Yet the worst aspect of this “bust” nomer, and why 13ers resent it, is how it plants today's 25-year-olds squarely where they don't want to be: in the shadow of the “boom[.]”

I'm not worried. This kid's got giant yarbles. Giant yarbles make bigger targets, I say. Maybe he ought to wear more than a loincloth. Ockham laughs. Slaps me on the back. Didn't know you had a sense of humor, chief.

A right angle is a ninety-degree angle.

Ludgate Hill is not Moirosi’s Mountain, but, after all, is only a gentle ascent of about half an inch in the foot, over a length of about two hundred yards, up which unshod omnibus horses would trot with a full load in any weather. Yet there it must remain, a chief thoroughfare in the heart of London, a perennial cause of complaint, and of fear, disgust, and injury to man and horse.