Invariably when wine redeems the sight,
Narrowing the mustard scansions of the eyes,
A leopard ranging always in the brow
Asserts a vision in the slumbering gaze.
from "The Wine Menagerie"
This is the best picture that Elegant Choice managed to take of me in the three seconds after I had applied large gobs of stone-ground mustard to my face and before that same mustard began to burn so, so badly. So badly. So badly that I hardly had the strength to Photoshop a gangling bald man tattooed like a jungle cat onto my forehead--I persevered, though, and I'm so glad I did. I hope to God you people appreciate my daily sacrifices.
7 comments:
That, that -- is my father.
He's everybody's father, anonymous. He's the father of all.
Tattooing that Tina Fey avatar on your own face would be a good start, Cuchu. Or maybe I should do it! There is plenty of space on my apparently giant chin.
Oh sweet honey-mustard mother of leopards. I'm speechless
And that, Ana, is how I like my women--to the point where I myself speak only furtively to the cat for days on end.
In ancient Gaul the Poupons, a race of primitive sandwich makers, used to rub hot mustard on their genitals as a form of birth control. Not surprisingly, they also coined the expression "hot sex."
Oh Admiral, where have you been? Hart Crane demands you put your peerless skills to work in his service!
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