The Picture Fiend Strikes Again

(Once again, I remind you that I am a guest poster at Tisha's place, where today we are showing some of George W's tongue twisting.)

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Yes, I know this is St. Patrick's Day. Foo foo raw. Green beer. Pig's butt.

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When I am not otherwise occupied, I am taking pictures (and I also am sleeping, writing my b**g, drinking vodka, sleeping, and eating my wonderful Sylvia's food). So here is a ferinstance.

I show you this because this is a Christmas Cactus. And I just took this picture three days ago. This is not Christmas. But it is still a Cactus. Christmas won't happen for, say, two or nine months from now, depending upon how soon the shopping season starts, so obviously this Cactus is a little Calcified. This very same Cactus also bloomed last Christmas, so you know it's got a little sense. Anyway: Pretty, ain't it?

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Picture No. 2 (I am so prolific) is of a Goldfinch, slowly morphing into breeding season.

See, Goldfinches (Goldfinchi?) turn kind of mystic in the off season, looking more like house finches. But when spring rolls around, wham! bam! thank you Sissy. The males turn bright yellow and they are a sight to behold. This here goldfinch has got a leg (ho ho har de har har) up on most of the rest of the flock, so it might be the first to breed. If it can find a willing female. If....

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Muldoon lived alone in the Irish countryside with only a pet dog for company. One day the dog died, and Muldoon went to the parish priest and asked, "Father, my dog is dead. Could ye be sayin' a mass for the poor creature?"

Father Patrick replied, "I'm afraid not; we cannot have services for an animal in the church. But there are some Baptists down the lane, and there's no tellin' what they believe. Maybe they'll do something for the creature."

Muldoon said, "I'll go right away, Father. Do ye think $5,000 is enough to donate to them for the service?"

Father Patrick exclaimed, "Sweet Mary, Mother of Jesus! Why didn't ye tell me the dog was Catholic?"

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My favorite word today is relics. N., your basic leftovers. Def.: People who have been going to mass for so long they actually know when to sit, kneel and stand.