THE MARK 'N BERNARD SHOW AT JAC

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Kind of a disappointment, though. Only one easel collapse between them. But enough about them, this blog is a celebration of ME! I had a stunning revelation about myself last night: I rarely hold my arms akimbo any more. I used to hold my arms akimbo with some regularity, especially when confronting the mysteries of my car. For example, when it wouldn't start no matter how determinedly I ground the ignition into a pile of toxic dust, I would get out and stand a few feet away from it and stare at it with arms akimbo. I would hold this pose for several minutes, thinking, perhaps, that if the car noticed how exasperated I was, it would start itself spontaneously out of shame. That never happened, of course, and after a while I would usually scratch my head and go back in the house, if I were lucky enough to be home, and watch the Three Stooges until I forgot I had a problem. More often than not, though, I would have broken down in public. My car, too. In which case I would go sit on the curb and sob. Not with arms akimbo, though, because that would make me tip over. And then if that happened, I would no longer look like a model citizen who had run into a patch of bad luck, but more like a homeless guy, a forlorn schizophrenic--or as you Republicans would have it, a dirty parasitic welfare cheat. Okay, bringing it on home now. I think the reason I don't hold my arms akimbo any more is that you need to have a waist to do that with any kind of authority. If you no longer have one, then you run the risk of passersby humming to themselves "I'm a little teapot, short and stout..."