My House, in the middle of our street, and on the corner, too
In Which Your Humble Blogger notes that the very rich are not like you and me, or at least like me, and if they are like you, can I borrow twenty bucks?
In Which Your Humble Blogger notes that the very rich are not like you and me, or at least like me, and if they are like you, can I borrow twenty bucks?
In Which YHB prepares Gentle Readers for a disappointment. I hope.
In Which Your Humble Blogger tried a diet of quiet rest, no sweets, but went nearly crazy, and went clearly crazy.
In Which Your Humble Blogger gives unwanted advice to someone he wants to do badly, but it isn’t meant to be bad advice, for all of that.
In Which Your Humble Blogger is rather transparently begging for another one of those great comment threads where everybody writes essays demolishing YHB’s point, but raising lots of new questions.
In Which, once again, Your Humble Blogger offers advice to someone who needs it not, nor will ever hear it.
In Which Your Humble Blogger discovers that it could have been Professor Plum in the Ballroom with the Rope, but then, I can’t really rule out the library, and has anybody seen the lead pipe? Oh, you have Professor Plum? Phooey. Mrs. White? Mr. Green? Or was it suicide?
In Which Your Humble Blogger takes down his Yes sign and stores it in the garage for next year.
In Which Your Humble Blogger does some more freelance speechwriting; also, the threw my soap box into the curbside recycling, which claims to take boxboard, is that all right?
In Which Your Humble Blogger fails to provide a reason, other than chance, for this difference between the Parties.