One guy became so taken with the concept of “being civil” that he would go out of town whenever he had to spit.
There’re two ways of looking at this.
Every time this one guy with ears would hear the term, “superfluous sarcasm” he would think, “What a waste of perfectly good words.”
Those not born to the sorehead life ofttimes marry into it.
All wars are inevitable, all wars are necessary.
I ran across this other fellow who sometimes made sounds that had a vague whiff of the revolution about them, and what he’d do was periodically jump into wild pig shit up to his neck, and then not mention it.
All labels are nutritious, especially those men help attach to themselves.
A chap, just over that-a-ways, complains that his brain has finally and completely “eaten him up”.
Once you’re dead, EVERYone can speak Latin.
Part of being properly intellectualized in City affairs is in the ability to promptly reject any easy, obvious solutions.
Even after all these years, this one guy still faithfully places flowers at the site of his last thought.
Those who can refrain from checking their progress can probably do well.
The mediocre tend to find much of what happens as “highly un-called-for.”
One ole gent offered this terpsichorean truism for a Tuesday: “In that ubiquitous City ballroom, we all dance backwards to someone else’s favorite tune.”
An ordinary thought with “staying power” also has disMAYING power.