My sister Stacey stood there in the dining room, her keys in one hand on a black and white cheerleader lanyard, blonde highlights through her dark brown hair.
Thread both cords through the lanyard hook.
"Don't touch that one!" Skinny Pete shouted, but just then the metal thing on the lanyard sprouted steel pincers and stuck one through Badger's face and pinned him to the wall, where he twitched for a while and then died.
I'm consistently told I'm not allowed into the meet-and-greet's inner sanctum, not even for a peek, but with a professional looking camera in one hand, press lanyard in the other (and by sneaking through an unlocked door), I'm in.
Pull your thread up through the center of the lanyard.
And who can forget Ed Balls, locked outside Bilderberg, fumbling through an entire suitcase full of papers looking for his lanyard.
Fill your lunch-boxes with rocks and stones, your rucksacks with bowling balls and poke your house keys through the gaps in your fingers (or, conversely, use your house keys lanyard as a makeshift morning star), because it's time for a nationwide school-kid brawl, and you're all invited.
Oh, yeah, remove lanyard.
