Word: flaccidities
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...Newark, N. J., Mae C. Collins, 307 pounds, waddled into a butcher shop. On the walls hung red, juicy, uncooked animals. Under the glass counter reposed cool, damp, bulging joints of beef. On the counter, in the icebox, lay bloody fowl; flaccid livers; grisly, delicious knuckles; dainty, pink and white lamb chops. The gullet of Mae C. Collins gaped a little. Her small, pleasant, piggy eyes, twinkling behind rolls of fat as round and red as hamburgers, finally fixed on a ponderous porterhouse steak. Seizing it, she waddled out of the butcher shop...
...calls on friends of the family, where an incredibly hard and stiff-backed chair was usually provided for him, from which perch he was left to contemplate the family portraits while his elders discussed matters beyond his ken. Now that such ordeals are done, the Sabbath passes in a flaccid mood that contenplates and condemns all things, particularly those of an academic tinge. There is scant pleasure in a contemplation of Monday's lecture schedule, and the day closes with a sense of futility and a dread of the professorial wrath to come...
...does give one lung such a rest, leaving the other to breathe for both. The surgeon sticks a hollow needle into the pleural cavity of the tubercular lung and lets some air, oxygen or nitrogen flow in. The lung collapses. He increases the pressure of the gas against the flaccid lung. This squeezes tubercular secretions out into the windpipe, like toothpaste out of a tube; and the patient expectorates. The pressure also brings healing blood to the lung, and after a time the sputum ceases to carry the germs of tuberculosis. At that time the surgeon discontinues his injections...
...report occasion much surprise. A revue which originally was far from the best of the series, as the years pass by finds its jokes becoming stale, its songs worn out, its best dances and comedians gone on to newer things. The result is prettly likely to be some such flaccid exhibition as that which is now holding forth on the Majestic stage...
...from its post such naiveties as this, friends of Judge might hotly demand? To them the thoughtful will answer: "Postmaster John Kiely [of New York City] is, like you, a friend of Judge. He well knows that there is no honest Rabelaisian lewdness in the pages of this flaccid journal; he must have been able to see that the editors were engaged in the far dirtier business of trying to make the clean appear foul. By barring the issue he has done the publisher a notable favor...