Place. Limits. Liberty.
… a piece ready nearly a week ago, save that Front Porcher Polet, possessed as usual of a mighty thirst, showed up poised to commit an act of compositio interruptus …
I mean, Uh-Oh!
One of my
We’ve got some friends over at the Mackinaw Valley Institute.
Oh, Porch. Where is thy sting?
Wherein the Barn Jester, having stepped in it, encounters an unexpected trial.
But as a gesture of good faith he agreed to limit himself to a quart a day.
Those who think “nostalgia” is a bad word marking a bad sentiment can pucker my yonder socket.
Why doesn’t this annual game of musical chairs occur among faculty members?
Never was a truer word spoken–not since “hell is other people.”
Serious bunkitude, dude.
The bartender says, “you’re all a bunch of idiots.”
First rule: triple the garlic. It’s like irony. There’s no such thing as too much.
My husband got his project cut off.
Our dwelling place is the state not of nature but of culture.
I’ll return when, looking from the woods, I see total fenestrated darkness.
And we mean that in the etymologically precise sense of the word.
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