Word: piped
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...Hitler runs a distant second to Stalin, who sanctioned the deaths of 20 million to 50 million of his countrymen. Nor can Nazism, a brutally simple triumph of the goons, touch the tragic complexities of Stalinism-a political torch fanned by the world's idealists while one avuncular pipe smoker in Moscow was wielding it as a genocidal bludgeon. Certainly Stalin was not typecast as a satanic maniac. Hitler was, and his regime paraded itself as a national theater of cruelty. The black leather and stainless steel, the epileptic rhetoric-these were the props and syntax of a most...
...pollution control more than pays for itself in health cost savings. And the idea that local authorities could effectively regulate waste disposal is absurd, it seems none of those who militate for relaxed standards are aware that the wind blows and the rivers run, spreading pollution from one noxious pipe or smokestack all over the country. It is for just these sorts of problems that we have a federal government...
Prowling a deep Atlantic Ocean trench, Captain Robin White tamps some stray wisps of tobacco into his squat pipe, looking more like a professor than the skipper of an attack submarine. He calculates that he and his men are about as far distant in the presidential command network as one could get. But he holds the lethal stings, and his crew are essential players in the military power game. Captain White knows that...
...became a first-rank reporter and editorial writer at the Boston Globe, and in 1938 he earned a place in the first group of Nieman fellows, who are chosen to spend a year away from their beats studying subjects of their choice at Harvard. One year later the genteel, pipe-smoking Bostonian became the Nieman's curator, and during the next 25 years made the fellowships the most eminent in American journalism. Using his position to criticize as well as to nurture reporters, Lyons called for "a bold press" when covering politicians, but "a decently restrained press . . . in dealing...
...only took a couple of beers, and we were gone. Gone not to that pleasurably surreal universe of Mr. Buzz Jones, but rather to that unsettling realm of baseball reminiscence, that warped and pipe-dream world of great teams and players of years gone...