This morning we were, uh, excitedly investigating the ventral nasal meatus and discussing the insertion of stomach tubes into horses.  Suddenly the professor shouted at us and the room became deathly silent.  (Have you ever gone into a chicken barn and yelled?  It was like that.) 

“Folks, it’s 11 o’clock.  Is that significant to you?”

(We’re vet students, not history majors.  This is the professor, after all, who took time during our first class to explain that he will be deserting the anatomy class around 11 for his “carbohydrate and caffeine fix,” so we all expected him to say that he needed to leave to go get his coffee and doughnut.  So the chicken barn effect continued.)

“Today, ninety years ago, on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, the guns stopped.”

Oh.  The ones like Gabriel who had quite forgotten about the armistice were a little embarrassed, Sean (who had been waiting for the clock to show 11:00) stepped aside and held a minute of silence, and then we all went back to probed around in stinky objects.  I can’t help but wonder about those soldiers.  Like, at 10:30, did they know the Germans were going to sign to end “the war that was to end all wars”?  How would that affect your aim?

That’s morbid.  For something MUCH less morbid, please see the previous post.  Anything by P. G. Wodehouse is delightful.