Word: bushel
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...farmers, who have watched grain prices fall sharply because of the recession and an overabundance of commodities, are generally delighted by the influx of Japanese. Nebraska Wheat Grower Jake Sims figures that they have helped add three cents to four cents a bushel to the value of his crop, which currently is worth about $3.70 a bushel. Says he: "I don't care if it's Japanese, or Swedes, or whoever coming in. More competition means a better price, and we can use all the help we can get these days...
...industrial depression was, the crisis on the land was even worse; the farmers, one-quarter of the population, had been in serious trouble even during the 1920s. A bushel of wheat that sold in Chicago for $2.94 in 1920 dropped to $1 by 1929 and 30? by 1932. Such prices provoked desperation. In LeMars, Iowa, where Judge Charles Bradley was foreclosing a series of mortgages, a crowd of farmers kidnaped him from his courtroom, drove him into the countryside and strung him up until he nearly lost consciousness. Then they revived him, crowned him with a truck hubcap and forced...
Indians armed with poisoned darts and arrows. Arabian assassins in black masks wielding wickedly whistling scimitars. Nazis by the jackbooted legion, including a Gestapo sadist always dressed in black, always giggling in happy anticipation of torturing someone. A cave where tarantulas drop from the ceiling by the bushel. An underground chamber alive with deadly snakes-7,500 of them...
...then incredible level of $38 per bbl. The populist Federal Reserve chairman decides to help the President, plagued with 25% inflation, by printing money night and day. The result: Coca-Cola sells for $1,350 a sixpack, short cab rides cost $6,000 and wheat is $5 million a bushel. Soon violent rioting breaks out, and thousands die. In both history and fiction, the first step in any government's cure for hyperinflation is to convince the people that it is serious about taking the necessary steps to halt the price explosion...
Richard Gere is the American gigolo, a gorgeous man whose labia-lipped half-smile can turn on a hydrant at 40 paces. A prostitute, a hairy, hunky whore, he slinks from bed to bed, selling orgasms by the bushel. Tanned like a sowhide wallet, he hides behind Annie Hall sunglasses and a wardrobe of pertly collared shirts, thin neckties and sharp jackets, always trim, cut, trained. He steps on the balls of his feet, his hips leading his chest, for single older women who want it. He has trained brains, he knows antiques, he has more than Looking Good...