It's true. My fans are dirtier than your fans.
Say it with me: How dirty are they?
Oh, very dirty. Very, very dirty.
Dirtier than dirty rice on a dirty floor, dirty.
Until last Friday my ceiling fans were so filthy stinkin dirty that when the oldest Infidel daughter voluntarily cleaned them, the youngest Infidel daughter, Melody looked up with her eyes wide in sheer wonderment as she exclaimed, "Wow! You shaved the gray beard off the fan!!!"
Yes, perhaps I can knit everyone on my Christmas list a nice Nordic-patterned loincloth and matching legwarmers out of the extraordinarily thick and wooly fan dust we collected.
I'm better at making up creative stories than I am at cleaning.
Don't get me wrong, I'm totally grateful to my daughter for braving the dust bunny army marching across the fan blades but it's not like I didn't already have an embellished cover story concocted to explain it away to family coming to our house for the holidays.
I was simply going to tell them that fluffy ceiling fans from the Fuzzy Wuzzy Fan Company are all the rage among the fashionable set in Europe.
Or that I'm a pioneer in the homegrown Gray Toupee business.........or that I'm decorating my whole house in a dingy shade of gray and I color-coordinated the fans first to match everything.
If that fails I suppose I could sprinkle some star-shaped glitter into the piles of dust and sell it at the Flea Market as genuine Stardust.
See, in the time spent writing this post I could have been making money with my vast collection of fan dust.
You should be paying me for my valuable time that I spend here instead of cleaning.