It was a week before Christmas - six days, to be exact. The air had a holiday feel. There were carols on the radio, snow in the forecast. The sun was low in the afternoon sky, inching toward the winter solstice.
"Okay, how about this: 'Osama bin Lager - the light beer that brings out your dark side.'" "I don't think so." "'One six-pack, and you'll be hiding in caves'?" "No." "'The brew so bold, it's against your religion .
Sometime around my 12th birthday, I was sitting in a bedroom shared by my older cousins, trying to pick up whatever teenage-boy intelligence might be available in that closed-door setting. We were half-listening to the radio, which was tuned to a station that played what entertainment insiders still referred to as "popular" music.
"Excuse me, Mr. White?" "Yes? What is it?" "Something strange is going on. I seem to be the only one who came to work at the newspaper today." "You are. Everyone else is off until January.
Look, Running Deer is coming! And he seems to be out of breath. Running Deer, what news have you brought?" "Greetings, Bald Eagle. I (cough) have just (cough, cough) come from the European visitors and (cough, cough, cough).

Prime Time

" ... so as White House chief of staff, I want to congratulate you all again on a very successful week. The country's united behind us, we're hitting our military objectives, and even that old smallpox vaccine might still be good.
"All right, let's everybody finish up their Krispy Kremes and settle down. This session of the Joint Congressional Subcommittee in Charge of Hammering Out This Damn Airport Security Mess will now come to order." "Mr.

Spy Guys

Good morning, Central Intelligence Agen - I mean, Bureau of Public Roads." "Geez Louise, Stan! Can't you guys even answer the phone right?" "Is that you, Mr. Director? Sorry, I was just covering the desk while the girl was at lunch.
(CLICK) " ... what I'm asking, Professor Fleezner, is how people can watch this horrific news all day long and not get depressed?" "Oooh, good question. Well, to start with, they should definitely buy my book, because on page 13 there's a little self-affirming song they can sing to themselves.
"Doctor, are you sure I don't have anthrax?" "Absolutely, Mrs. Brimley. It's just the sniffles." "But shouldn't I be under 'round-the-clock isolation and taking antibiotics?" "I was thinking Nyquil.

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