Word: werenã
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...enough for some hard-right Tories. The party’s suicidal revolutionaries prefer ideological purity to victory. Together, they want to march lockstep over the electoral cliff again, only further than last time. Armed with the evergreen excuse “we lost last time because we weren??t right-wing enough”—three Euro-skeptic, anti-immigration, tax-cutting campaigns notwithstanding—the deluded would-be martyrs argue for more of the same. They cry, “Tory Tory Tory! Banzai! Die for Empress Thatcher,” to borrow...
...plane home some days later. As this dawned on, me paranoia set in. I retraced my steps. Eventually I calmed down, cancelled my credit cards, filed a police report, found friends to loan me money, and got my parents to overnight my passport. I kept telling myself that things weren??t that bad. But not even Monty Python could cheer me up. Just when everything seemed lost, I got a call. “We just got home and there was a message from a guy named Marty,” my Dad said...
...what lay ahead of me for the month of June. Having carefully considered the amounts of Camembert involved, I figured a jog would not hurt. Trotting through the greenery, along with a very small handful of sweaty Frenchmen with socks hiked up to their knees, I wondered why there weren??t more joggers on this gorgeous Sunday morning. A day later, as I nursed the blisters on my feet in my bathtub, I knew exactly why. I had walked 10 kilometers that day: four purposefully, three getting dreadfully lost, two purposefully inside the Louvre, and a last...
...group’s chief demand—that workers be compensated during the summer months when the dining halls are closed—is not mentioned in the terms of the new deal. “Some of our demands were met, and some of them weren??t,” said SLAM leader Michael A. Gould-Wartofsky ’07. “We want to make sure that workers were consulted on this and that they’re happy.” Shapiro said the group would now focus on developing a monitoring...
Fantastic stories often stray into fantasy—who knew? As if faux-memoir writer James Frey weren??t enough, hip literary circles have been rocked by the revelation that the author JT LeRoy is just a phantom of two washed-up rockers’ imaginations. LeRoy, HIV-positive queer writer of “autobiographical” childhood truck-stop prostitute tales, does not exist, and his rags-to-riches memoirs are a hoax. Oh, the critics bemoan, what happened to the importance of being honest? Where lies the lost virtue of authenticity? A better question might...