Word: fogged
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...endless repeats that bring him in continuing fees, known in the trade as "residuals," he makes about $300,000 a year. He can imitate anything from the cry of a loon to the whining drawl of a mountaineer, run effortlessly through all the categories of voice quality-rasp, strain, fog, nasal, sinus. He can shift ground from tight-lipped British to loose-lipped Brooklynese to American rural, and run analytically through the ages of man, making his voice grow older as he progresses from the breathiness of childhood to the cracking articulations of the elderly...
...last week, after 93 lonely days on the Pacific, he finally saw the fog rise over the Golden Gate Bridge, politely offered sake to the puzzled U.S. immigration officials who met him. The immigration service decided to grant a one-month visa, and Happy Horie popped off to see the sights, surrounded by the giggling infield of Osaka's touring girls' Softball team. Back home, Japanese officials had to decide whether to fine Horie for illegal exit or hail him as a national hero, the first Japanese to sail the Pacific solo...
Earth was a cylindar, like Edison's first records incised and not the blue plate special of today, air was also mist and dew and fog, immersed chords decor not unlike wallpaper, elemental, held its sway...
...predawn fog oozed over the oak-rimmed ravines of California's Vandenberg Air Force Base, a disembodied voice roared out of the loudspeakers: "Strike order received! Clear the silo!" Moments later, the 400-ton steel and concrete doors of an underground Atlas silo yawned, and the missile poked its nose skyward. The countdown continued. At last, an intense yellow light bloomed through the fog as the Atlas rose from its pad like an inverted candle. The voice bawled: "Missile away!" The monster doors swung shut as the Atlas sped through the darkness toward its target 5,000 miles away...
...plot gets almost as impenetrable as a London fog: Mr. Hardwicke appears, only to be duly and ambiguously shot and killed by Mrs. Hardwicke. The ensuing trial scene could well have been edited out. But whenever the script gets draggy, Director Richard Quine perks things up with a sight gag-like Kim Novak tubbing with the nude serenity of the White Rock girl while the intruding Lemmon clicks his eyes open and shut at the speed of a navy signal light. In a berserk finale, Novak trades punches with a lady nurse the size of a Japanese Sumo wrestler...