Good morning, Internet denizens. Be aware that you will find within the words of this post two pictures. One of the subjects of said pictures is an 80 year old man who has managed the Chicago Cubs to within a fortnight of the World Series, been touched roughly by the divine hands of Pedro Martinez, and finished exactly two hits shy of the 775 he needed to take up permanent residence in the hall of fame of our hearts. The other is a little freeloader, who, as of two weeks hence, has taken up residence in my house without paying rent, wreaked havoc with my sleep patterns, peed on my bed, and couldn’t be bothered to use her words. Can you guess which is the baby and which is the Zim-baby?
It’s tough, I realize. The rounded nose, the jutting chin, the rosiness around those chubby cheeks from the broken blood vessels. They’ve both clearly been through a lot recently. And that’s to say nothing about the lack of real teeth and hair. So take your time, choose carefully, knowing that your vote may scar my progeny for the rest of her life, should she come upon this post in 15 years and realize she was mistaken for an old man.
And when your children come looking for my beloved daughter in 15 years to go to the 4D movie emporium, get a frosty malted at The Soylent Green Diner, or make offering to our robot overlords (who became self-aware after replacing Joe West and his ilk), understand two things: I have many baseball bats and I know how to use them. Spread the word.
This has been your Degerreotype/Quiz Package Deal of the Midday.