By George

Some of my loyal friends have noticed that I am not so insistent about bashing that other George as I used to be. They are correct, but maybe they did not witness an event I had occasion to notice long ago.

Some of you will remember that the milkman used to go door to door bringing milk to our doors with the old fashioned milk bottles which were shaped so as to have the cream at the top and the skimmed part at the bottom. You know, the days before homogenization but after the days of pasteurization? Our milkman seemed to be a nice guy, but his One Horsepower engine was a horse and we sort of liked the animal. Well, to our surprise, one day the horse fell down and was very sick. The milkman took out a whip and started beating the horse, to no avail, which made the man very angry and he whipped harder. The animal lay there and died.

I leaned that day why there was the expression: ?There is no point in whipping a dead horse.?

You know I have an affection for Michael Moore. Seems he cannot produce documentaries fast enough. His latest, Fahrenheit 9/11, took the top honours at the Cannes Film Festival this year and for which he received another standing ovation, much as he had done the year before with. Bowling for Columbine, at the Academy Awards Ceremony as well as the Cannes Festival. He is having a harder time not bashing that other George than I. Maybe this November will give us both some relief and we can attend the funeral.

On to something more palatable. When was the last time you thought about your epiglottis? Or your thalamus? Or any other of your little parts in your body? Your insides, all working valiantly to keep you ticking along without a care in the world all came into being at your conception from just a small egg and a much smaller sperm. Beats anything our computers have been able to come up with so far!

A few days ago, when I left my senses for a couple of moments, I thoughtlessly took a drink of milk just as my brain was concentrating on a conversation I was having with Janet. My epiglottis took exception and sent the milk down my windpipe! Now I know that there is no sense in crying over spilt milk but, ?My Lord, what a mess!?

Anyway, just thought you might spend a few moments considering the magnificent job your little egg and sperm did, so long ago and have continued to keep you from harm all these years. Enjoy the summer.