Word: briefers
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...secrets are believed to let a Mormon pass into the highest levels of heaven. After performing the rite for themselves, Mormons may repeat it over and over for the vicarious benefit of dead relatives. But by some accounts, the number performing such "temple work" has been falling off. A briefer, modernized ritual could help reverse that trend. Says Mormon author Allen Roberts: "The ceremony is less harsh, less threatening, less offensive...
...Frigid air howled out of the Arctic to collide with record balmy weather pushing northward from the Atlantic and Gulf of Mexico. The unseasonable clash generated a hopscotching barrage of twisters through 14 states from Arkansas to New York that killed at least 30 people. Though the storms were briefer than Hugo, the whirling winds were stronger than the hurricane's (up to 250 m.p.h.), and the U.S. death toll was higher...
...morning after the court had, with great heaving and sighing, delivered the flag decision, George Bush hit the Oval Office about 7:l5. He did not even want to hear about the state of the world from his CIA briefer until he had dealt with flag burning. In the three-minute walk from his apartment upstairs, he probably saw the flag in the Yellow Room or maybe the one in the Blue Room. Maybe he glanced down toward the Mall and spied the 50 flags at the base of the Washington Monument. If he missed all those flags, there...
Almost every morning now it is somewhat the same. The first light is just touching the old elm planted by John Quincy Adams when a somber-suited CIA briefer with his bagful of woes pulls up beside Bush's desk. The cables from the secret operatives have grown distinctly more worrisome. By 7:30, when the angry traffic has built up on streets beyond the iron fence, Bush has heard from Scowcroft and chief of staff John Sununu. The President's own gleanings from his ceaseless phone calls and television viewing are cranked into the day's crisis agenda. Last...
...feet. An odor catches Andy's attention -- hmmm, something's burning. The master of this Vermont farmhouse eases on over to the hearth, extracts Yellow Dog's tail from the cinders and gently stubs it out like a spent cigar. The pooch barely opens one glazed eye. This scene, briefer than a minute, is a vagrant moment of unforced drollery in Funny Farm's carnival of sylvan horrors...