Build them up with bricks and stones
In Which Your Humble Blogger is traumatized by proxy.
In Which Your Humble Blogger is traumatized by proxy.
In Which a mighty oak grows in the soil of the inner city, nourished by the gentle rain of fraud, spreading the comfortable shade of democracy over the soft grass of, um, justice?
In Which Your Humble Blogger talks of that which he knows nothing about.
In Which Your Humble Blogger doesn’t actually have any immediate new rights, since bigamy is still right out, but, you know, it wasn’t about YHB, anyway.
In Which Your Humble Blogger gives up. Seriously, just gives up. We’re fucked. Get out that recipe for grass soup and hope there’s grass.
In Which Your Humble Blogger knows that Mr. Kristol is sort of joking, but only sort of, right?
In Which Your Humble Blogger reads a poem, closely. Well, closely-ish.
In Which Your Humble Blogger forgot, last week, to note that although I was caught up in the hype and excitement of who-will-it-be, when it comes down to it, I didn’t really care about the vice-presidential pick.
In Which Your Humble Blogger talks out his ass, but is willing to say the obvious thing that seems to be left unsaid on the air.
In Which Your Humble Blogger tries to create a narrative to explain the bits of information about how we create narratives out of bits of information. I think.