Mildly interesting
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Goats have one of the most unique and functional eye shapes in the animal kingdom: rectangular pupils.
Unlike round or vertical pupils, these horizontal slits give goats a nearly 340° panoramic field of vision, allowing them to see almost everything around them without moving their heads.
This wide view is incredibly useful in the wild. As prey animals, goats are constantly on alert for predators. Their pupil shape helps them spot danger from almost any direction, even when their heads are lowered to graze. Remarkably, their eyes also rotate slightly to stay level with the horizon, giving them stable, clear vision even on steep, rocky slopes.
It’s a perfect example of form meeting function: those strange-looking eyes are a finely tuned survival tool.
REFERENCE:
Inside the Eye: Nature's Most Exquisite Creation (National Geographic) -
Who’s the greatest movie villain of all time? Forget Darth Vader. Forget Hannibal Lecter. Forget Voldemort. The real answer? Glinda — yes, Glinda the so-called “Good Witch” of the North. The one in the sparkly pink gown, smiling sweetly, pretending to be everyone’s friend. It’s always the ones with the tiaras you’ve got to watch out for.
Think about it. She shows up all floaty and radiant in her bubble like some kind of celestial savior, and within minutes she’s playing a game of cosmic chess where Dorothy is the disposable pawn. The poor girl has just been dropped into a land of technicolor nightmares, barely processing the fact that a house killed someone, and Glinda’s already scheming. First order of business? Magically slap those ruby slippers onto Dorothy’s feet. Without permission. No explanation, no warning, just — zap. And then, with a perfectly innocent smile, she casually drops the bombshell: “Oh, and by the way, you can’t take them off.” Convenient, right? Almost like she wanted the Wicked Witch of the West to lose her mind. Almost like she knew Dorothy was about to become a walking bullseye.
Then comes the kicker: Glinda sends this Kansas farm girl — armed with nothing but a dog, a picnic basket, and questionable footwear — on what is essentially a suicide mission. “Follow the yellow brick road,” she says, like it’s a Sunday stroll. No mention of flying monkeys. No mention of poison poppies. No mention of, oh, I don’t know, the murderous sorceress who now has a personal vendetta against her. Dorothy doesn’t need a travel itinerary; she needs a restraining order and maybe a Kevlar vest. But Glinda? She doesn’t care. As long as someone else handles the West Witch problem, she’s free to keep floating around in her glitter bubble, polishing her crown and humming lullabies to herself.
And here’s the real punch in the gut: Dorothy didn’t even need to go through any of it. Not the trek. Not the Wizard. Not the entire Technicolor death march. She could have clicked those heels and gone home from the start. But Glinda conveniently leaves that little detail out until Dorothy has risked life, limb, and sanity. Why? Maybe Glinda wanted her occupied. Maybe she needed a distraction. Or maybe — and this is where it gets delicious — she wanted the West Witch weakened, distracted, and ultimately destroyed, without lifting a perfectly manicured finger.
But you want real proof of Glinda’s dark side? Go back to their very first exchange. Dorothy, sweet, polite, Midwestern Dorothy, says: “I’ve never heard of a beautiful witch before.” Innocent, right? Glinda doesn’t miss a beat: “Only bad witches are ugly.” Read that again slowly. What she’s really saying is: good equals beautiful, bad equals ugly. And then, later, Glinda actually asks Dorothy, “Are you a good witch or a bad witch?” So, let’s unpack this. That means, in Glinda’s sparkly little worldview, if Dorothy were pretty, she wouldn’t even need to ask. But since she does ask, well… she clearly doesn’t find Dorothy’s looks reassuring. Yikes. Subtle, Glinda. Real subtle.
By the end, she sails back in like she’s been orchestrating this entire saga from her crystal ball. Smiles sweetly, waves her wand, and says, “Oh, silly me, you’ve had the power to go home all along.” And she has the audacity to act like she’s teaching Dorothy a valuable lesson about self-reliance, as though all those near-death experiences were some kind of personal growth seminar. No, Glinda. Dorothy didn’t need a lesson; she needed a straight answer and maybe a cup of tea.
So yes, while movie history loves to paint her as the benevolent fairy godmother, I’m not buying it. Behind that saccharine smile is the cold calculation of someone who knew exactly what she was doing. She wasn’t helping Dorothy. She was using her. The Wicked Witch of the West may have worn black and cackled like a Saturday morning cartoon villain, but Glinda? Glinda played the long game. The quiet ones always do.
And somewhere, high above Oz, she’s probably still floating in that ridiculous bubble, humming to herself, wondering how long it’ll take before anyone else catches on.
