I Don't Know Where We're Going Or

There Are Nineteen Words In Yiddish That Convey Gradations Of Disparagement, From A Mild, Fluttery Helplessness To A State Of Downright, Irreconcilable Brutishness. All Of Them Can Be Usefully Employed To Pinpoint The Kind Of Individuals I Write About.

I Cannot Recall A More Engaging Passage In Fiction, And I've Been Trying For Almost Eighteen Seconds.

As For Consulting A Dentist Regularly, My Punctuality Practically Amounted To A Fetish. Every Twelve Years I Would Drop Whatever I Was Doing And Allow Wild Caucasian Ponies To Drag Me To A Reputable Orthodontist.

A Farm Is An Irregular Patch Of Nettles Bounded By Short-term Notes, Containing A Fool And His Wife Who Didn't Know Enough To Stay In The City.

We Old Roosters Must Be Cautious. Don't Try To Outwit Your Arteries.