Dear Reader (Even those of you who didn't seem to notice or care that I failed to file this "news"letter on Friday),
So I'm sitting here at Gate C6 at O'Hare waiting for my flight home. I am weary, pressed for time, in desperate need of a shower, and filled with a great sense of dread for the work ahead of me, sort of like the stripper with an hour left on the clock realizing that Eddy "Sweaty Sponge" Spaluko just walked in from his job draining Porta-Potties.
Meanwhile, a few minutes ago (which would actually make it erstwhile), I saw a man eating a pre-made salad — no doubt put together in some giant salad sweatshop outside Cicero, Ill. He dropped a crouton, covered in so much dressing it looked like some strange sea creature that exudes creamy ranch as a defense mechanism against predators.
When the crouton hit the blue airport carpeting, time slowed to a crawl, the background sounds of a busy airport vanishing as if the Almighty Himself had hit the mute button. The man picked it up barehanded, unconcerned by the squid-ink defenses of this soaked bread product. He looked around, mouthed something I can only assume was a ...
| | | October 14 2018 | | | | |
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| | | A Free People Must Be Virtuous Jonah Goldberg Dear Reader (Even those of you who didn't seem to notice or care that I failed to file this "news"letter on Friday), So I'm sitting here at Gate C6 at O'Hare waiting for my flight home. I am weary, pressed for time, in desperate need of a shower, and filled with a great sense of dread for the work ahead of me, sort of like the stripper with an hour left on the clock realizing that Eddy "Sweaty Sponge" Spaluko just walked in from his job draining Porta-Potties. Meanwhile, a few minutes ago (which would actually make it erstwhile), I saw a man eating a pre-made salad — no doubt put together in some giant salad sweatshop outside Cicero, Ill. He dropped a crouton, covered in so much dressing it looked like some strange sea creature that exudes creamy ranch as a defense mechanism against predators. When the crouton hit the blue airport carpeting, time slowed to a crawl, the background sounds of a busy airport vanishing as if the Almighty Himself had hit the mute button. The man picked it up barehanded, unconcerned by the squid-ink defenses of this soaked bread product. He looked around, mouthed something I can only assume was a ... Read More | | | | | | | Follow Us & Share 19 West 44th Street, Suite 1701, New York, NY, 10036, USA Your Preferences | Unsubscribe | Privacy View this e-mail in your browser. | |
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