Word: twitting
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...know, it's totally silly and shallow, but that's precisely why Twitter is on its way to becoming the next killer app. And if you don't like it, well, in the words of one Twit from San Francisco, "I'm so sick to death of Twitter-haters. If you don't like it, why waste your time writing, reading, or talking about it? Sheesh...
...seven, the image was one of precocious vitality. Whatever their infant outlook on life, whether smashing class clichés or already living comfortably within them--like the upper-class twit who says, "I like my newspaper because I've got shares in it"--these children seemed raring to help shape the empire's future. To watch the original documentary (which accompanied 28 Up in its New York City premiere) is to be charmed into suspending awareness of the depressing trajectory of British life since then. The succeeding films follow that arc; they might be called 14 Perpendicular, 21 Tilt...
...that makes us queasy. Hare is a supremely self-confident playwright. His dramatic inventions--of private conversations, of motivational hints--are always plausible. And applaudable, if you are, like this reviewer, skeptical of the Iraq war effort. But they are, of course, historically unreliable. For Hare is a British twit of the tiresomely superior leftist kind. We have no doubt that if he, instead of Blair, had been Prime Minister, he would have stood up more manfully to the Bushies. We have no doubt of his pip-pip contempt for the primitive politics of his slightly dim-witted American cousins...
...sized brains; it’s Abbott and Costello Meet Hamlet, except that neither man has any idea who’s on first. Broadwater’s Guildenstern is earnest and restless, always yammering questions and never getting answers. Hodgson’s Rosencrantz is a layabout twit, his perpetually gaping mouth suggesting a severely inbred bloodline. It is Stoppard’s genius to make these idiots the carriers of a profound existential dread; in Stoppard’s hands, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern become philosopher-fools, capable of giving us both joy and horror in a single sitting...
...sisters, aged six and two at the time, while she went out to work. We managed. But what a waste. A man who had been a captain in the U.S. Marine Corps during World War II, surviving the horrors of the fighting on Guadalcanal, slaughtered because some twit driver forgot his dimmer switch. Over the half-century since that night, I've wondered what it might have been like to pronounce the word Dad rather than just write...