My life is a monument to procrastination, to the art of putting things off until later, or much later, or possibly never.
Cleanliness is the scourge of art.
It is hard being a football loather, a football unfan. I sometimes feel as lonely as the sole survivor in the last reel of a Zombie film, as, one by one, old friends reveal themselves, with their glassy stares and outstretched arms, to have succumbed to the lure.
A decent beard has long been the number one must-have fashion item for any fugitive from justice.
There's nothing wrong with procrastination. Or is there? I'll leave it to you to decide, but only if you have the time.
Monopoly may also end in tears, but its tensions are cruder, lacking the infinitely subtle shadings of irritation and acrimony provided by Scrabble.
As life goes on, we accrue more and more loseable objects. Providence dictates that objects that are too large to lose, such as houses, always come with tiny little keys, specially designed to give you the slip.
Looking back, some of the happiest moments of my childhood were spent with my arm in packets of breakfast cereal, rootling around for a free gift.
You might think that religion was the one area in which professional jealousy would take a back seat. But no: ecclesiastical memoirs are as viperish as any, though their envy tends to cloak itself in piety.
As a rough rule of thumb, I would say the smaller the pond, the more belligerent the fish.
Everyone must know by now that the aim of Scrabble is to gain the moral high ground, the loser being the first player to slam the board shut and upset all the letters over the floor.
Children are perfectly happy to sit next to spiders; it is only grown-ups who are frightened away.
Words have a life of their own. There is no telling what they will do. Within a matter of days, they can even turn turtle and mean the opposite.
All the wealthiest people in the U.S. seem compelled to brag about how humble they are.
Historians are the consummate hairdressers of the literary world: cooing in public, catty in private.
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