I Don’t Have Trouble With Authority, You Do.

My parents offered me successively lavish bribes for learning the multiplication tables. I especially rejected 7 × 8, because it relied on rote memorization. By the end of eighth grade they gave up. I had a slide rule to jog my memory.

An uncaring world refuses to accept the quiet satisfaction in eating your own boogers. (In strict moderation, I never ate anyone else’s.) It’s arrant hypocrisy.

They no longer have tire swings or monkey bars at recess. I think they encourage breaking up into small discussion groups instead.

Holiday bizarre expresses what had been inexpressible. Thank you.

I’d gladly switch to any browser that hit 50 claps at the touch of a button.

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