Complement: (n) a thing that completes or brings to perfection.

The greatest complement to beauty is humility.funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

The greatest complement to talent is hard work.















And of course, the greatest complement to God is humanity.


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Companion: (n) one of a pair of things intended to complement

I have concluded through my limited thinking that the best way to maintain one’s sanity and open the door to the possibility of joy is to avoid disappointment.

Of course, the problem is, trying to dodge disappointment does sometimes limit the scope, energy and possibility of taking on new funny wisdom on words that begin with a Cexperiences in life.

But when it comes to the role of companion–that being who links with you sympathetically, empathetically and nearly parenthetically…

Well, when it comes to a companion, disappointment can be especially devastating.

It may be difficult to get another person or another creature to love you as much as you love them, but it seems to me, without that input, much of what could be a blessing in our lives falls flat.

I was taught that in order to get a good companion, you had to be one. But all of us know you can be a good companion and end up with a dud.

Companionship requires two things:

Conversations where you make sure you’re on the same page together.

And a rip-roaring, bar room brawling sense of humor.


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dictionary with letter A

Amputate: (v): to cut off a limb, typically by surgical operation.

I have eight toes.

I started out with ten–a full complement. But when I got an infection in the big toe on my left foot and it spread to the next toe and threatened to become equally as evangelistic to all the surrounding little piggies, it became necessary for the doctor to come in and snatch two of ’em.

I was not favorable to this.

Even though the infection was threatening to go into gangrene, I had grown fond of having ten toes and considered it to be beneath me, as an intelligent individual, to trim down to eight.

It was explained to me that I didn’t really need ten toes–a similar conversation that young mothers have with their homely daughters when trying to point out the positive aspects of being plain.

I knew I didn’t need ten toes. (Well, I didn’t know, but I assumed that my feet would still work with eight.)

It’s just that I didn’t want to be weird.

I didn’t want to be that guy who was physically debilitated or weakened, making him seem a bit pitiful instead of powerful.

It’s not that a lot of people see your toes. Matter of fact, there are only certain occasions when such a revealing is even plausible.

But I saw–and my opinion matters to me.

But when it came down to a choice between dying or losing my two toes, I chose to bid farewell and bon voyage to the fellas.

It reminds me of an idea put forth in the Good Book: “If your right hand offends you, cut it off.” For it’s better to make it to heaven without a hand than to show up someplace else with a diseased appendage.


Of course, there are spiritual applications across the board–but I think one of the signs of maturity is knowing when to give up on things that are not working and cut them away before they taint and destroy everything else.

It’s never easy. After all, we grow accustomed to the face of our circumstance.

But as I sit here today–with eight toes–writing to you, I realize that it does not make a lot of difference.

Because even with eight … you can still keep your toes in the water.


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