Word: bunkerisms
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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...Gurion was impressed but occasionally baffled. Inside one of the intricate bunkers along the Bar-Lev line, he demanded: "What kind of Hebrew word is 'bunker'?" An escort explained: "We use 'bunker' because we have not yet got around to Hebraizing defense terminology. On offense we have no foreign words." The old lion stopped before a group of soldiers and fixed his eyes on one. "You're younger than I," said Ben-Gurion. "Perhaps you can tell me when there will be peace." "I?" responded the soldier. "Who knows? It depends on the Arabs." Replied...
...Californians faced an even worse spill last week. This time two Standard Oil of California tankers collided in dense fog under Golden Gate Bridge and drifted helplessly into San Francisco Bay. With a 40-ft. gash in her hull, the Oregon Standard gushed 1,000,000 gallons of bunker fuel oil that soon coated beaches and wildlife sanctuaries for 50 miles of the coast. Some people were so incensed at Standard Oil that they hurled plastic bags full of oil at the company's downtown San Francisco office and dumped dead fish into the building's ornamental pool...
...poor little lambs who have lost our way, baa, baa, baa." The sad, self-pitying song was echoing from the Saigon residence of U.S. Ambassador Ellsworth Bunker. Were things really going that badly? Certainly not. To celebrate the founding of the Saigon Yale Club, the famed Whiffenpoof Song (an adaptation of one of Rudyard Kipling's glamorizations of the white man's burden) was being sung by old Eli Bunker, class of '16, and some 15 others, among them a U.S. general who graced the occasion in a Y-inscribed blue T shirt. The ceremony was complete...
Whose Orders? In theory, permission to spray defoliants in a given area is granted by General Creighton Abrams, the U.S. Commander in Viet Nam, and by Ambassador Ellsworth Bunker. In practice, orders for individual defoliation missions are given on a much lower level...
...binh." They were Viets, all 15 of them, and they understood. Now they began talking, asking me the question I feared most: "My? My? My?" (American? American? American?) I feigned ignorance, and we moved off again, deeper into the trees. The soldiers guided me into a bunker. So this is how it ends, I thought. In some rotten little hole, where no one will find...