There are five houses. The first house is on the left. The longshoreman lives in the red house. The economist owns the basset hound. Tea is drunk in the green house. The fireman drinks bourbon. The green house is immediately to the right of the ivory house. The octopus owner reads history books. Science fiction is read in the yellow house. Milk is drunk in the middle house. The detective lives in the first house. The man who reads biographies lives in the house next to the man with the anteater. Science fiction is read in the house next to the house where the squirrel is kept. The magazine reader drinks antifreeze. (Bad habit, really.) The general reads Shakespeare. The detective lives next to the blue house. Now, here's your quiz: Who drinks water? And who owns the weasel?
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!
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
"Accio Jensen index!" Harry cried, pointing his wand at the maintenance margin requirement. If he could just prevent Voldemort from off-balance-sheeting a little longer, he knew Hermione would come through with the EAMS differential disclosure. But Voldemort's equity was powerful, even with Dumbledore's setting value date on the Eurodollar; his random-walk didn't seem so random, and Harry was sure that even with translation exposure he could paper over his losses. "Autoregressive kedavra!" Voldemort snarled with a sudden fiduciary. Harry leaped aside, nearly forced to sell at a dirty price. If he hadn't set his global bonds to Market-if-touched he would have been forced into liquidity