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Anniversary Issue (Part 2 of 2)
At the risk of illustrating that, while less really is more, more is actually much less, I'm recycling yet more snippets of this blog from the past year, which is not only less interesting than writing something completely new, it is also less hard (for me). Remember, this is an anniversary issue and calls for a nice bottle of champagne (by which I mean send me one).
The week started just fine, as we worked hard during the daytime hours, wrestling with big industry problems, and then retired to our chambers in the late afternoon for a glass of sherry and quiet contemplation.
Alas, I’ve once again learned that when it comes to beer, never claim you can beat the Belgians at it.
One way I think I might promote my mustard reviews, when they start to happen, is to produce a talk show in which I serve as host and chat with some of the world’s greatest luminaries and pop stars about mustard.
To the average observer, this will appear to be a tasting competition intended to market tomatoey condiment; only true sophisticates will realize it is actual art!
What I’m developing here is a concept, not an actual product.
Howlin' Pat's Meatball Eatery.
I've been told by several analysts (indirectly, by reading other people’s letters and saying, hey, that sounds like me!) that each of us is unique and has something deep inside us that separates us from the rest of humanity, like some expertise, or maybe just an annoying quirk.
One thing that separates Robert Plant from the rest of us, besides his incredible singing ability, is the fact that he can’t stop talking about love, while the rest of us can.
My son plays the pickle jars.
When people respond “to all” to an e-mail message that really doesn’t require responding to all, I want to respond to all saying “don’t respond to all.”
When have I shopped for and compared cockle prices at my local supermarket?
Somehow, the intergalactic-surf-punk movement of the 1990s came and went entirely unnoticed by me.
I see myself, in retirement, as a completely reimagined and reinvigorated human being, such as a poet whose very odd and seemingly unreadable poem “Burt’s Burnt Shirt” gets queued-up to be published in the New Yorker.
Don’t be surprised if we start hearing about adjustable rate mortgages every time Dustin Pedroia adjusts his batting gloves (often).
It’s not clear where my friend had gotten the idea that his mom had a classmate named Ophelia Dickey.
I wish we were doing something exciting, like building a rocket ship or standing as one atop a soap box and hollering political slogans through a bullhorn.
Witches back then were always getting bad raps for conjuring and so forth, and Cotton Mather cleared out some space in his very busy calendar to enjoy a couple of executions.
If I had a horse, it would be a Clydesdale, which I’d count on to get me to the nearest keg and back in one piece.
I’ve come up with a concept for my own excruciating reality show: middle aged dads deflating kid flotation devices at the end of family vacations.
I’ve looked up with envy on my friends who stand 5’10” or better, imagining what they must being seeing from those lofty heights in places like the Middle East Night Club.
Chip, the co-worker, hates the main character because he’s a “college boy”, which to Chip means he has every advantage in life, though in reality it just means the main character is in debt up to his eyeballs and will probably spend the rest of his life sharing apartments with other in-debt college grads.
I don’t ask to be taken to water parks and feel somewhat squeamish following other people’s derrieres down the wet chutes.
An internationally-renowned vegan cookbook author comes waltzing through the side entrance of his house and is startled by several dozen surprise-partiers while he is in the act of stuffing his face full of mongoose jerky.