Just Who Do You Think You Are?

Anyone whose dying words were, “I tried so hard to do what’s right,” deserved to die.



All City ideas of religion are bridges spanning the gorge ‘twixt ignorance and a cold spell.



Tell me who you think you are, and I’ll tell you who you’re not.



The final chorus of all fanatical operas is a death march of some kind.



Those “artsy” folks in the City who like to begin their songs with the words, “Whenever I get to thinking…” never do.