Paris Street; Rainy Day 1877 by Gustave Caillebotte.
“It’s gotten to the point where I don’t even understand half of the things you say anymore. It’s like you’re speaking a different language.” Clarice stopped talking when she realized she had been tuned out.
Henri cleared his throat and stammered, “Of course, you’re right.”
More people die from wood chipper accidents annually than people killed by alligators.
Guiseppe Winnipeg was in a serious pickle. You see, in order for Guiseppe to speak, he needed to use his hands. He had to gesticulate, otherwise, he was reduced to stammering and resorting to saying things like whaddayah call them things, or you know that guy, the guy, that guy. Since he could not snap his fingers, he was utterly useless, like a lighter with fresh flint and zero butane.
Beware! Don’t be fooled. This may appear to be a regular harmless trombone, but it is in actuality, the dreaded and vicious sad trombone. Use great caution. If caught in its hypnotic influence, instant death is inevitable.
It was 8:20 A.M. The train was packed with people and it smelled like it. The train went dark as it entered the tunnel. Not even a second later, the light was immediately replaced with an eerie man-made incandescence. A complete shift had occurred. You could no longer tell if it were night or day.
Vance Afro was utterly sandwiched between a pole against his back and a short old man, further flanked by a woman straining to carry a six-year old child, a schlub who needed to shower yesterday, and a businessperson.
This is probably a good time to pause for an explain this to me moment. The term businessman surely indicates male; and businesswoman, female. Yet when one says businessperson, we insinuate that the gender is female. This has been an explain this to me moment.