By CL Bledsoe

My triceps and biceps went on a game show. The object of the show was to name the original color of various celebrities’ hair, based on their first appearances in film and television. The contestants were awarded bonus points if they could name the actual original color of certain celebrities’ hair, if it was different from the color featured in the first appearance, and even more bonus points were awarded if the contestants could name the brands and types of dyes used. My biceps tied by naming the original color of a forgettable actresses’ hair based on pubic hairs bought from the actress’s gynecologist, who verified that they were free of dye or chemical tampering. My triceps were able to name the color of the actress’s dog’s hair, which had been dyed white but were actually blond. The award they shared was a trip to France. This was fortunate because my triceps speak French, as I am mostly made of croissants and pastries, and French is the predominant language spoken throughout my body. Some of me is cheese, but these parts speak English, of the British idiom. My biceps and triceps liked it so much in France they decided to stay. The muscles I have left are the ones who lost the game show. You can understand my trepidations.