Resolutions are for the birds. To quit doing some thing, or to start doing another thing, there has to be a motivating factor.
As a blonde, I’m mildly insulted by the connotation of this art. Hey, Kronenwald: ask your grandma to start chewing on those Bit-O-Honeys she keeps in her candy jar, then have her fork over her dentures. The sticky aftermath will make for a nice series of brunettes.
My father is disgusted with his beer gut, so to whittle it he started walking today from his house on Langford Road to the town highway department on Eden Road. (It’s about three miles.) I called my mother this morning to talk about overpriced wedding photographers, and my father, gung ho and out of breath, answered the cell phone.
“What’s up with you?”
“Ah yes,” he rasped. “I’m walking.”
“I’m almost to the highway department.”
“You sound out of breath.”
“I’m OK. It’s beautiful out.”
“And you’re walking to the highway department?”
“Yes. I’m almost there.”
“Did you bring the cell phone in case you needed to call Mom to pick you up?”
“I brought the cell phone in case I fell dead from a heart attack I could call 911 before I hit the ground.”
“What did you and Mom do for New Years Eve?”
“So did we.”
“That’s OK. At least we all woke up.”
“Right. Alright Dad, good luck walking. Tell Mom I called about wedding photographers.”
“Will do. Happy New Year.”