Little Mastery
In Which Your Humble Blogger writes about cricket. Wait, why are you leaving? Oh, right, cricket.
In Which Your Humble Blogger writes about cricket. Wait, why are you leaving? Oh, right, cricket.
In Which Your Humble Blogger writes at tremendous length, I mean really hijjus length, about the implications of the choice and implementation of metaphors, claiming to have seen, behind the words, objectionable attitudes, wrongheaded and dangerous, and yet without actual harm coming to anybody, when you get right down to it, innit?
In Which Your Humble Blogger gets all logical, as I am sometimes wont to do. Also, I use the word wont. So sue me.
In Which Your Humble Blogger consorts with Gentle Readers, who are, you’ll note, gentle, and not wicked at all, or they would be Wicked Readers, which, one admits, would be wicked cool.
In Which Your Humble Blogger refrains from singing the theme song to Mr. Rogers’ show, in a creepy voice, whilst waggling the eyebrows.
In Which Your Humble Blogger notes that in Connecticut a thank-you note is not considered admissible evidence.
In Which Your Humble Blogger is in the middle of a mystery novel, a biography and a book on the language of Shakespeare, as well as a book about political psychology that I think I’ve given up on and two more novellas that I want to get to before the end of the month, when I will start to get really busy.
In Which Your Humble Blogger fails to give away whether it is the Eagles who are Victorious, or whether the victory is over the Eagles.
In Which while all of us were sleeping the stockholders got richer at the expense of all our children; arise and claim your freedom.
In Which Your Humble Blogger makes an error, and lives to not bother regretting it.