“Hey sonny, how about a little ice?”

This deleted scene from James Cameron’s 1997 epic Titanic illustrates the well-known concept of “irony” – the Unsinkable Molly Brown requesting a bit of ice for her nightcap as the ship passes the massive iceberg that proves to be its undoing. My apologies for the blasphemy from the crow’s nest there – I didn’t write the script.

A trend has been sweeping social media the last few days to raise both awareness and money for ALS, more commonly known as Lou Gehrig’s disease. This terrifically debilitating disease causes the body to slowly waste away, trapping the mind and soul, leaving the person helpless and prisoner behind his eyes – unable to move, to speak, and eventually, breathe. There is no cure. Videos and challenges to either donate money to the ALS foundation and/or dump a bucket of ice water over your head have been popping up on Facebook left and right. What is interesting though is the number of counter-videos and essays I have seen saying “Why should I dump a bucket of water over my head? It’s not going to do anything for ALS research.”

No kidding. Yet how many people have puzzle-piece ribbons on the back of their car supporting those with autism? Or sport something pink during the month of October for breast cancer awareness? Or tie a yellow ribbon to their car antennae to remember troops overseas? Pick a ribbon color – there is a cause it represents. (Dystonia ribbons are blue, in case you were curious.) ALS affects even fewer people than does dystonia – about 30,000. If it weren’t for Lou Gehrig and Stephen Hawking, there’s a chance that no one would know what it is.

So if you get “tagged”, go ahead and dump that water over your head. Tag a few more of your friends. If you can and if it’s a cause you feel is important, donate to the ALS foundation or other charity of your choice. There’s nothing wrong with raising awareness for a good cause and having fun with it along the way. If you don’t want to give yourself hypothermia, that’s totally ok too. Get yourself some white and blue pinstriped ribbon. (Lou Gehrig was a Yankee.) Say a prayer for the sufferers and their families and their caretakers. Say one for the scientists and researchers too. Support doesn’t need to cost a cent.

Sometimes, the best kind of support is just knowing people care.

 

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Words Have Meanings

This may come as a surprise to some, but words have meanings. Some words have very broad definitions and can be used in any number of circumstances. In my neck of the woods, the word “wicked” is such a one. “Wicked” may be used as an adjective to mean “evil” (The Wicked Witch of the West tried to hurt Dorothy and her friends.); it can be used as an interjection (“Kids, we’re going to the new water park today.”  “Wicked!”); and in true Bostonian fashion (which is really a general Massachusetts thing), a modifying adverb or compound adjective (“wicked awesome”, “wickedly brutal”, etc.) Wicked is neither good nor bad in this last case; it just demonstrates something is “more”. Sort of like “good, better, best”. After “best”, there is “wicked”.

Where am I going with this? One of the most popular phrases today is “war on women”, as it relates to pretty much anything the Democrat party says blocks “free” contraception and abortion-on-demand. A quick Google search for the term brings back 363,000,000 hits. Allow me to paint another picture of the “war one women”, with some help from our good friends over at Merriam-Webster:

war:
a state of usually open and declared armed hostile conflict between states or nations (2) :  a period of such armed conflict (3) :  state of war

Hmm. I like to think that of all things, my dictionary at least won’t lie to me. While tensions in the hallowed halls of the Capitol building can get pretty hostile, I don’t think any real brawls have broken out since  1858* or so. As arguing over who should pay for a woman’s birth control is really more of a philosophical difference than an issue akin to those that caused the American Revolution, the War Between the States, WWI, WWII, etc., I’m going to go ahead and say that the current “War on Women” is more hyperbole than anything else.

If we’d like to discuss a real war on women, let us turn our heads to Iraq right now, where a full-blown genocide is taking place. Oh yes, genocide. Everyone is probably tired of that word, since we heard it bandied about so much in conjunction with Rwanda (and no one seemed very interested then) and if we throw Iraq into the mix, people will just be even more disinterested. After all, haven’t we dealt enough with Bush and his mess**?

However, if even MSNBC is calling the ISIS and Sunni violence against Iraqi Christians a genocide, then there is a problem. MSNBC is among the least watched and trusted of all the mainstream news sources and definitely left-leaning, so if they are even jumping on the “Baghdad, we have a problem” wagon, I’ll go ahead and say there’s a problem.

Would you like to know what a real war on women looks like?

It’s watching your child get beheaded, and his head stuck on a pike in a park because his parents are Christians.

It’s being forced to give birth with your legs shackled to the stone floor of your jail cell while your toddler looked on because you would not renounce Jesus and convert to Islam.

It’s watching your husband hanged because he would not give up his Christian faith.

It’s being gang-raped, beaten, and left to starve for no other reason than the fact you are a woman.

It’s having to be covered from head-to-toe, because you are a woman.

It’s not having any control in whom you marry, because you are a woman. The men in your life – your father, brothers, and husband – make all your decisions, because some other man once decreed that women are only half as smart as men.***

It’s submitting to domestic violence, because your religion says that wife-beating is okay, even necessary.

It’s giving yourself or your daughter to a pedophile, because your prophet took a child-bride.

It’s not being allowed an education, or risking your life for one, because your are a woman.

It’s having your clitoris and labia cut off and the wound sewn shut, allowing only a tiny hole for menstrual blood and urine, for no reason other than to control your sexual behavior.

That is a war on women.

Let’s remember the true meaning of war and what our sisters and brothers on the other side of the world are going through right now. The next time you hear someone mention that idiotic phrase, be sure to tell them what a war on women really looks like.

 

*1858: the caning of Charles Sumner. There have been a few fistfights in state legislatures and maybe one or two in Congress, but none as epic as this one.
** I need a sarcasm font.
***http://www.answering-islam.org/Authors/Arlandson/women_top_ten.htm

 

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Nature: 3, Blonde: 0

As previously stated, I’ve been on vacation and out of the realm of the interwebs the last two weeks or so, except for a day here and there to do laundry. This jaunt started with a whirlwind trip to upstate New York to visit some amazing friends* and continued with my traditional camping ** trip in the wilds of northwestern Massachusetts.

There is a memorable scene in Titanic in which Rose attempts to commit suicide by jumping off the back of the ship. Jack, in trying to distract her, describes ice fishing and claims he thought she was “more of an indoor girl”. As much as I like the beach, hiking, horseback riding and swimming… I like those things as afternoon activities or at most, day trips. Camping and I go together about as well as oil and water. This has always been the case, so I don’t know why I was so darn surprised this time around.

My first camping experience came when I was nine years old and in Girl Scouts. Somewhere there is a picture of me on my front porch, proud as can be with my backpack, pillow, and Barbie sleeping bag. We were going to tell scary stories around the campfire and sleep in tents. This lasted all of one night, because the heavens opened up and it POURED. The troop, all fourteen of us plus our three troop leaders, got moved into a cabin. That second night, one of the girls stayed up all night vomiting. It wasn’t a simple food poisoning, or stomach bug, or even home-sickness.

Scarlatina. More than half of us came down with it, myself included. I missed a week of school. My ballet recital was that week, and I remember sitting with another girl backstage with paper bags and buckets until we could go do our dance and then leaving immediately. I don’t recall ever*** being so sick.

Nature: 1, Blonde: 0

A year or so later, a went camping for a week with family friends. Surely, the first time was a fluke and this was really a great way to vacation. We were on an island in Maine, almost right on the beach. Sure, it was a hike to the restrooms, but that shouldn’t be a problem.

Unless you get food poisoning.

Nature: 2, Blonde: 0

I (wisely) didn’t go camping again until I was in high school and went away to “God-Camp”. I loved it. I went for two consecutive years without a problem, and during the school years, volunteered with the organization that ran the camp. For the last five years, I babysat some of the younger members -children of those who run it but aren’t old enough to be campers yet. It’s a ton of fun and I enjoy being up there. I never really considered babysitting there to be “camping”. I sleep in a lodge with indoor plumbing, electricity, and hot water. I sleep on an air mattress with real sheets, blankets, and pillows. There’s a mouse or two, but a cat would take care of that problem. I can shower daily without worry. No big deal.

Famous last words. The first week I was there was great. Normally I’m only up there for one week because of my work schedule, but fate allowed me to stay for two this time around. First, by the start of week #2 I was tired and my ears were bothering me, but I had just done three rock concerts**** in less than a week. I wore earplugs everywhere the main group was gathered, from the meeting hall to the mess hall. Monday I dealt with mutated daddy long legs crawling down my neck and into my shirt. Tuesday I found a tick embedded in my scalp. Wednesday I was so overtired I thanked God for the earplugs and managed (just barely) not to doze off during rock concert #4. Thursday I woke with a sinus infection, slept most of the day, and ended up having to call my dad and my brother to pick me up early. After hacking up a lung all Thursday night and most of Friday morning, a visit to the doctor confirmed my suspicion of sinusitis.

Nature: 3, Blonde: 0

Next vacation I take is going to be in a 5 star hotel on a really, really nice beach somewhere.
*the type who pick you up when you’re stranded for a ride, even when you neglected to mention that you were in the area
** “camping” – queen sized, double thick air mattress with sheets and pillows in a lodge with indoor plumbing and electricity
*** Until I had menengitis in college
****and guess who sat really close to the speakers at the first three concerts, including “Panic! At the Disco”

 

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GofundYourself

I’d like to rant a bit about a new trend I’m seeing… well, everywhere. It has blown up with the help of a website I’ve referenced in the title of this entry. I will not name names, mostly because my readers have the common sense to figure it out for themselves and also because I don’t want to direct any more traffic to that site than necessary.

For those living under rocks, the new trend involves begging others for money to pay for a dream vacation, a house remodel, a move, bills, or anything you can think of. Shamelessly.

What happened to personal responsibility? Setting a goal and saving up for it, if one can’t afford it right away? Why should I, as your friend/total stranger be badgered into paying for your lifestyle choice in the name of “charity”? I think we need to take another look at the definition of “charity”.

From our friends at Merriam-Webster:

charity:

the act of giving money, food, or other kinds of help to people who are poor, sick, etc.; also : something (such as money or food) that is given to people who are poor, sick, etc.

: an organization that helps people who are poor, sick, etc.

: the organizations that help people in need

If one were to look at that website’s front page today, of the top 12 most popular, 5 are collecting to offset medical expenses for humans. Two others are collecting to offset veterinary expenses for dogs. One is to extend a wish made by the “Make a Wish” foundation for a child. Another is collecting to build a playground at a hospice hospital. One is a memorial to cover a child’s funeral expenses. One to send a cancer survivor on vacation to Hawaii. One is trying to fund an invention. All heart-wrenching causes, to be sure, but others are more than questionable. Sending a birthday boy to Universal in FL? Buy me a PS4 for my birthday? “I’m moving, pay for my flight?” “Send me to meet XYZ!”

How about, no.

For me, gift giving is fun. I like to take the time to shop, pick out something I think the recipient will enjoy, wrap it up all pretty, write a special message, and give it to him. I like to watch his face when he opens it. For this reason, I don’t like to give money and only rarely will I give gift cards. I prefer surprise, even when a gift is expected for something like a birthday or Christmas.

I don’t like to give to gimme-pigs.

This website is just one more example of the entitlement culture many millennials (my generation, I’m very sorry to say) have. The thought-process that leads to expecting a raise or promotion just for showing up to work every day. The culture that started with everyone getting a trophy and the elimination of competition. Instant gratification and the loss of personal responsibility.

There’s an old, old saying that goes something like this: “If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.” I agree. Need a few extra thousand dollars to pursue your dream? Get a second (or third) job. Sacrifice. Save. Throw all that change in a piggy bank – a literal one if it makes you feel better about it. (Yes, I have one, and it’s painted to look like Raphael from TMNT.)  Dreamer – fund thyself.

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Out of Office

In case I neglected to mention earlier –

The Blonde has been on vacation the last week, and with the exception with this brief stop at home to do laundry, will be out enjoying that vacation for the next two weeks with very little access to the interwebs. I’ll be back mid-August sometime when I finally reach the point I need a vacation from my vacation.

So you won’t miss me too much, here’s one of my favorite silly Star Wars edits:

star wars company

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Obama’s Motorcade Trumps Woman in Labor

America, we have hit a new low. According to the LA Times, a woman in labor was prevented from crossing a street in order to get to Cedars-Sinai Medical Center because President Obama’s motorcade would be passing through.

His Imperialness was on his way to another fundraiser with the Hollywood Elite.

Let that sink in a moment. A young woman in black yoga pants and a white tank top sitting on a backless bench at what could be a bus stop. One arm wrapped protectively around her belly, the other braced on the bench. Her body, which has been working on forming this new little human inside of her for the last nine months, has kicked things into high gear and said, “Ok, it’s go time.” She’s having contractions. She’s in pain. She is right across the street from the hospital, and unnamed “authorities” are preventing her from entering, even on foot, because the POTUS will be driving by at some point on his way to rub elbows with Kerry Washington and quip about how Usher put him to shame on the dance floor.

“If it weren’t for my horse, I wouldn’t have spent that year in college.”  -Lewis Black

Whenever I feel like my mind might explode from the sheer stupidity of the world, I think of that line. It’s from his White album, and while I highly recommend it, it’s NSFW, children, and other delicate ears.

Have we really sunk so far? That not a single person would take action? In a land where people protest capitalism on Wall Street, not one man or woman would do the right thing, push past the cops or Secret Service or whoever, and get that woman to the hospital? They would take pictures and tweet about her plight, but no one would help her. Just as sadly, the “authorities” (it wasn’t specified if they were LAPD or Secret Service or military) would not do the right thing either.

I’ve mentioned before that my brothers are cops. They come from a long line. Uncles, a grandfather, cousins… I cannot imagine any of them putting up with this sort of nonsense, be it because of the president or the Queen of England. I can’t imagine this happening because of any other president, either. Pick any president who ever took part in a motorcade. Any of them. I think they’d be furious to hear that this happened because they were in town. Obama probably won’t even notice.

Not many things are completely unbelievable in this day and age. This though? Wow.

 

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I am not for equal rights.

There. I said it. Let the grandstanding, mudslinging, name-calling, et cetera, begin.

Specifically, I do not subscribe to this notion that women are equal to men.

Likewise, men are not equal to women.

If I asked any kid who had a basic grasp of mathematical principles what the word “equal” meant, he could probably explain to me something like “If A = B, then B must also equal A.” Or, A is the same as B. If we’re talking quantities, yes, that’s true. If Annie has 2 apples, and Billy has 2 bananas, then they have an equal number of pieces of fruit.

Are apples the same as bananas? They are fruit, but the similarities end there. Apples are roundish, smooth, usually kind of shiny, and they come in red or green. They crunch when you bite into them. Apples are juicy, and they have a core, and seeds. Bananas are yellow, shaped, well, bananas. Like the letter “C” that someone gave up on.  They’re smooth, but they don’t have the same feel as an apple. Bananas are soft and mushy, a preferred food for babies. There are no seeds inside and even their nutritional values are different from an apple’s.

With those in mind, are apples and bananas equal? There is no doubt that they are both valuable foods, and the world would be a darker place without them. They are both good, but no, they are not equal. Equal in value, perhaps, but in this case, A does not equal B.

So it is with men and women. Men and women have different characteristics. We are built for different things. Modern society would have us believe otherwise, but it’s true. Biologically, right down to our very genes, a man is different from a woman. In the labs, they call this “XY” and “XX”. Male chromosomes are labeled “XY”, female “XX”. When conception happens, no matter what, the mother’s ovum is delivering an “X” chromosome. The father’s sperm will deliver either an “X” or a “Y”, and in that way the sex of the baby is determined. Makes it more than slightly ironic, all those kings who blamed their queens for producing daughters, when it was their sperm that actually made the determination, isn’t it? It’s also why there’s no such thing as “transgendered” or a “sex change”. A man can cut off his penis and testicles and take estrogen, or a woman cut off her breasts and have a penis and testicles built and take testosterone, but there is no changing the genes. What one is born with, one will die with.

Look in the mirror, and take a picture of someone of the opposite sex with you. Doesn’t matter who, although one of a sibling may make these differences more pronounced, but it could be a magazine model. Start with the lines of the face. A man’s lines will be stronger, sharper, especially around the jaw. There may be the shadow of facial hair, the 5:00 shadow, or maybe it’s grown out to a mustache, beard, or goatee. Men generally have a stronger chin, a heavier brow. Society usually dictates that a man’s hair is much shorter, cut above the top of the ears. Women’s faces are softer, more gentle. The curve of the cheek is more rounded, the cheekbones, though visible, not as heavy as a man’s. There is often even a different look to the eyes. Nothing specific, just a notable difference. His eyes will say, “I am a man.” Hers will say, “I am a woman.”

It is not surprising then, that little girls are drawn to play house with dollies, and even lacking a realistic toy doll, will make one out of whatever is available. Laura Ingalls Wilder’s first doll, “Susan”, was a corncob. While they do, their brothers are more likely to be out running and roughhousing in the mud with games like “cops and robbers” and “cowboys and indians” or anything involving soldiers. At an early age, girls are more often drawn to music,  arts and crafts. They gravitate toward activities that are engaging mentally as well as physically – ballet, gymnastics, lyrical, jazz, tap, and modern dance. Boys gravitate toward team sports – football, soccer, baseball, lacrosse.

American classrooms have ignored these basic differences in males and females and made education a living hell for boys. They are expected to sit still, be quiet, and pay attention indoors for long periods of time. In other words, they are expected to act like girls. When they fidget, talk, and generally disrupt the class, they are punished. Even at recess, if they get an outdoor recess, they are discouraged from running, jumping climbing, and playing any of the make-believe games I mentioned above. Again, they are prevented from acting like boys. Modern playgrounds, in the name of accessibility and safety, are all but wrapped in lambs’ wool. There are no trees to climb or dirt to play in. There are no mud puddles to explore. We wonder why so many of our boys are “diagnosed” with ADD and ADHD.

I’m not saying little girls don’t like this, too, or that boys don’t like music and dance. Fathers, for the sake of your sons’ future wives, please understand that women find few things more attractive than a man who can tell one note from another and is able to make his way around the dance floor with a basic working knowledge of things like the waltz, Foxtrot, salsa, et cetera. I know highly respected women in the United States Army, Air Force, and Coast Guard who I would definitely choose first for my “Live Through the Zombie Apocalypse” team.

What I am saying is that men and women are different. In a culture that is so wrapped up in diversity, we have forgotten that one, extremely important difference. In the name of “equality”, we have forgotten “compliment”.

Men and women are not equal.

Men and women are two halves of a whole.

A yin and a yang.

The Rhett to her Scarlett.

The Leia to his Han.

 

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What is $313.29 worth to you?

What is $313.29 worth to you? If I handed you that amount in cash, what would you do with it? Save it? Spend it on travel? Gifts for yourself, family, or friends? Pay bills? Give it to charity?

Three hundred thirteen dollars and twenty-nine cents.

Looking at Amazon today, it would barely cover the cost of a 12,000BTU air conditioner ($294.99). It’s the cost of a Fender electric-acoustic guitar with case ($299.99). It’s a 40-inch screen TV ($279.99) and barely enough to cover the sales tax, besides.

$313.29.

It doesn’t look like a lot.

You know what else it would buy though?

Yeah. Exactly.

And Then There Were None, a group whose stated goal is “to provide financial, emotional, spiritual, and legal support to anyone wishing to leave the abortion industry,” last week released an image from a Planned Parenthood abortion clinic in Aurora, CO recieving an award for having performed more abortions in the first half of the fiscal year 2013 than the second half of the 2012 fiscal year. The photo was widely circulated on Facebook and various news sites, and you are more than welcome to Google it. Today, ATTWN followed up with a video exposing the 2010 financial statements of a Planned Parenthood in Bryan, TX. In order to meet their financial goals, that particular abortion clinic had to perform a certain amount of abortions at a certain price to stay in the black, all while phasing out other medical services including adoption referrals and prenatal care.

The cost of each of those “procedures”?

$313.29

The cost of a life.

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Dystonia. It Sucks.

Today has been a bloody long day, and it was the sad climax of what have really been five, long, bloody months.

The short story: I have dystonia. Specifically, cervical dystonia, tardive dyskinesia, and spasmodic torticollis. It causes my body, pretty much the whole thing but more often just my shoulders, neck, head, and sometimes face, to twitch, flail, or spasm. Ordinarily, I’d say it’s not as bad as it sounds and I’m more trying to impress you with my mad clinical vocabulary, but I’m exhausted mentally and physically. So today, I will say that it sucks. I was diagnosed four years ago, but it took a little more than ten years to get a proper diagnosis. Do the math and you’ll realize I’ve been dealing with high-powered, sometimes violent muscle spasms and twitches for 14 years.

I am lucky enough to live in the United States of America, close to some of the best hospitals in the world, and thus some of the best medical minds on the planet. Yet for all that, I’m also lucky enough (if you would call it that) to have the third most common movement disorder behind essential tremor and Parkinson’s. That makes it sound like this is something that a lot of people have and that there must be a lot of research and treatment for, right? After all, look at all the famous people we know with Parkinson’s. Michael J. Fox is perhaps the most outspoken, but others like Muhammad Ali, Johnny Cash, Estelle Getty, and St. Pope John Paul II also suffered from it. However, dystonia affects only about 250,000 people in America. Only quarter of a million people out of the 313.9 million in the country. I don’t even want to try to figure out what the percentage is.

What made today the climax? I met with two new neurologists, one of which was also a movement science expert and one of the top dystonia specialists, if not the top. I learned that despite being among all these medical geniuses, there is still no magic pill, no surgery, that can fix me. I must continue the slow, plodding route that I’ve been traveling on, coming off one drug in order to try another. I learned that this upswing in symptoms I’ve been dealing with for 5 months is “normal” and that flare-ups will occur at various, unpredictable intervals during the course of my life. I learned that the one surgery that is often effective for Parkinson’s, though approved by the FDA for dystonia, isn’t often attempted by neurosurgeons because the area of the brain that triggers the spasms can’t be pinpointed – they’d have just as much luck with a blindfold playing “Pin the Leed on the MRI”.

Needless to say, it was a bit disheartening.

Who am I kidding? It was a lot disheartening.

I admit, I cringe a little bit when I see various ribbons and signs for walks to support things like diabetes, heart disease, and cancer. All terrible, terrible things in and of themselves, but I hope the patients and their families realize what a thing they have there… community. Someone who knows what it is like to have to deal with X, Y, and Z on a daily basis. Even if someone doesn’t deal with it daily, there are enough sufferers and enough awareness campaigns that everyone knows something about diabetes, heart disease, cancer, autism, whathaveyou.

When there are only 250,000 of you around the country, camaraderie is like looking for the needle in the haystack. Oh, there are online forums and support groups, but words on the page only go so far. Who knows that better than the writer? Do you know what it’s like to know that by not thinking about where you sat, you knocked yourself unconscious and caused your own concussion? In class? At age 17? That in front of your friends, you bloodied your boyfriend’s nose at the same age because he was standing next to you? Can you count the number of things you’ve thrown, or kicked? How many bruises you’ve accumulated? The way professors get annoyed because you’re making an awful lot of noise during their lecture, because you can’t stop moving?

Or even to have someone know what the heck dystonia is without having to launch into the explanation of what it is.

In my more sensible moments, when I can ignore the larger troubles of the world, I dream of stillness. Perfect stillness. 

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Thursday Night Funnies*

*Subject to change (literally) as soon as I think of something more witty. There aren’t a lot of synonyms for “joke” or “humor” that begin with “th” or “n”, oddly enough.

 

Anyway, in honor of my dear old Dad, who, as I previously mentioned was Head Bedtime Story Teller, and often times shied away from the likes of the Little Golden Books and Dr. Seuss in honor of E. A. Poe and Sherlock Holmes; I present the joke that has, on more than one occasion, been rated the funniest joke of modern times:

Sherlock and Dr. Watson Go Camping

Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson decided to take a camping trip. After dinner, a bottle of wine, and some conversation, they settle in to sleep.

Some hours later, Holmes awoke and nudged his faithful friend. “Watson, look up at the sky and tell me what you see.”

Watson replied, “I see millions of stars.”

“And what does that tell you?” asked Holmes.

“Well, astronomically, it tells me there are millions of galaxies and potentially billions of planets. Astrologically, I observe that Saturn is in Leo. Horologically, I deduce that the time is approximately a quarter past three. Theologically, I can see that God is all-powerful and we are small and insignificant. Meteorologically, the skies are clear and it will be a beautiful day tomorrow.” He paused. “What does it tell you, Holmes?”

Holmes sighed. “Watson, you idiot. Somebody stole our tent.”

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