First, here is a portrait of me from this weekend:
Only once do I recall looking in a mirror and seeing an approximation of Veggieface. It was many years ago, when I was a child in college, after an evening forum that covered all known but unknowable subjects and made everybody fall down. My roommates and guests had overtaxed their brains and underestimated the refreshments. Chief offender was a local red wine, available at the time at 75 cents per gallon to connoisseur oenophiles of all ages, which turned out --upon later suspicion and consensus-- to be a coal-tar derivative. I survived that intellectual insurrection firmly resolved never to resemble bunny food again.
This brings us to our next picture:
Flyherders must be nimble enough to drive flies to market where they are purchased for turtle feed. This is the job all those little soccer players in elementary and preschool are being trained for. They view the world, even into adulthood, as a big gym class or field of filaree. They are quick like bunnies, perhaps quicker. But nature has its stabilizers. More and more flies are developing canniness, pretending to be bees, hovering and landing on blossoms, communing with their irreducibly dinky houseflynunculi and escaping the turtle food abattoirs. There's one now: