I stole a bracelet from my nephew. It’s one of those rubber bracelets that make people imagine you’re supporting a cause.
You are.
You’re wearing a bracelet. Which means that rubber loop is wrapped around your wrist instead of the neck of your local dolphin.
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On my bracelet, there are dinosaurs. Nine dinosaurs on parade. So, I guess you know the truth by now:
I’m pro-dinosaur.
Why?
Because life’s too short not to be what you are.
When I march into bars and catch people running down dinosaurs, saying things like, “Let’s make this an anti-dinosaur bar,” I order the biggest beer. I drink it using my most muscly arm, the “major arm,” which is for luring love makers — I glaze it in shine and flourish it in public places — and sometimes the arm is for intimidation work.
I lift the big beer with Major and guess what’s clearly visible?
My cause.
This shuts everyone up, and I get an apology from the tallest, toughest alcoholic in the bathroom when we’re both peeing with everything we’ve got.