I thought that it referred to something like Plato's daemon, a shitty little voice in their ear.

Podium! Thank you, EPO!

I'm sure he'll be able to turmeric around.

The Eschaton game is an awesome bit of pratfall setup.

Norman Bombardini from Wallace's The Broom of the System totally tries to eat the world.

I've got three, but I believe that the perfect number of bikes is four: road bike, mountain bike, commuter/tourer which will get sorely neglected for the sake of spending lots of money making the other three somewhat lighter, and a niche/freak bike (this could be your tall bike, CX bike, fat bike, or unicycle).

Please stop appropriating my work to attack defenseless undergrads.

Damn, even in that sentence "There were no… to remind everyone…" the "everyone" implied media consumers who were themselves white. It's blindness masquerading as a lack of bias, which many people conflate with objectivity.

Rife isn't making it up. She's describing a conflict that extends to other kinds of aesthetic critique, particularly those whose founders believed themselves to be the arbiters of a universal style. In English lit, we're still fighting that battle. I think that, echoing Rife, most reasonable critics would agree…

No idea why, but I absolutely worshiped Maid-Rite. Maybe Maid-Rites offered all the meatiness of a hamburger without the unspeakable burden of needing to chew it.

Somewhere, Orrin Hatch is sitting in his hyperbaric egg chamber pleased, having felt in the force a twinge of compliment he knows to mean that someone thinks that he'll still be alive a few years from now.

*cough * Eight continents… http://www.nature.com/news/…