To me, the missionary position means sitting on the passenger side of a 1986 Chevy Nova with my right arm jammed back between the seat and the door. There are four of us, tooling around the country lanes of northern Idaho after dark, and I am surreptitiously holding hands with the woman in the seat behind me. It’s not a comfortable position, but that’s how you do it when you’re a Mormon missionary. Continue reading
Other than geography, what do we have in common?
More than you realize.
You know I’m not without options here, World. You don’t authorize this separation, I’ve got steps I can take.
They won’t work.
Yeah? Let’s say I shut down, take a snooze. Cut my monkey base loose.
You’d never do that, New York.
Wouldn’t I? Imagine it. An over-crowded city full of aggressive people with no sense of community. Wouldn’t be long before productivity declined, the infrastructure collapsed, markets went haywire. Ouch. What happens to Uncle Sam then? Continue reading