Dogs Really Are Perfect Soldiers. They Are

I Really Believed That Anything At All Was Worth Writing About If You Cared About It Enough, And That The Best And Only Necessary Justification For Writing Any Particular Story Was That I Cared About It.

To My Great Surprise, Twitter Is Not Housed In A Silver Pod That Orbits Earth At Supersonic Speeds, Vacuuming Up And Then Dispersing Digital Bits Of Worldwide Chitchat; It's In A Big, Bland Office Building In Downtown San Francisco, Near A Bowling Alley And An Old Navy.

When We Stopped To Rest And Tony Tried To Figure Out What Was Wrong With His Compass, I Asked Him What He Thought It Was About Orchids That Seduced Humans So Completely That They Were Compelled To Steal Them And Worship Them And Try To Breed New And Specific Kinds Of Them And Then Be Willing To Wait For Nearly A Decade For One Of Them To Flower.

I Have No Idea How To Get In Touch With Anyone Anymore. Everyone, It Seems, Has A Home Phone, A Cell Phone, A Regular E-mail Account, A Facebook Account, A Twitter Account, And A Web Site. Some Of Them Also Have A Google Voice Number. There Are The Sentimental Few Who Still Have Fax Machines.

In My Perfect World, We Would Establish Perhaps Four National Zoos Of Unimpeachable Quality And Close The Rest Of Them.