When I see a headline like this one, “Obama Expects GOP Tax Cave”, the image that comes into my mind is of a skin-clad, shaggy Grover Norquist, gnawing on a bone, crouching in the GOP tax cave.
When I see a headline like this one, “Obama Expects GOP Tax Cave”, the image that comes into my mind is of a skin-clad, shaggy Grover Norquist, gnawing on a bone, crouching in the GOP tax cave.
The right word is, of course, “cave in.” Poor speakers of English, like Obama, have no respect for prepositions, which in fact envigorate a language and differentiate it from others.
When I remarked to my mother, a Spanish teacher, that Spanish seemed an easy language to master, she replied, “Wait until you try to master the prepositions.”
However, Dave has the image right.
We got it Jimbo, you don’t much like women.
Get it? Look at “preposition.” It’s a joke.
There’s a damned good reason we have all the money.
Ya’ll are just stupid.
Lost in some “belle perfectione.”
So, how does Ms. Schuler like her tea?
I told you I’m Southern. We ran the the Plantations after our husbands were gone.
Unless you were from Melrose, and your husband walked back from Tennessee to find you and your children dead from typhus.
There are several possible answers to that question. One would be “beyond reasonable limits”. Another would be black and straight. She doesn’t like green tea, white tea, or herbal tea. She doesn’t like Chinese teas. She likes Assams and Darjeelings and teas that are like Assams and Darjeelings.
Texas is just a gig.
Does she like Irish breakfast?
‘When I remarked to my mother, a Spanish teacher, that Spanish seemed an easy language to master, she replied, “Wait until you try to master the prepositions.†‘
Yeah. Take a stroll through por-and-para land, sometime.
Just got a nice call from Baseball HQ. I need to return the book “REFUSE” and they will issue a refund for the $115 today.
Girl named Linda.
“Irish breakfast tea” is, essentially, a mixture that heavily favors Assams so, yes, she does. Our staple, ordinary teas here are Barry’s Gold and PG Tips, both of which favor Assams. If I had to guess, I’d say she goes through about twenty pounds of those a year. Plus other, finer teas.
Yenchhh. I like Community dark roast coffee, but she can be tolerated.
I like a plain ceramic teapot, we go that way.
Modern, you know.
But there is a Wedgwood at Primitives for $95.
The white on blue ? It’s lovely. They ship.
Primitives Unlimited. Natchez, MS. Google it. Tell them I told you told you.
Can’t help myself, can I?
It’s a curse.
Damn, I’ve become a personal shopper.
Niche marketing is the jazz.
How fun!
Did you get you get it?
Or whatev.
I have a shnozz.
Did you get it?
Matters of the heart.
Don’t tell me you don’t have enough money for that.
Today is the day!
Get it on.
What y’all want, The Apocolypse?
Here’s the picture:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Giampietrino-Last-Supper-ca-1520.jpg
Umm, humm. I know the gestures.
I drive the Mary-mobile.
It’s blue.
Or I’m totally round the bend.
Could be.
If that’s the case, put me in a hospital and don’t interfere. I’m happy.
I’ll have lunch with Catherine the Great. Got to be more interesting than most of these.
Perhaps, somehow y’all misspoke?
Get over it.
I own a Coptic cross from 1996, maybe ’95.
Wouldn’t begin to wear a cross before now.
Take that as you will.
But don’t piss me off in the meantime.
I have free will.
Stand down.
Pretty weird, isn’t it?
But I do know how to wield authority.
All caught up in your myths.
It’s just life.
It’s that easy. Or hard, as you , as you take it.
Mine was hard.
It WILL untangle shortly.
It’s lightning. If you want to know.
That was the first clue.
You are a deep and faithful man, Monsieur David. How can a woman not love you?
Some would say you are “graced”. I just like you. You’ve been with me for a long time.
Heads up. Quit acting like snotwads. Grow up.
I am the wife of the Storm god, and I will lay your soul to waste if you cross me.
Pretty interesting.
That’s my message to you.
I am the Magdalene and Mary, and Isis. We like women.
Come and get me.
Or I’ll come to you.
Rocky, boy.
Snotwad.
Now, about this Galactic Cowgirl series, Michael and Katherine, we do the Four Horsemen and three are unsaddled She goes forward on a Palomino with a Ruger in her back pocket.
WE WIN.
Here’s one where I get to beat Dave in the “weird job” contest: I was, briefly, a political cartoonist. It was for a chain of local newspapers on Cape Cod, IIRC. I say if I recall, because I didn’t do the job for long — maybe six weeks. That’s how long it took them to figure out that 1) I wasn’t much of an artist and 2) I didn’t give a damn about local news.
That’s certainly something I’ve never done. I can draw. I’m more of a draftsman than a sketcher, caricaturist, or artist but I can draw. I just don’t have the patience to do it. If I drew more often it mightn’t be such a chore.
My brother Paul can draft and sketch. It’s pretty rare.
He used to do atrocious cartoons of me when I was a little girl. Bastard.
I could beat him at Gin, though.
We all jes’ doin’ the best we can.
Where ya’ll?
Daddy loved Patricia best.
Hey, I still like Paul. He lives in Little Rock.
You can be Paul without being doctrinaire.
Get over it. I had to.
I’m the Queen of Heaven and Earth and I don’t even drive a Mercedes?
My love is a joker, I tell you.
Straight on the line, everyday. Psychotic, romantic dimwit, inspired prophetess, twit. On and on.
Galactic cowgirl is the best.
Take me now. To Whitfield. I hear Napoleon is free for lunch.
This sounds like a hippie/stoner thing to say, but I can paint, do respectable art when I’m stoned. Or at least I could back in the old days. Nowadays I have some very minimal ability with a pencil but I don’t really try to tap that. Fork in the road and all that: word or picture. Left brain won.