She was a high class dame, out of reach for a guy like him; a mixed up redhead, part lover, part killer, all diva. And she was smart, so smart sometimes he was afraid of her.
I know I should fear an algorithm that doesn’t know the difference between rugs and shoes, but I’m addicted to eye candy.
If toys are templates for developing skills and behavior, what was the lesson I was supposed to learn from Betsy Wetsy?
If Einstein needed Botox to get a job, the Allies might have lost WW2, My Favorite Martian wouldn’t have been in prime time, and Dick Tracy would have been talking into his necktie instead of his wristwatch.