Dem bones is all connected to da Head Bone

by Ken Carpenter

I have always had a surprising fascination with bones. No reason, unless that old song about a gal named Bony Marony caused it. It did stick in my mind for a long, long time.
An uncharitable sort might point out that some of us are easily and constantly fascinated by almost anything, but I refuse to dignify such a viewpoint by arguing with it.
Besides that, I fear they might fascinate me at some point of the debate and I may not be able to look as unfascinated as I would like.
My family seems to come from good bone stock, for broken bones are rarely heard of and bashings of one sort or another are an almost daily occurrence. Bodily contusions are as common as nostril hair, which we also have in abundance.
My sons are always quick to point out that the only broken bone any of the immediate family has suffered was one of mine, and I was too thick skulled (another unbreakable bone) to realize I had it for five years. I wondered why it hurt all the time.
I apparently fractured my wrist during one of my epic rounds of golf, which I almost have to pack a sleeping bag with me to finish. My nickname could be Ramar of the Jungle, for I gravitate towards any brush patch within striking distance.
A witness to my personal striking distance may assume I could not hit it far enough to get very lost, but it is truly amazing how far a golf ball will travel when it ricochets off of a rock or a tree.
Anyway, the only time I could have cracked the traitorous wrist was when I took a mighty swing with my 4-wood and stubbed it into the ground a foot behind my ball. It showed up in an x-ray for an unrelated problem five years later, and I had the dubious pleasure of playing dumb when the doctor pointed it out to me.
One of my brothers also broke an arm when he was a kid, but I think he just wanted a nice, hard cast to crack my uncrackable skull with.
Bones are big business. Milk producers have convinced the world that you must drink a gallon a day or so to make strong bones.
Many people would sell their soul to dig up a dinosaur bone.
Medical-supply companies sell wraps, pads and other body armor to help prevent damaging bones in daily activities.
Doctors whack off bones and replace them with strange, not so bony materials.
Fake bone manufacturers sell plastic skeletons to universities and Halloween pranksters by the thousand.
Which reminds me, when is Hollywood going to quit using skeletons as adversaries in horror films? Good grief, they are just a bag of bones, grab a baseball bat and put the Malachi crunch on them.
Skeletons are not scary, though a leg bone in the hands of a wild eyed psycho could prove unsettling.
I guess I am not overly comfortable with a skull sitting by itself sporting smacking choppers and glowing eyes either. They remind me of Uncle Ernest, a legendary villain from my family’s late night “Let’s scare some fluids out of the kids” tales.
Enough of him, I’m getting a chill in my bones.
All bones lead to the headbone, for it is undoubtedly the Head Bone.
It rules the bone-world and makes no bones about it.
Oddly enough, if someone is especially dim-witted they are known as a bonehead.
I’m surprised all the Head Bones allowed that to happen.
Maybe they aren’t as all-powerful as they want us to believe.
Most likely though, they are just like everyone else.
Having a boob around once in a while, even if they are named after you, makes you feel a little bit better about yourself.

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