Thomas Friedman op-ed.
Warning: The Solicitor-General (ooo, such a big scary guy. "I'm the Solicitor-General hear me roar! Eat. Your. Pickled turnips!") has publicly stated this site may be too funny for your loins.
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I watched Thomas Friedman. I observed David Brooks. I lusted (c'man!) over Maureen Dowd. I listened to Paul Krugman. Each with a special je ne sait pas flair for political punditry. Collectively - and individually but mostly together - they have a combined IQ far, far higher than Buckminster Fuller. The guy who invented the screw driver set.
They put the shake in milk. They put the shape in triangles. Angles have no meaning without their consent.
Me? Mostly I picked my nose while they lectured. Oh, the glory of shnott-putting masters of pen so vulnerable at the podium of nothingness.
"We're under attack!" yelled Dowd. "Take cover as these are shnotts the size of golf balls!" screamed Brooks. "Put that down, Paul. Those are not meant to be eaten," Thomas shouted.
Oh, the mayhem! The humanity! Oh, not enough plastic bags banned!
Piers Morgan and Chris Matthews suddenly appeared ready to put an end to the madness. Or so I thought. "Remain calm! Barack Obama will be here in 20 minutes to saves us all!"
Well, I just couldn't wait. I flicked a shnott that bull dozed them to the ground.
Later, I was asked why I did it.
I replied, "Have they not been flicking shnotts too?" and "where's the catsup bottle?"
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