Dear Mr. Webster: Let me start by saying it is certainly not my intent to appear brazen, or to burden you, rather to humbly draw your attention, purely out of duty, to a grave and considerable error I found in your ninth edition. Although I do not recall why I delved into my volume, that
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The secret life of Jon Favreau, the President’s wordsmith wunderkind. 9:05 a.m. — Breakfast at the White House. WAITER: More coffee? JON: Thank you, thank you very much. I dine here today, humbled by the task before us, grateful for the breakfast you have bestowed, mindful of the sacrifices borne by the White House kitchen
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It’s never too late to believe in hope. It was a little late for me on Tuesday 13th. I had attempted to kill myself with my tie by suspending a noose from the bathroom light. Hope had arrived fashionably late to the party. It was a mistake to believe that a Bart Simpson tie had
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As Mr. James walked into the airport terminal after passing through Colombian customs, he spotted a hastily scrawled cardboard sign with the words: Marrying Wifes. The sign was being held by a thin man wearing a chauffeur’s uniform and a New York City policeman’s cap. Mr. James edged crabwise, dragging his suitcase behind, and said
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“Um, Professor Defrancesco, I don’t think the flux capacitator is on right?” “It’s fine son, it’s just fine, now go on with your symposium presentation!” “Um…OK…um, Professor Defrancesco, is it supposed to be that color? “That’s perfectly natural, son–” Ten minutes later, after Jenny Blotnick is rushed to the hospital with a flux capacitator lodged
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