So now Pretoria is changing its name. The seat of South African government will hereafter be known as Tshwane. So as soon as I read this, my brain started singing “Marching to Pretoria,” which we sang in grade school. An all-white school, of course, but I don’t think that had anything to do with it. It just had a catchy melody.
Whew. Can you tell my brain’s already gone on Memorial Day weekend vacation? If not, that oughta give you a clue.
But hey, I never promised you anything but a stream-of-consciousness rose garden here. Sometimes the roses are droopy.
Fortunately, Jon Carroll is a professional, and works all the way through Friday. Today, he addresses the Wendy’s chili finger:
According to police reports, a guy named Brian Rossiter lost his finger when the lift on a truck severed it. He kept the finger, perhaps in the hope that it could be reattached, perhaps merely as a souvenir. I wonder how many freezers in this great nation contain body parts retained for merely sentimental reasons.
So one day, Rossiter was having lunch with Jaime Placencia, and the talk naturally turned to fingers. I am envisioning something like this.
“Hey,” says Rossiter. “Remember that 50 bucks I owe you?”
Placencia: “Sure do.”
Rossiter: “How about I give you my severed finger instead? It’s nicely preserved.”
Placencia: “What would I do with a severed finger?”
Rossiter: “You’ll think of something.”
And you’ll have a good weekend, I hope. Me, I’ll see you Tuesday-ish.