Barbara Kingsolver and adult beluga

Barbara Kingsolver is the sea star of my touch tank, the flying duckling of my Planet Earth. No one can write like the Kings. I'm reading a collection of her essays right now, High Tide in Tucson, and just a few minutes ago, "Civil Disobedience at Breakfast" made me guffaw alone on the couch. Here is a supershort excerpt that is out of context, but will still rock some gooey sections of your brain:

When my mother is canonized, I will testify that she really did sit through a hundred virtually identical productions, staged by my siblings and me, of the play titled approximately "The Dutch Boy Who Saved His Town By Putting His Finger in the Hole in the Dike." I have no idea why we did this. It seems truly obsessive.

Yes, Barby Barb gets billions of points for making my heartless self laugh, and then several billion more points for inspiring this Kingsolver obsession. I've always wanted to be one of those people who goes out and reads everything by a certain author. (Ok, in high school, I went out and read everything by J.D. Salinger, but word on the street is he's a creepy alcoholic. Thus, I decree that high school author obsessions don't count. Same with high school friends and high school pants.)

If I were Barbara Kingsolver, I would end this post with eloquence and humor. But I'm not Barbara Kingsolver, not even a little bit. So, I will end with this beluga: