Word: toe
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...booms that pin audiences to their chairs or the huge, stinking vat of rotting cheese with which he perfumed the air of Denmark to remind the citizenry of its Viking roots. When an explosion blew the thumb and three fingers off his right hand, Pauline simply had his big toe grafted where his thumb had been. He can pick things up again, but now he's waiting for medical science and grafting technology to advance to the point where he can replace his jerry-built hand with one taken from a cadaver...
...President-elect did not need the reminder. Dipping his toe into the Iraqi morass the day of the raid, he stumbled. In an interview with the New York Times, he called the raid "the right thing to do," then seemed to open a small window for Saddam: "If you want a different relationship with me, you could begin by upholding the U.N. requirements to change your behavior. I'm not obsessed with the man." The softer rhetoric set off speculation that he might ease U.S. policy toward Baghdad. Clinton angrily denounced what he called a misinterpretation, and the tenor...
...black yakling of a dog, Tess of the Baskervilles, is sitting at his feet, and he is stretching out his long, strikingly lean -- somewhat cranelike -- legs into the sun, picking up clumps of grass as he talks, and now and then turning off the tape recorder with a desultory toe. Already this week he's been to Idaho and Colorado to attend a conference on freedom of speech and the American novel. He's enjoyed a "very nice evening" with Salman Rushdie and turned in a 132-page manuscript to Conde Nast Traveler on his recent trip to eastern Nepal...
...realm of dessert, the only happening thing is tiramisu, which comes to us from Italy via a brief craze in Japan. Even our gossip has to be imported, since we lack homegrown equivalents of the topless, toe-sucking, dysfunctional royals...
...flesh is always so weak when the spirit is willing. My cerebral loins were girded into play mode--I thought I knew them all, that Miller, this Bard, Mr. Pinter--but my big toe clamored for a rewarding scratch. My bladder squealed with the agony of Colombian coffee, and the buttocks murmured about the iniquity of the sitting posture. Stomach wanted popcorn, hair demanded combing, and the mind wandered into esoterica. Fight it Gubba, said I, and I did. All resources were summoned onto the stage and bodily rebellion was quashed...