Dear young girls, Home again from the deserts and oases of the Sheikdoms I find your enthusiastic letters on my desk.
They were young, educated, and both virgins on this, their wedding night, and they lived in a time when a conversation about sexual difficulties was plainly impossible.
The sharks are circling, their nostrils twitching at the scent of blood.
Late for work, Reginald Oren raced across the street, the cobblestones slick from the night’s rain.
And on the Shabbat, the priests would sing a song for the future that is to come, for that day which will be entirely Shabbat and for the repose of eternal life.
Today’s ward round is an eventful one, but it’s nothing out of the ordinary.
We arrive in this universe through no choice of our own, at a time and place not of our choosing.
Let us begin with what might be considered a paradigmatic example of a bullshit job.
