These hatreds be getting old
The guy behind the Walgreens counter is from Albania. The guy at the corner store’s from Mongolia. My nurses came from Ghana and Nigeria and all over Africa. I love them all.
Some supposedly true stories are so good that I’d hate to have to verify them. This is one of those stories. I believe it’s true.
The guy behind the Walgreens counter is from Albania. The guy at the corner store’s from Mongolia. My nurses came from Ghana and Nigeria and all over Africa. I love them all.
What does The New York Times have against El Salvador’s President Nayib Bukele, except a desire to suck up to its sources in the State Department and Pentagon?
Here’s how the Democrats can win the debates, and the election, with help from their high school coach.
Call me a luddy-duddy, call me a mooncalf, call me a jabbernowl, but there are some abuses of the English language up with which I shall not put.
I was enjoying life for the first time in six weeks, lounging on the back porch as the sun rose, reading Shakespeare, dogs beside me. Then the smell of rain.
Pondering my vote in a presidential election whose candidates’ platforms are virtually identical (I jest) I turned to philosophy and — dare I say it? — religion.
This shall be my last column describing how an old man recovers from a broken hip. It is dedicated to the immortal P.G. Wodehouse.
More than 500,000 copies of Harry Frankfurt’s excellent book, “On Bullshit,” have been sold since Princeton University Press published it in 2005. But it’s not the last word on bullshit.
It’s “a hard fate to be an American abroad, and not suspect why you were so disliked,” Salman Rushdie wrote in “The Satanic Verses.”
It may not have been absolutely the worst week of my life, but that’s because everyone at the hospital was so nice.