Moot Mots


J. Stephen Hunt | NOVEMBER GARDEN OF TORPORS . .  | November 29, 2015
Getting set for winter is a snap, compared with a home birth in the Holy Land.

For god’s sake, choose two candidates to run and make the rest cabinet members.

If you can accept drones you can accept self-driving cars.

The proof of his asceticism lies in how a Pope dithers with his dining fork, or doesn’t.

Mass media is like mankind’s global nervous system – but without a psychiatric diagnostic manual.

You can be sure big networks are tweaking ad-to-content ratio, and adjusting speech-compression with winches.

I learned French better from a native American speaker of English who kept every syllable of his Yank accent – I’m sure that’s true for all of us despite what the language industry says.

Who’s afraid of Isis, except as the name of a dog in a script?

Every matron in Queensland has an orphaned joey on her naval.  In a terrycloth snood.

Eventually, plate tectonics will force Bermuda society to face Palm Beach – unless the push back from wind rotor resistance slows the planet.

I first noticed the distractability of millennials when my nephew moved either eye independently while multitasking.

I just might let the FBI in – if it’s Jake Dorman . . . and he’s alone.

Are you pleased to see me or are you just vibing your cell?

Secretly, life has probably already been discovered elsewhere – but it’s a space program spoiler thing.

I thought “Tiny Homes” were intended to be our first shelter on Mars.

Chicago is half Asian, half Black, half Polish – and the other half lives on the North Shore.

My 2016 ambition is to make the Willis Tower Skydeck Ledge my exclusive corner office.

The State of Illinois has no budget because it has no Simplification of Paperwork Act!

One hundred and twenty-one Friends of the Gay & Lesbian Review have put their money where their mind is — and so I suppose should I.

Next Spring I’m slipping on my shoulder-strap ink horn and barkskins, and re-assuming my Proulxvian stalk. . . .

Our best hope is for Lisa Randall to keep exploring astrophysics and cosmic architecture – and to bear with us over another cup of coffee genial to her taste.

All I want for Christmas is for my personal memories to keep matching Googlemap.

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