Harrumph. I have been dragged
kicking and screaming protesting decorously from the Knights exhibit and hauled off to the Paleontology wing. Since none of the toothy beasties figured is alive to be recruited to my cause, I find this a good deal less interesting than the glaives and billhooks of the previous exhibit.
Sigyn, I think this smiley whatsit wants to follow you home.
…and possibly eat you, so let’s not adopt it.
A human gastronome, Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin , once said, “Tell me what you eat and I will tell you what you are.” This has always intrigued me. I wonder if he really could tell that I was handsome and talented and a genius just by knowing I like roast chicken. Of course, anyone could infer that the human female is white, bland, lumpy, and boring from her love of rice pudding, so I guess there’s that.
Paleontologists have been using that rule of thumb to help figure out what defunct animals were like and how they made their living, based on their teeth.
I have been staring at this creature for twenty minutes now, and I still can’t work out what this thing ate:
Duh. Read the card, Loki.
Cream-filled chocolate sandwich cookies.
We are now looking at some of the works of the talented Mr. Faberge, who never encountered a surface he couldn’t encrust with gold, enamel, and precious stones.
Big smooth river rock?
Boom! Match striker.
The human female is quite taken with the smoky quartz shell cup thing there, the one topped with the hippocampus. (Why DO they call it a hippocampus when it does not look at all like a hippo and has probably never been near a university in its life?)
Sigyn and I like the little matching elephants, one red and one green. They’re sitting on a double bell-push, a device used for summoning servants. There! That right there! I need one of those for my birthday, which is coming up. Hint, hint.