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Those wings . . . I dunno . . .

In my house things like that make the vacuum cleaner retch and the dog run away.

Besides, I’m a cheapskate, and on those occasions when somebody has to be a fairy, or a dragon, or Saint Michael, I generally make our own wings.

My formula is simple.

wire coathanger+old white tights+glitter glue=Of course they look like wings.

The alternate method involves posterboard and spraypaint, but the outcome is the same: Of course people will know you’re supposed to be Saint Michael. Now stop your grousing and put them on and let’s go.

We are still haunted by the scattered remains of a deceased feather boa somebody gave us about three houses back. You get feathers in the house the way you get fleas, and I’m not that keen to court either one.

Still, in a moment of extravagance and mercy, I might conceivably go for one of these:

Handmade by somebody a lot more gifted with the glitter glue than I am.

Q: Why does the dog run away when he sees angel wings?

A. Complete this equation: dog+wings+zipline=

Everybody sing.


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