Word: thonged
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...these days. Named after the Afghan cameleers who supplied the early desert towns, the weekly Ghan takes two nights to make the 2,979-km haul to Adelaide from Darwin. Choose between seats, budget sleepers or luxury cabins. Read more at www.gsr.com.au. HANOI TO HO CHI MINH CITY: The Thong Nhat line, once known as the "Reunification Express," arguably serves up Southeast Asia's most luxuriant rural vistas. Four modern trains with air-conditioned double-decker carriages, and free meals to boot, depart Hanoi Station daily, arriving in Ho Chi Minh City 32 hours later. Stopping off in Nha Trang...
...each of you: you really are one-of-a-kind. Your gifts of not-fake e-mail addresses were far more generous than the stilted pleasantries we’re used to from Harvard girls, who avoid us just because we sit behind them and tug on their thong straps in lecture. Look, we’re just being playful, so why don’t you save that rape whistle for when you actually feel violated...
...philosophy was both successful and profound. It proposed the achievement of liberal ends through market-oriented conservative means. Welfare reform, which combined a work requirement with significant financial incentives for the working poor, was the best example of how the philosophy might work. Unfortunately, Monica Lewinsky's thong show prevented further successes-and Al Gore and John Kerry foolishly sidled away from the Third Way, toward the party's electorally lethal special-interest groups...
...goddamn pair of leggings. Thus, I found myself in the dining hall, sporting leggings, a tunic, a pair of cowboy boots, obscene amounts of eyeliner and a massive chip on my shoulder. As I stuffed pasta into my mouth, I became more and more uncomfortable. The black thong was a mistake. The leggings, which were of an extremely poor quality, made me feel as if I was a societal indigent. Somebody asked me if I was comping the Advocate. I glared at them. The leggings were not a hit in the dining hall. However, once I was unleashed...
...Bourbon Street in the French Quarter, the neon lights are flashing, the booze is flowing, and the demon demolition men of Hurricane Katrina are ogling a showgirl performing in a thong. The Bourbon House is shucking local oysters again, Daiquiri's is churning out its signature alcoholic slushies, and Mardi Gras masks are once again on sale. But drive north toward the hurricane-ravaged housing subdivisions off Lake Pontchartrain and the masks you see aren't made for Carnival. They are industrial-strength respirators, stark and white, the only things capable of stopping a stench that turns the stomach...