What’s really weird about Vox Day suggesting I’m a pedophile is that he’s the one who claimed knowledge of Enron executives’ sex rituals.

It is a pity cats don’t drink champagne.  I would have made you to-night as drunk as Bacchus.

For isn’t it true, historically (I permit myself to slip, this once, through my own blockade), that people have maintained a fascination for the subplot of erotic potential in small bumpy misproportioned men (not that I wish to exaggerate my own unevenness), perhaps suspecting us of possessing cyclic drives and impulses traceable to our more “natural” state of being; that is, our obvious lack of grace (which means, here, both effortless movement and divine favor, stressing the latter); or believing us capable of providing something deeply feared and longed for, nightmarish fulfillment, incubus asquat on the belly of a sleeping woman.

After all, Sanders and GamerGate are hardly the first self-described ideological liberals to find themselves ideologically orphaned by their more radical brethren.

Yelping, Chris dove to the right and barely saw the sphere of destruction vanishing when it came into contact with the decal’s barrier, not even causing an explosion.

Incidentally, this suggests a way for automatic insult generation: use computer vision to find matching categories, and select the one that is closest but has the lowest social status (perhaps detected using sentiment analysis).

Indeed a central government unites most of the globe, and probably has since at least 600 AD when maroon roofing was all the rage.

When Hawke Decroux gets an invitation from an old friend to come to New Mexico and help track down some chupacabras, it seems like a simple enough request.

Given this confidence, we were taken aback by his seemingly off-the-cuff concluding recognition of the conditions under which experiencing value might become problematic.

Everything I see in him corresponds to his pamphlet on Biblical Cosmology.