Yikes, if this was what passed for a beard in 1948, that’s a sad, sad state for facial hair. My brother-in-law is only capable of patchy spots on his face, but my husband can grow a full beard quickly. Now that it’s mostly white, he resembles Santa with only the aid of his round metal readers. Nobody likes a Santa with a fake beard.
That’s probably not kryptonite. In fact, the only thing I recognize in the whole image is dreft, and a man in an apron. A sturdy apron. The rest of it is all science.
This might also be science. Or maybe it’s engineering. I don’t know. It’s machines.
This guy is looking at the things, maybe liquids or gasses.
She is noticing how the thing has changed and is about to take notes on her hypothesis.
More bubble things. Too late to switch careers now, Bud. At least you have at lots of keys.
More liquid things and jars and gravity.
Maybe this is chemistry.
And finally, badda bing, badda boom, vaccines, fresh from the icebox.
Who needs a carbonated beverage when hot and hunky Randy is only a meter away, and his Chanel Pour Monsieur is wafting toward you on the wings of love, mingled with the musky scent of teen athlete? Focus, Joyce, or you’ll drop your pom.
Hormones are high all around. Looks like she’s got designs on this guy.
The sight of Bill literally made Sally’s jaw fall open.
Too much nuzzling!
A’courting we shall go.
He shall be mine by nightfall. I will yet ensnare him.