DavidFriedland

Offer to help the chef! Love this spaghetti eating Mona Lisa, so I took a picture. Looked at the whole picture later and had to laugh over “Offer to help the chef” at the bottom. To whomever arranged the store items, well done! 👏🏼

All Hail the King He sits with grace upon his throne, A coat as white as polished stone. One paw placed just so, befitting— All hail the King. One eye of gold, one icy blue, A royal gaze that passes through. So prim, so proper, everything— All hail the King. His snowy chest, his noble stare, Not one white whisker out of square. Except that little crust ain’t sugar— All hail the King of eye boogers.

Hiding Away Two pretty faces, hiding away, Certain they’ve fooled me again today. One guards the entrance, serious and white, One’s in the back going, “Dude… move right.” It’s secret. It’s clever. Their plan is complete. Except for the whiskers. And faces. And feet.

The Best Things The best things don’t arrive at the door because you clicked “buy now.” They arrive because, while you were searching somewhere else, they had already, on quiet paws, found you.

Eyes Like Autumn

The Riches Are Dust. So keep all the castles. The jewels can rust. The fortune means nothing. The riches are dust. Because all this face, Though it easily could… Would never trade you Not even for the world.

SHHHH! Don’t wake the lion. SHHHH! Don’t wake the lion, He’s dreaming in his den, Of stalking through the bedroom And hunting mice again. His snowy mane is mighty, His whiskers fierce and long, He rules the quilted kingdom— Where every cat belongs. His paws are built for pouncing, His claws are tucked away, But should a careless toe go by… That toe might be his prey! He prowls across the pillows, He conquers every chair, He guards the wild savannah From halfway up the stair. His tail can lash like thunder, His eyes can flash and gleam, He’ll chase a fearsome feather Across a sunlit stream. He roars when bowls are empty, A dreadful, mournful sound: “Meee-OWWW!” it shakes the jungle And echoes all around. He stalks the mighty red dot, He hunts the crinkly mouse, No creature dares to challenge The lion of the house. But now his hunt is over, His fearsome roar is done; He’s curled his tail around him And sleeping in the sun. So tiptoe past his kingdom, Be quiet as can be… That fluffy little lion Is wild as wild can be. His mighty paws are twitching— He’s chasing something spry… SHHHH! Don’t wake the lion. Just let the big kitty lie.

That’s an impressive amount of certainty about a life he’s never lived. He doesn’t know whose hand the man has held, what he’s lost, who he’s loved, what he’s given, or what he’s done when nobody was watching. Yet somehow he’s appointed himself qualified to measure another man’s humanity. That’s the irony here. He wrote an entire paragraph about compassion while demonstrating none. He wrote about love while using it as a weapon. And he condemned someone for thinking only of himself while never once considering that he might be wrong. If this is his demonstration of what it means to be human, he may want to choose a different example.

Not deaf in either, but if he doesn’t want to do something, he acts like he is.