Bad Language Is A Stage

It Was Times Like These When I Thought My Father, Who Hated Guns And Had Never Been To Any Wars, Was The Bravest Man Who Ever Lived.

You Know, Many Writers Really Don't Like To Write. I Think This The Chief Complaint Of So Many. They Hate To Write; They Do It Under The Compulsion That Makes Any Artist The Victim He Is, But They Loathe The Process Of Sitting Down Trying To Turn Thoughts Into Reasonable Sentences.

Somewhere, I Had Received The Impression That Fine Folks Were People Who Did The Best They Could With The Sense They Had, But Aunt Alexandra Was Of The Opinion, Obliquely Expressed, That The Longer A Family Had Been Squatting On One Patch Of Land The Finer It Was.

She Was Born In The Objective Case.

This Time We Aren't Fighting The Yankees, We're Fighting Our Friends. But Remember This, No Matter How Bitter Things Get, They're Still Our Friends And This Is Still Our Home.