In Which Your Humble Blogger ends up happy to have read it, which I wouldn’t have expected after the first ten pages.
In Which Your Humble Blogger attempts, dimly, to imagine what it would be like to be someone very different.
In Which Your Humble Blogger somehow forgets to point out that there are just a handful of people who are really good at this running-for-President business, and Barack Obama is much, much better than any of them, so perhaps the rest of us could, you know, shut up for a bit.
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 points out that this cat Oop is a bad m-(Shut your mouth!)-I’m talking about Oop!
In Which Your Humble Blogger is beaten as small as the dust of the earth, stamped as the mire of the street, and spread abroad.
In Which Your Humble Blogger starts catching up.
In Which Your Humble Blogger talks of that which he knows nothing about.
In Which Your Humble Blogger is able to keep up the pretense that this will be a weekly feature, right? I mean, I listened to the song on Monday, so that counts for something.
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.