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.
Harry's capitalization pool was starting to roll over. He knew there was fallout risk. With a quick glance at Ron and Hermione he added a short hedge of soft dollars and stirred in some FASB No. 8. But this was a mistake; the market began churning, and his small-issues exemption began to smoke. He started trying to write down the value when he felt, rather than heard, Snape gliding up from behind. His variance was harsher, less ironic, than usual. "So, Potter," he sneered. "That's your solution? When someone takes a poison pill, you can't always just shove a BARRA analysis down their throat, you know. If this had been a volatile market you'd be in Askaban for having violated Glass-Steagall." Snape looked down his nose at him, his equity balanced. "You're just like your father: arrogant, always at unsystematic risk, overextended, overbought and underfinanced."
This was too much. "My father was not overextended!" Harry shouted, jumping from his stool, portfolio in hand
progress has achieved wonderful things, too. Paving. Asphalt. Smog. Car alarms that wake you up in the middle of the fucking night. Carcinogenic food. The Exxon Valdez. That stereo in the apartment upstairs. Hydrogen bombs. Hormone-injected meat. Artificial coloring. Alarm clocks (and a society so dependent on measured time that we need alarm clocks). Television, and a society that has replaced "How can we improve the human condition?" with "Hey, did'ja see the Simpsons last night? Huh huh". An Internet where people like us can waste away their free time instead of going out and having a life. Yeah! Progress! I love it! Get me the genetic splicing kit! I want to make a new kind of trout!