For the one-thousandth time in as many nights I reached up and tested whether the guard had remembered to secure the lid to my oubliette, for in such a milieu it pays to be a doubting Thomas, and made the stunning discovery that I was free to decamp.
Oh, you're right, I should have told that nosy parker next door to go jump in a lake, instead of answering why it is we live in a miserable bandbox of a house and why I boil up kasha morning, noon and night rather than something less nutritious that might cost a little more and actually taste good -- all so that you can follow the surd promptings of your muse instead of going to work in Daddy's office!!!
[sorry! Corrected version:] With his never-ending patter of soothing, erudite verbiage, Clark "Rockefeller" came across as such a nice nelly that none of his victims doubted the verisimilitude of his claim to be the heir apparent to that eponymous family's vast fortune -- or suspected he was capable of murder.
With his never-ending patter of soothing, erudite verbiage, Clark "Rockefeller" came across as such a nice nelly that none of his victims doubted his claim to be the heir apparent to the eponymous family's vast fortune -- or suspected he was capable of murder.
Skimming through the pages of "The Idiot's Guide to Eschatology" in the book section of the Walmart superstore, I was able quell my terror that the Day of Judgment was likely to arrive anytime soon, which freed my mind to contemplate the sleepover my daughter was planning to host, and the opportunities for heinous self-gratification it might afford a Peeping Tom. Sent from my iPhone
Y'know, it's really got me chuffed that you haven't attorned your protection money this month -- I oughta mirandize you right now on, oh, I dunno, how about a child labor charge? -- but in my book the word "mercy" is a hapax legomenon, meaning: this one time only, I'm gonna give you an extra twenty-four hours.
Mrs. Smith had run a boarding house for over thirty years, and when the conversation at dinnertime turned contentious on the subject of her "famous" pink slime soufflé, she had only to shoot the offending speaker a glance to remind him of certain little imprests she had been gracious enough to make over the course of the month, repayment on which it was undoubtedly time to attorn.
"Tut!" cooed the ungulate visitor to my sickroom, proferring a cup, "too late for tears now, old fellow, but here, a bit of nepenthe may help render you less percipient of the pain as you attorn the thing that has now become my due."
Hansel suborned Gretel's crime of hastening the poor old woman's ingress into the kiln by stretching his arm through the bars of his cage and jabbing his sister in her tender, popliteal flesh with a stick.
While the President was making an unheralded visit to the troops to lead them in singing a doxology in praise of his boldness in waging and winning the war, at home the Secretary and Vice President were already machinating ways to augment their hereditaments by starting a new one.
I had thought I should be permitted to convalesce in peace at the lovely sanitorium by the sea, but, no; by suppertime I had already crossed swords with the administratrix of the house, a woman plethoric with bile, over my order to a serving-boy to bring a glass of warm brandy, and it transpired that under the lex loci she was empowered not only to countermand such a reasonable request, but further to withold my dessert as a supplementary proof of her spite.
The archbishop felt that the more malapert a reporter's question was -- and here was a real lollapalooza -- the more equivocal a response it deserved, and so he defended his policy of protecting the ecclesiastic demimonde of child-abusers that flourished in his diocese by intoning, "God may abhor the sin, but He still loves the sinner."
I overheard a pair of my students gossiping about their merry gest to attend some sort of annual lek in Provincetown, and about a grossly malapert advance that was visited upon one of them by a fellow he barely knew, but of course, in their quaint idiolect, all this was expressed quite differently.
My wife, you see, was a base, treacherous creature, whose reptilianness extended so far as an attempt to add a codicil to her will disinheriting me -- a hackneyed notion she must have copied out of one of her cheap novels -- but this malapert gesture came to naught, for she passed away quite unexpectedly before our solicitor could pay us a visit.
Edward, darling, Papá is an Oxford man, and if you allude in even the most roundabout way to your so-called brilliant career at a redbrick university, you will not only have failed to ingratiate yourself with the family; you will have caused him to think you a temerarious fool for having dreamt of asking for my hand.
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