snapped this picture without my knowledge and had shown it to me, I would have thought it was my father.
How the hell did that happen?
And when?
3 comments:
tomatoes, lettuce and skim milk...hmmm, goes down good!
RJ
Salad, yeah, but then what do you do about the Orson Welles' thing? Oh, and thanks for the sentiment, surprisingly tolerable when committed to paper rather than endured out loud. There's a moral to this tale, don't let amateurs take pics of you with their pacifiers; Russel Crowe her if she comes at you again. Yesterday she tazared me with that phone. You turned into your father's head? I'm uncomfortable turning into my father's driveway. But, you have my sympathy, those mirrors are not always in the fun house.
Woody Allen once wrote of a mythical beast who had the head of a lion and the body of a lion, "though not the same lion."
But my favorite was the creature who had the body of a lion, and the head of a Certified Public Accountant.
So things could be worse.
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