1) Cook a 35-pound Butterball turkey so it's just exactly the way you like it. 2) Sequester the turkey up your left sleeve. 3) Go to your in-laws' house. While waiting for dinner to be served, do lots of small aerobic exercises with your left arm; the heat will keep the turkey warm. (Try not to be too obvious. If anyone asks, tell them you have an itch.) 4) As you sit down with everyone else at the dinner table, pick up your fork with your
were there any references in the book to Aragorn looting Boromir's body? Do the descendants of Elendil have a history of plundering the fallen that I was heretofore unaware of? When Isildur took the Ring from the body of Sauron, did he stop to claim the gold fillings from Sauron's teeth as weregild as well?
must take umbrage with your house report of 16 November, where you refer to Disney On Ice with the phrase "the magical goodness of Disney magic". I shall pass over the redundant nature of this phrasing in silence, but must point out that Disney On Ice is hardly the "magical goodness" you speak of. It is a stinging horror. It is but one arm, one appendage, one fear-inducing tentacle of a multinational corporate Cthulhu plying upon the dreams and fears of innocent young minds for its own dark-green slimy profit. It is a terror incarnate, its "leader" a six-foot-tall grinning rat, its Cyclopean works luring thousands of innocent children to its cultlike "amusements" and its workers upon this Earth wearing oversized false heads - daunting animal-like masks! - to shield the eyes of the unsuspecting from the soulless horrors doubtless beneath. Even their nefarious founder - Walt, the true "Disney On Ice" - by his own hideous will has been encased in freezing, unending cold in hopes that future generations of his minions may someday reanimate him. There is no "magical goodness" here, Mr. ---. There is only a terror and a madness beyond human comprehension, reaching, reaching toward the living world, devouring reason, leaving only darkness and savage creeping terror in its wake
He grabbed Steinfrau's nose. There was nothing for it now; he had to hang on, hang on for dear life, or else the mad German would be gone and there would be no way to prove his innocence. Steinfrau tried to roll up the window of the moving cab, but with a massive lunge he managed to jam his free hand in and around the crank; the pressure on his arm was terrible, but the window stopped in mid-rise, and the extra handgrip helped him hang on as the cab increased its speed. They were heading toward Midtown. There was a chance, a bare chance; if he could hook his ankle around the fence at the 59th Street sidewalk café he might be able to slow them down. But would he be able to? People were screaming, throwing things; there were angry shouts from theatregoers and commuters, traffic cops pointed at him and swore. Steinfrau seemed to be egging them on, damn him.