Word: tarring
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...around back there, mostly cow manure, that is, with pig and chicken droppings thrown in as a kicker. But you couldn't ask for a more pleasant ride--Mt. Pisgah National Forest, hills and dales, glinting little trickles sliding down valleys, evergreen air with the smell of steaming highway tar...
...Look at us, look at what we have!" cries Pancho, 28, waving his arms as he speaks. One hand slams against the low-hung tar-paper roof of the dirt-floor shack he rents on the edge of a gravel pit in the hills above Mexico City. Sometimes he gets a day's work in the gravel pit for $6.40, but it is not regular work. His wife, Manuela, earns $45 a month as a maid. Their six-month-old son lies sleeping on the family...
...most cases there is no law to justify Patriot attacks on Loyalist sympathizers. Often it is simply a matter of mob violence. When a crowd of Patriots seized a Massachusetts customs official named John Malcohn, a witness recalls: "Being disarmed of sword, cane, hat and wig, he was genteelly tarred and feathered [until] he had more the appearance of the devil than any human being." Malcohn survived that mauling ?only to be trapped by another mob three months later. This time "he was stript stark naked, one of the severest cold nights this winter, his body covered all over...
...public manipulation of reputations and the creation of a powerful nexus of human interdependence. Majority opinion not only dominated political decision making, but controlled most public and much private conduct as well. This is why there was such frequent resort to humiliation as a penalty. Stocks, pillory, and tar and feathers were effective because the opinion of one's townsmen was so important. The colonists paid a price for government by communal consensus: there was not much privacy, and what we now regard as liberties of conscience often existed only at the pleasure of public opinion...
...mean, when you're sober and shaking from the vibes of that fifth-of-a-century mile-stone roaring up over the hill and down towards you in a Big Mack diesel dribbling lettuce, tomato, mayonnaise and ashes from a three-foot seegar all over the steaming tar pavement and dwarf pine trees, about to blow you off the road and ream out your Youthwagon--that's no time for a country song--that's the time for whipping a Ueey and glueing the gas pedal to the floor board and beating ol' Mack to 21 and beyond...