It is such a benison that I no longer have to put up with your pedantic carping -- like that time when you found me contemplating the gestalt of our cleaning implements in the broom closet and accused me of lying doggo to avoid having to visit your mother.
Orleans' buttressed littoral is a complete exegesis of the ruin worked on the Cape by human settlement and of the continuing failure of our trivial gestures in the direction of expiation.
Maugre his favorite old maxim ("Never judge a horse by its carapace"), he could not deny the gust he took in the maroon-and-gold fishnets of the Trojan....
As a douceur, I patiently and attentively listened as he once again trotted out his hobbyhorse, asseverating his aversion to everything enchorial; to hear him tell it -- as I have, over and over, and over, for nigh on 30 years, whether we're talking about hieratics or cuisine, music or (I kid you not) programming languages, if the brow's not all the way up to *here*, it's just no damn good.
We hoped for a felicitous outcome (ie something other than porridge for dinner) when our resident nudnik doodled on the cook's usual spurtle, but alas! the cook just used a wooden spoon instead.
There was no skulduggery in the wingnut, only waspish invective: "Good God, they've given State to Nihilarian Clinton!"
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