The Rambo of safety scissors
This is what happens when I forget my razor at my mother’s house over the holidays. It’s terribly convenient in that you can shave your legs, trim your bangs, and cut snowflakes out of construction paper all at the same time, or, if limb retention is important to you, all within five minutes.
This may seem like a shameless ploy to get Mom to send it back to me, but there you would be wrong. My mother doesn’t read my blog very often anymore, not since I characterized her as “cosmopolitan-swilling.” In fact, this is all I heard about all Christmas long: “Oh, I wouldn’t know about current events; I’m just your cosmopolitan-swilling mother.” “Pass the potatoes to your cosmopolitan-swilling mother, please.” “Can you get out the martini glasses for your cosmopolitan-swilling mother? For egg nog. Yes, that’s it. Egg nog.”
And then she took me and my sister to a bar.
COUGH.
I’d better start limbering up, because now when she finally returns it to me, I’m going to have to figure out how to shave with a razor that’s lodged in my skull.