Entertaining Fools Quotes

I will tell you something about stories . . . They aren't just entertainment. Don't be fooled. They are all we have, you see, all we have to fight off illness and death.

It is extraordinarily entertaining to watch the historians of the past ... entangling themselves in what they were pleased to call the "problem" of Queen Elizabeth. They invented the most complicated and astonishing reasons both for her success as a sovereign and for her tortuous matrimonial policy. She was the tool of Burleigh, she was the tool of Leicester, she was the fool of Essex; she was diseased, she was deformed, she was a man in disguise. She was a mystery, and must have some extraordinary solution. Only recently has it occrurred to a few enlightened people that the solution might be quite simple after all. She might be one of the rare people were born into the right job and put that job first.

His contempt for humanity grew fiercer, and at last he came to realize that the world is made up mostly of fools and scoundrels. It became perfectly clear to him that he could entertain no hope of finding in someone else the same aspirations and antipathies; no hope of linking up with a mind which, like his own, took pleasure in a life of studious decrepitude; no hope of associating an intelligence as sharp and wayward as his own with any author or scholar.

It was said that the gods favored fools because they were entertaining to watch.

Foolish minds will entertain you, but confuse minds will irritate you.

Do you know the parable about the frog in the cream? Two frogs landed in a pail of cream. One, thinking rationally, understood straight away that there was no point in resistance and that you can’t deceive destiny. But then what if there’s an afterlife – why bother jumping around, entertaining false hopes in vain? He crossed his legs and sank to the bottom. The second, the fool, was probably an atheist. And she started to flop around. It would seem that she had no reason to flail about if everything was predestined. But she flopped around and flopped around anyway . . . Meanwhile, the cream turned to butter. And she crawled out. We honour the memory of this second frog’s friend, eternally damned for the sake of progress and rational thought.

WARNING This is a bawdy tale. Herein you will find gratuitous shagging, murder, spanking, maiming, treason, and heretofore unexplored heights of vulgarity and profanity, as well as non-traditional grammar, split infinitives, and the odd wank. If that sort of thing bothers you, then gentle reader pass by, for we endeavor only to entertain, not to offend. That said, if that’s the sort of thing you think you might enjoy, then you have happened upon the perfect story!

Had I joined the company that very first night, fooling myself that I was seeking some purpose, but in reality only following Frederick? How different was I really, from those Office Worker Mohitos, those Rat Race Daquiris, seeking only to partner off and settle down?

A fool’s plans are entertainment for the wise.

Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show, That she (dear she) might take some pleasure of my pain; Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know; Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain; I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe, Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain; Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flow Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburnt brain. But words came halting forth, wanting invention's stay; Invention, nature's child, fled step-dame study's blows; And others' feet still seemed but strangers in my way. Thus great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes, Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite, 'Fool,' said my muse to me; 'look in thy heart, and write.

I will tell you something about stories, [he said] They aren’t just entertainment. Don’t be fooled. They are all we have, you see, all we have to fight off illness and death.   You don’t have anything if you don’t have the stories.   Their evil is mighty but it can’t stand up to our stories. So they try to destroy the stories let the stories be confused or forgotten. They would like that They would be happy Because we would be defenseless then.

If there’s one good thing to be said about opera, it’s that it makes a man appreciate all other forms of entertainment so much more.

I will continue to write moral stories in rhymed couplets. But I should be thrice a fool if I did it for aught but my own entertainment.

you're Shane, right?' He inched away from her and managed a quick nod as he twisted the rag he held in his fingers. 'Heidi sad you were willing to teach me how to ride.' Her expression shifted from entertained to confused, as if she was wondering why no one had mentioned he was a can or two shy of a six-pack. 'A horse,' he clarified, then wanted to kick himself. What else but a horse? Did he think she was here to learn to ride his mother's elephant? One corner of Annabelle's perfect, full mouth twitched. 'A horse would be good. You seem to have several.' He wanted to remind himself that he was usually fine around women. Smooth even. He was intelligent, funny and could, on occasion, be charming. Just not now, with his blood pumping and his brain doing nothing more than shouting "it's her, it's her" over and over again. Chemistry, he thought grimly. It could turn the smartest man into a drooling idiot. Here he was, proving the theory true.

It was not our war, but it would be our disgrace, our shame. The West was filling to declare a war over the price of oil, but when it came to the wholesale slaughter of human beings we folded our hands across our chests and tapped our heels, with great anticipation that Sunday's sporting events would be wonderfully entertaining

I really did not expect any Grace to answer, for the laugh was as tragic, as preternatural a laugh as any I ever heard; and, but that it was high noon, and that no circumstances of ghostliness accompanied the curious cachination; but that neither scene nor season favoured fear, I should have been superstitiously afraid. However, the event showed me I was a fool for entertaining a sense even of surprise.

A heartbeat later, the flashlight clicked off. Phoebe blinked in the darkness. “Zane?” “We’re gonna have to do this by feel. Otherwise we’ll be putting on a show.” She thought about how flashlights in the tents created detailed shadows and blushed at the thought of entertaining the others.

I added, that whoever the woman was that had an estate, and would give it up to be the slave of a great man, that woman was a fool, and must be fit for nothing but a beggar; that it was my opinion a woman was as fit to govern and enjoy her own estate without a man as a man was without a woman; and that, if she had a mind to gratify herself as to sexes, she might entertain a man as a man does a mistress; that while she was thus single she was her own, and if she gave away that power she merited to be as miserable as it was possible that any creature could be. Roxana: The Fortunate Mistress (1724)

Don't bury personal obsessions. Capitalize on them. ``The connection between personal obsession and the work you do is the most important thing.'' -- Be yourself. ``Singularity is what you need.'' -- Avoid self-censorship: ``We are very self-critical in a way that can be very destructive. In our culture there are voices in our head which have taught us to say, `Oh, I wouldn't do that if I were you.' Don't ever think about anybody peering over your shoulder.'' -- Don't be afraid to show off, even if you think, ``I'm very close to making a complete fool of myself.'' -- Don't be afraid to entertain. ``I want to entertain. I don't want to lose people. I feel responsible as I write to give people the best time I can.'' -- ``Love your failures'' instead of beating yourself up over them. -- ``Learn to love the process'' of writing. -- Just do it. Barker likes something director Stanley Kubrick said: ``If you want to make a film, pick up a camera.

the child that Mr. Silly is entertaining in the backyard. Maybe we are all fools, one way or another, when it comes to seeing the totality of the people who love us—the people we try to love.

It is occasionally used to imitate the court jester, who plays the fool but knows he is smarter than the king. He talks and talks and entertains, and no one suspects that he is more than just a fool.

I will tell you something about stories, [he said] They aren't just entertainment. Don't be fooled. They are all we have, you see, all we have to fight off illness and death. You don't have anything if you don't have the stories.

You have a bunch of cracked-out hoes fighting over Flavor Flav, the king of funk nasty. You have to wonder what in the hell must be going through these women’s minds to have to want to hook up with him. He’s nasty! I would rather hook up with some of my relatives in a weekend than with Flavor Flav. Of course, it would have to be a long weekend filled with tranquilizers and alcohol – in mass quantities – but, point being said that that scrawny man is funky. Don’t let the clocks or Viking hats fool you. The show is already entertaining enough as it is but I believe that it would be even better if the producers were to throw some blind contestants on who have never heard of him. That would be great.

It’s been entertaining to watch you three,” he said. “The skeptic, the failure, and the fool.” “Oi!” Crispin interjected. “Nobody calls my brother a fool!” My eyes rolled heavenwards. “He meant you. I’m the skeptic.” Crispin blinked. “Oh.

There's not much to say about loneliness, for it's not a broad subject. Any child, alone in her room, can journey across its entire breadth, from border to border, in an hour. Though not broad, our subject is deep. Loneliness is deeper than the ocean. But here, too, there is no mystery. Our intrepid child is liable to fall quickly to the very bottom without even trying. And since the depths of loneliness cannot sustain human life, the child will swim to the surface again in short order, no worse for wear. Some of us, though, can bring breathing aids down with us for longer stays: imaginary friends, drugs and alcohol, mind-numbing entertainment, hobbies, ironclad routine, and pets. (Pets are some of the best enablers of loneliness, your own cuddlesome Murphy notwithstanding.) With the help of these aids, a poor sap can survive the airless depths of loneliness long enough to experience its true horror -- duration. Did you know, Myren Vole, that when presented with the same odor (even my own) for a duration of only several minutes, the olfactory nerves become habituated -- as my daughter used to say -- to it and cease transmitting its signal to the brain? Likewise, most pain loses its edge in time. Time heals all -- as they say. Even the loss of a loved one, perhaps life's most wrenching pain, is blunted in time. It recedes into the background where it can be borne with lesser pains. Not so our friend loneliness, which grows only more keen and insistent with each passing hour. Loneliness is as needle sharp now as it was an hour ago, or last week. But if loneliness is the wound, what's so secret about it? I submit to you, Myren Vole, that the most painful death of all is suffocation by loneliness. And by the time I started on my portrait of Jean, I was ten years into it (with another five to go). It is from that vantage point that I tell you that loneliness itself is the secret. It's a secret you cannot tell anyone. Why? Because to confess your loneliness is to confess your failure as a human being. To confess would only cause others to pity and avoid you, afraid that what you have is catching. Your condition is caused by a lack of human relationship, and yet to admit to it only drives your possible rescuers farther away (while attracting cats). So you attempt to hide your loneliness in public, to behave, in fact, as though you have too many friends already, and thus you hope to attract people who will unwittingly save you. But it never works that way. Your condition is written all over your face, in the hunch of your shoulders, in the hollowness of your laugh. You fool no one. Believe me in this; I've tried all the tricks of the lonely man.

A humble shopkeeper who never attended high school can be a wise one - a construction worker who can barely read and write can be a wise one - a stripper who boldly earns a living by entertaining people can be a wise one. It's not the profession that makes a person wise or fool, it's their character.

I AM NOT SO INTELLIGENT The epiphany I had in my career in randomness came when I understood that I was not intelligent enough, nor strong enough, to even try to fight my emotions. Besides, I believe that I need my emotions to formulate my ideas and get the energy to execute them. I am just intelligent enough to understand that I have a predisposition to be fooled by randomness—and to accept the fact that I am rather emotional. I am dominated by my emotions—but as an aesthete, I am happy about that fact. I am just like every single character whom I ridiculed in this book. Not only that, but I may be even worse than them because there may be a negative correlation between beliefs and behavior (recall Popper the man). The difference between me and those I ridicule is that I try to be aware of it. No matter how long I study and try to understand probability, my emotions will respond to a different set of calculations, those that my unintelligent genes want me to handle. If my brain can tell the difference between noise and signal, my heart cannot. Such unintelligent behavior does not just cover probability and randomness. I do not think I am reasonable enough to avoid getting angry when a discourteous driver blows his horn at me for being one nanosecond late after a traffic light turns green. I am fully aware that such anger is self-destructive and offers no benefit, and that if I were to develop anger for every idiot around me doing something of the sort, I would be long dead. These small daily emotions are not rational. But we need them to function properly. We are designed to respond to hostility with hostility. I have enough enemies to add some spice to my life, but I sometimes wish I had a few more (I rarely go to the movies and need the entertainment). Life would be unbearably bland if we had no enemies on whom to waste efforts and energy.

I would not have Drool reading Cicero or crafting clever riddles, but under my tutelage he had become more than fair at tumbling and juggling, could belch a song, and was, at court, at least as entertaining as a trained bear, with slightly less proclivity for eating the guests. With guidance, he would make a proper fool.

We’re slow-moving targets, us writers of entertainment. They call us hacks, panderers, scribblers. You name an insult, I’ve heard it: our readers are fools; the writers themselves are imbeciles; we have no talent. And God forbid a woman should attempt to write something that isn’t moralistic tripe. Then the insults are tripled.” She

When people come together — let's say they come to a little party or something — you always hear them discuss character. They will say this one has a bad character, this one has a good character, this one Is a fool, this one is a miser. Gossip makes the conversation. They all analyze character. It seems that the analysis of character is the highest human entertainment. And literature does it, unlike gossip, without mentioning real names. The writers who don't discuss character but problems —social problems or any problems — take away from literature its very essence. They stop being entertaining. We, for some reason, always love to discuss and discover character. This is because each character is different, and human character is the greatest of puzzles.

It didn’t occur to him to think that better is not the same as well. Was he fooling himself? He would not have said so. Even at twenty-two, when his diagnosis was confirmed, he was realistic. Most suffer. Everyone dies. He knew how, if not when. Now more than ever, he was determined to cheat the Fates of entertainment, but naturally, his time would come. When it did, he believed he would accept death as Socrates had: with cool philosophical distance. He would say something funny, or profound, or loving. Then he would let life fall gracefully from his hands. Horseshit, as James Earp would say, of the highest order. The truth is this. On the morning of August 14, 1878, Doc Holliday believed in his own death exactly as you do—today, at this very moment. He knew that he was mortal, just as you do. Of course, you know you’ll die someday, but … not quite the same way you know that the sun will rise tomorrow or that dropped objects fall. The great bitch-goddess Hope sees to that. Sit in a physician’s office. Listen to a diagnosis as bad as Doc’s. Beyond the first few words, you won’t hear a thing. The voice of Hope is soft but impossible to ignore. This isn’t happening, she assures you. There’s been a mix-up with the tests. Hope swears, You’re different. You matter. She whispers, Miracles happen. She says, often quite reasonably, New treatments are being developed all the time! She promises, You’ll beat the odds. A hundred to one? A thousand to one? A million to one? Eight to five, Hope lies. Odds are, when your time comes, you won’t even ask, “For or against?” You’ll swing up on that horse, and ride.

While the meetings included traders, that is, people who are judged on their numerical performance, it was mostly a forum for salespeople (people capable of charming customers), and the category of entertainers called Wall Street “economists” or “strategists,” who make pronouncements on the fate of the markets, but do not engage in any form of risk taking, thus having their success dependent on rhetoric rather than actually testable facts.

Don’t be fooled by clever hands, sir” the Sunlight Man said. He’d be lying with the back of his head on his hands, as he always lay. “Entertainment’s all very well, but the world is serious. It’s exceedingly amusing, when you think about it: nothing in life is as startling or shocking or mysterious as a good magician’s trick. That’s what makes stagecraft deadly. Listen closely, friend. You see great marvels performed on the stage - the lady sawed in half, the fat man supported by empty air, the Hindu vanishing with the folding of a cloth - and the subtlest of poisons drifts into your brain: you think the earth dead because the sky is full of spirits, you think the hall drab because the stage is adazzle with dimestore gilt. So King Lear rages, and the audience grows meek, and tomorrow, in the gray of old groceries, the housewife will weep for Cordelia and despair for herself. They weren’t fools, those old sages who called all art the Devil’s work. It eats the soul.

Holy One, there is something I wanted to tell you, but there have been errands to run, bills to pay, arrangements to make, meetings to attend, friends to entertain, washing to do . . . and I forget what it is I wanted to say to you, and mostly I forget what I’m about or why. O God, don’t forget me, please, for the sake of Jesus Christ. Eternal One, there is something I wanted to tell you, but my mind races with worrying and watching, with weighing and planning, with rutted slights and pothole grievances, with leaky dreams and leaky plumbing and leaky relationships I keep trying to plug up; and my attention is preoccupied with loneliness, with doubt, and with things I covet; and I forget what it is I want to say to you, and how to say it honestly or how to do much of anything. O God, don’t forget me, please, for the sake of Jesus Christ. Almighty One, there is something I wanted to ask you, but I stumble along the edge of a nameless rage, haunted by a hundred floating fears of terrorists of all kinds, of losing my job, of failing, of getting sick and old, having loved ones die, of dying . . . I forget what the real question is that I wanted to ask, and I forget to listen anyway because you seem unreal and far away, and I forget what it is I have forgotten. O God, don’t forget me, please, for the sake of Jesus Christ . . . O Father . . . in Heaven, perhaps you’ve already heard what I wanted to tell you. What I wanted to ask is forgive me, heal me, increase my courage, please. Renew in me a little of love and faith, and a sense of confidence, and a vision of what it might mean to live as though you were real, and I mattered, and everyone was sister and brother. What I wanted to ask in my blundering way is don’t give up on me, don’t become too sad about me, but laugh with me, and try again with me, and I will with you, too. What I wanted to ask is for peace enough to want and work for more, for joy enough to share, and for awareness that is keen enough to sense your presence here, now, there, then, always.27

Only fools take life so seriously that they are constantly hurt. The wise look upon childhood, youth, old age, life and death as passing dramas, hence everything entertains them. When one become momentarily identified with tragic picture, he feels miserable but when he realizes that it is only a part of an entertaining variety show, he feels happy. God wants man to behold the changing pictures of personal and worldly life as a sort of variety entertainment. (Paramahansa Yogananda, God talks with Arjuna, The Bhagawat Gita)

And what about your brother, Agus? Will he be entertaining us with his pipes?” “Agg,” Shanks rasped, wrinkling his nose. “I didn’t tell you? He ain’t with us no more.” A heavy fist slammed on the arm of the Viidun’s chair as he growled, “The idiot went off and got himself killed!” “What?” Derian and Eena replied in unison, both horrified by the news. “You heard me!” Shanks bellowed. “The crazy fool should’ve known when to duck. He died in a bloody challenge with some brainless Deramptium! A downright disgraceful way to die! I’m ashamed to say he was my brother!” “That’s a little harsh, isn’t it?” Eena muttered, mostly speaking to Derian. “What was that?” the Viidun demanded. Derian whispered a hush to Eena. Addressing Shanks, he expressed their condolences. “We are truly sorry for your loss. Your brother will be sorely missed. On the other hand, we look forward to welcoming you and your crew aboard the Kemeniroc.” Derian held up his right hand, extending his thumb and two adjoining fingers. “Strength, truth, and honor, friend,” he said, ending their conversation. “Strength, truth, and honor,” Shanks repeated. The screen went black. The captain turned to Eena who was still in shock. “You have to understand,” he explained, “the Viiduns are a fiercely competitive people with proud, warring ways. Their culture doesn’t call for much sympathy, especially when it appears one of their own has failed to live up to expectations.” Eena was still disturbed by the lack of compassion. “But that was his brother.” “I know. I can hardly believe it myself. Shanks and Agus were very close. They traveled everywhere together. All I can figure is it’s easier for Shanks to express his anger than his anguish.” “After all that, I’m not sure I want to meet him in person. He scares me,” she admitted. Derian laughed. “He scares everyone. That’s why you want to keep him as an ally and not make him an enemy.

ketchup sandwich. Grover was an easy target. He was scrawny. He cried when he got frustrated. He must’ve been held back several grades, because he was the only sixth grader with acne and the start of a wispy beard on his chin. On top of all that, he was crippled. He had a note excusing him from PE for the rest of his life because he had some kind of muscular disease in his legs. He walked funny, like every step hurt him, but don’t let that fool you. You should’ve seen him run when it was enchilada day in the cafeteria. Anyway, Nancy Bobofit was throwing wads of sandwich that stuck in his curly brown hair, and she knew I couldn’t do anything back to her because I was already on probation. The headmaster had threatened me with death-by-in-school-suspension if anything bad, embarrassing, or even mildly entertaining happened on this trip. ‘I’m going to kill her,’ I mumbled.

The problem, Augustine came to believe, is that if you think you can organize your own salvation you are magnifying the very sin that keeps you from it. To believe that you can be captain of your own life is to suffer the sin of pride. What is pride? These days the word “pride” has positive connotations. It means feeling good about yourself and the things associated with you. When we use it negatively, we think of the arrogant person, someone who is puffed up and egotistical, boasting and strutting about. But that is not really the core of pride. That is just one way the disease of pride presents itself. By another definition, pride is building your happiness around your accomplishments, using your work as the measure of your worth. It is believing that you can arrive at fulfillment on your own, driven by your own individual efforts. Pride can come in bloated form. This is the puffed-up Donald Trump style of pride. This person wants people to see visible proof of his superiority. He wants to be on the VIP list. In conversation, he boasts, he brags. He needs to see his superiority reflected in other people’s eyes. He believes that this feeling of superiority will eventually bring him peace. That version is familiar. But there are other proud people who have low self-esteem. They feel they haven’t lived up to their potential. They feel unworthy. They want to hide and disappear, to fade into the background and nurse their own hurts. We don’t associate them with pride, but they are still, at root, suffering from the same disease. They are still yoking happiness to accomplishment; it’s just that they are giving themselves a D– rather than an A+. They tend to be just as solipsistic, and in their own way as self-centered, only in a self-pitying and isolating way rather than in an assertive and bragging way. One key paradox of pride is that it often combines extreme self-confidence with extreme anxiety. The proud person often appears self-sufficient and egotistical but is really touchy and unstable. The proud person tries to establish self-worth by winning a great reputation, but of course this makes him utterly dependent on the gossipy and unstable crowd for his own identity. The proud person is competitive. But there are always other people who might do better. The most ruthlessly competitive person in the contest sets the standard that all else must meet or get left behind. Everybody else has to be just as monomaniacally driven to success. One can never be secure. As Dante put it, the “ardor to outshine / Burned in my bosom with a kind of rage.” Hungry for exaltation, the proud person has a tendency to make himself ridiculous. Proud people have an amazing tendency to turn themselves into buffoons, with a comb-over that fools nobody, with golden bathroom fixtures that impress nobody, with name-dropping stories that inspire nobody. Every proud man, Augustine writes, “heeds himself, and he who pleases himself seems great to himself. But he who pleases himself pleases a fool, for he himself is a fool when he is pleasing himself.”16 Pride, the minister and writer Tim Keller has observed, is unstable because other people are absentmindedly or intentionally treating the proud man’s ego with less reverence than he thinks it deserves. He continually finds that his feelings are hurt. He is perpetually putting up a front. The self-cultivator spends more energy trying to display the fact that he is happy—posting highlight reel Facebook photos and all the rest—than he does actually being happy. Augustine suddenly came to realize that the solution to his problem would come only after a transformation more fundamental than any he had previously entertained, a renunciation of the very idea that he could be the source of his own solution.

Let me play the fool. With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come. And let my liver rather heat with wine Than my heart cool with mortifying groans. Why should a man whose blood is warm within Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster, Sleep when he wakes, and creep into the jaundice By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio— I love thee, and ’tis my love that speaks— There are a sort of men whose visages Do cream and mantle like a standing pond, And do a willful stillness entertain With purpose to be dressed in an opinion Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit, As who should say, “I am Sir Oracle, And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark!” O my Antonio, I do know of these That therefore only are reputed wise For saying nothing, when I am very sure If they should speak, would almost damn those ears Which, hearing them, would call their brothers fools. I’ll tell thee more of this another time. But fish not with this melancholy bait For this fool gudgeon, this opinion.—

A heartbeat later, the flashlight clicked off. Phoebe blinked in the darkness. “Zane?” “We’re gonna have to do this by feel. Otherwise we’ll be putting on a show.” She thought about how flashlights in the tents created detailed shadows and blushed at the thought of entertaining the others. Before she could figure out some kind of response, she both felt and heard movement. Instinctively, she pulled the sleeping bag up over her chest. “What are you doing?” she asked. “Taking off my jacket. It’s soaked.” “Oh.” There was a bit more rustling, then a warm hand settled on her shoulder. “You okay with this?” he asked. “Yes,” she whispered, nearly meaning it. Sure, she wanted to be with him in the most intimate way possible, but wanting it and talking about it were two different things. He chuckled. “Second thoughts?” “Not exactly.” “Then what, exactly?” But she never got to say. Apparently he’d been moving closer as they spoke, and before she could form a word, his mouth settled on hers. The man had great aim, she thought as firm, tender lips claimed her own. Her body melted in anticipation, which made it difficult to stay upright. Rather than puddle into the sleeping bag, she simply leaned against him.

He could not look at her, be near her, think of her, and keep the Kestrel afloat at the same time. No red-blooded man could. “Go back to your cabin.” “No.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’ll go mad if I spend another day in that cabin, with no one to talk to and nothing to do.” “Well, I’m sorry we’re not entertaining you sufficiently, but this isn’t a pleasure cruise. Find some other way to amuse yourself. Can’t you find something to occupy your mind?” he made an open-handed sweep through the steam. “Read a book.” “I’ve only got one book. I’ve already read it.” “Don’t tell me it’s the Bible.” The corner of her mouth twitched. “It isn’t.” He averted his gaze to the ceiling, blowing out an impatient breath. “Only one book,” he muttered. “What sort of lady makes an ocean crossing with only one book?” “Not a governess.” Her voice held a challenge. Gray refused the bait, electing for silence. Silence was all he could manage, with this anger slicing through him. It hurt. He kept his eyes trained on a cracked board above her head, working to keep his expression blank. What a fool he’d been, to believe her. To believe that something essential in him had changed, that he could find more than fleeting pleasure with a woman. That this perfect, delicate blossom of a lady, who knew all his deeds and misdeeds, would offer herself to him without hesitation. Deep inside, in some uncharted territory of his soul, he’d built a world on that moment when she came to him willingly, trustingly. Giving not just her body, but her heart. Ha. She hadn’t even given him her name.

Are we going to share the sleeping bag?” “I thought I’d go stay with Cookie.” “Oh.” Disappointment flooded her way more than the river had. It was just as cold, but not as wet. “Phoebe, we talked about this,” he reminded her. “You deserve better than a quickie out in the open.” “We’re in a tent,” she said before she could stop herself. “And it doesn’t have to be quick.” As soon as the words were out, she wanted to pull the sleeping bag over her head and disappear. Instead, she closed her eyes and waited for Zane to stalk off in disgust. When he didn’t move, she opened first one eye, then the other. He was staring at her with the hungry expression of a man who has been starving all his life. The need burning in his dark irises warmed her way more than the sleeping bag. He wanted her. She could feel his desire all the way to her toes. She wasn’t sure why he wanted her or for how long, but she couldn’t worry about any of that now. She watched the battle rage inside of him. Base need fought his desire to be a gentleman. She wasn’t exactly sure how to influence the outcome, but she was determined to get her way in this. After considering several options, she settled on a simple, yet direct approach. She unzipped the sleeping bag and sat up. While she was sure her hair was wet and spiky and that the flashlight didn’t exactly flatter her skin tone, Zane didn’t seem to notice any of that. His gaze dropped to her bare breasts and didn’t budge. There was an audible exhalation of air, a swearword, then a low groan that sounded very much like surrender. A heartbeat later, the flashlight clicked off. Phoebe blinked in the darkness. “Zane?” “We’re gonna have to do this by feel. Otherwise we’ll be putting on a show.” She thought about how flashlights in the tents created detailed shadows and blushed at the thought of entertaining the others.

Now, who and what is this minstrel in reality? Where does he come from? In what respects does he differ from his predecessors? He has been described as a cross between the early medieval court-singer and the ancient mime of classical times. The mime had never ceased to flourish since the days of classical antiquity; when even the last traces of classical culture disappeared, the descendants of the old mimes still continued to travel about the Empire, entertaining the masses with their unpretentious, unsophisticated and unliterary art. The Germanic countries were flooded out with mimes in the early Middle Ages; but until the ninth century the poets and singers at the courts kept themselves strictly apart from them. Not until they lost their cultured audience, as a result of the Carolingian Renaissance and the clericalism of the following generation, and came up against the competition of the mimes in the lower classes, did they have, to a certain extent, to become mimes themselves in order to be able to compete with their rivals. Thus both singers and comedians now move in the same circles, intermingle and influence each other so much that they soon become indistinguishable from one another. The mime and the scop both become the minstrel. The most striking characteristic of the minstrel is his versatility. The place of the cultured, highly specialized heroic ballad poet is now taken by the Jack of all trades, who is no longer merely a poet and singer, but also a musician and dancer, dramatist and actor, clown and acrobat, juggler and bear-leader, in a word, the universal jester and maître de plaisir of the age. Specialization, distinction and solemn dignity are now finished with; the court poet has become everybody’s fool and his social degradation has such a revolutionary and shattering effect on himself that he never entirely recovers from the shock. From now on he is one of the déclassés, in the same class as tramps and prostitutes, runaway clerics and sent-down students, charlatans and beggars. He has been called the ‘journalist of the age’, but he really goes in for entertainment of every kind: the dancing song as well as the satirical song, the fairy story as well as the mime, the legend of saints as well as the heroic epic. In this context, however, the epic takes on quite new features: it acquires in places a more pointed character with a new straining after effect, which was absolutely foreign to the spirit of the old heroic ballad. The minstrel no longer strikes the gloomy, solemn, tragi-heroic note of the ‘Hildebrandslied’, for he wants to make even the epic sound entertaining; he tries to provide sensations, effective climaxes and lively epigrams. Compared with the monuments of the older heroic poetry, the ‘Chanson de Roland’ never fails to reveal this popular minstrel taste for the piquant.

That was an inspiring service, Thomas, and I believe it should be followed by an inspiring bit of entertainment.” Kitty clapped her hands. “Oh yes! What a lovely idea.” “What shall we do then?” Nathaniel asked. “Why don’t we have Liza perform for us?” Kitty said. Eliza snapped her head toward her sister. “Me?” Kitty tilted her head. “Yes, like you used to do! I haven’t heard you perform Shakespeare in so long.” Nathaniel sat back down. “I have heard tales of your talents, Eliza. Shakespeare is one of my favorites. It would be a great honor if you’d perform for us.” Eliza turned to Thomas, shooting him a stern but playful glare. “Did you have anything to do with this?” Thomas attempted to smother a telling grin. “Nothing whatsoever.” She turned again toward her sister. Kitty bit her lip and tilted her head farther as if to say “pretty please?” Eliza looked around the room tapping her foot, searching for a reason to decline. The last thing she wanted was to make a fool out of herself. “I’d love to, Kitty, but it’s been such a long time and I don’t have any of my books with me. I really need to freshen my memory before I do anything like that and I’m out of practice on my recitations. I’m sorry, my dear.” “Not to worry.” Nathaniel popped out of his chair again and went to fetch a small bundle by the front door. “It so happens that I’ve brought such a book with me.” Eliza threw an accusatory glance at Thomas. He grinned wide as the horizon, and leaned back in his seat. She couldn’t get out of it now. She was trapped. She pinched her lips and laced her fingers in her lap. Nathaniel came to her chair and held the thick book in front of her. “Your reputation precedes you, Miss Campbell. You must indulge us, please.” Eliza

The desire to be exalted or thought as, if not superior, at least distinct, by the rest of humanity is a widespread impulse. One of the most widely shared beliefs seems to be that the “the rest of people” are idiots or manipulable fools. Concerning “media effects,” if you ask anybody, the victims of propaganda, yellow journalism, bad entertainment, or stupid books are always “other people,” never oneself.

Don't forget Shiz University was originally a unionist monastery," said Elphaba, "so despite the anything-goes attitude among the educated elite, there are still bedrocks of unionist bias." "But I'm a unionist," said Boq, "and I don't see the conflict. The Unnamed God is accommodating to many ranges of being, not just human. Are you talking about a subtle bias against Animals, interwoven into early unionist tracts, and still in operation today?" "That's certainly what Doctor Dillamond thinks. And he's a unionist himself. Explain that paradox and I'd be glad to convert. I admire the Got intensely. But the real interest of it to me is the political slant. If he can isolate some bit of the biological architecture to prove that there isn't any difference, deep down, in the invisible pockets of human and Animal flesh - that there's no difference between us - or even among us, if you take in animal flesh too - well, you see the implications." "No," said Boq, "I don't think I do." "How can the Banns on Animal Mobility be upheld if Doctor Dillamond can prove, scientifically, that there isn't any inherent difference between humans and Animals?" "Oh, now that's a blueprint for an impossibly rosy future," said Boq. "Think about it," said Elphaba. "Think, Boq. On what grounds could the Wizard possibly continue to publish those Banns?" "How could he be persuaded not to? The Wizard has dissolved the Hall of Approval indefinitely. I don't believe, Elphie, that the Wizard is open to entertaining arguments, even by as august an Animal as Doctor Dillamond." "But of course he must be. He's a man in power, it's his job to consider changes in knowledge. When Doctor Dillamond has his proof, he'll write to the Wizard and begin to lobby for change. No doubt he'll do his best to let Animals the over know what he's intending, too. He isn't a fool.

Surrender only unto your true-self; respect only the wise; question everything; never entertain self-righteous fools; retrospect vehemently on the validity of your knowledge; then you shall attain bliss in life.

Some say you must watch the quietest person in the room! I say even the loudest can be deadly because magician’s use their words, hand gestures, and stage presence as a distraction! Remain vigilant at all times especially while enjoying foolish grandiose entertainment!

The man in the action-adventure movie who does whatever he wants and breaks all the rules is not a hero. He is a fool. Regardless of the apparent good that results in the end, he is a fool and the world he represents is a lie. It wouldn’t be wise to make an evening’s entertainment of watching powerful dramas that teach our children to think about life in ways that are not true.

The Goal of Pleasing God by Obeying His Commands (4: 1-2)American culture is caught up with the grand goal of enjoying life and pleasing oneself. For example, a recent magazine article discussing vacation homes as investments led with the caption: "The No. 1 reason to build a vacation home is to enjoy yourself. " Today more than ever society is caught up in concern for health and personal well-being. Churches sometimes try to attract people to their services by advertising that what goes on at church will be enjoyable to them. Some churches advertise that contemporary music and coffee will be served throughout the service. One can even enjoy breakfast beforehand at a church cafeteria or be entertained by "sitcom-like" plays. Some of these things may not be bad in themselves, but the impression is that of the church attempting to attract people by dangling before them the kinds of pleasures that they can find outside the church. If a church does this too consistently, then what it may have to offer may be no different, ultimately, than what the world offers. We must not fool ourselves and think that things were radically different in the first century. A few years ago I went to Turkey (old Asia Minor) to see the ancient sites of the towns where the seven churches of Revelation were located. At Pergamum I visited the ruins of an ancient Roman health spa, where, among other things, people would go to be rejuvenated emotionally because of depression. There were even rooms where a patient could rest; in the ceiling were little holes through which the priestly attendants of the spa would whisper encouraging things to help the victims recuperate psychologically. Whether in the ancient world or today, the chief end of humanity has often been to take pleasure in this life. In contrast, our passage begins by affirming the opposite: humanity's chief goal ought to be to take pleasure in pleasing God. Such passages in Scripture as this fueled the great confession, "The chief end of man is to glorify God and to enjoy Him forever. " Granted, Christians enjoy the material pleasures of this life, but only as a gift from the gracious God whom they serve (1 Tim 4: 4). This world is not an end in itself to be enjoyed. On the basis that God has begun to work in the readers and that they are beginning to live in order to please God, Paul appeals to them to excel in this: we ask you and urge you in the Lord Jesus to do this more and more. The main point of 4: 1 is that the ultimate purpose of living as a Christian is not to please oneself but increasingly to please God (Rom 8: 8; 15: 1-6). This develops further the earlier reference to pleasing God (2: 4) and walking worthily for the goal of achieving God's glory for which they have been called (2: 12). The Greek text of 4: 1 reads "just as you received from us how it is necessary for you to walk so as to please God. " Although the NIV leaves out "it is necessary" (dei; so also Moffatt 1970 and NLT), most other translations attempt to express it, typically by "you must" or "you ought. " Some readers may understand this to mean that Christians should live in the way Paul had instructed, but if they do not they will not experience the full blessing they could otherwise. Paul's urging of them to excel, however, suggests that there is a necessity that his readers live this lifestyle and that such living is not optional for less seriously minded Christians. Indeed, this necessity is heightened by the fact that such a lifestyle is a divine commandment (4: 2), that God has called believers to this conduct (4: 7), that God has given true believers the power to fulfill this commandment (3: 12-13) and that to reject living in this manner is tantamount to rejecting God (4: 8). Consequently, it is necessary that God's true people live this way if they want to avoid the inevitable last judgment (4: 6). Paul says the basis for his appeal that they please God is grounded in the authority of the Lord Jesus

Down with advertising that forgets to promise the consumer any benefit. Down with creative show-offs. Too clever by half.    If you spend your advertising budget entertaining the consumer, you are a bloody fool. Housewives don’t buy a new detergent because the manufacturer told a joke on television last night. They buy it because it promised a benefit. If I could persuade the lunatics to give up their pursuit of awards, I would die happy.

He pulled her upright and they stood facing each other, her hands in his. Again with the held breaths, the locked gazes. Twice in a row. It was almost too much! And Jane wanted to stay in that moment with him so much, her belly ached with the desire. “Your hands are cold,” he said, looking at her fingers. She waited. They had never practiced this part and the flimsy play gave no directions, such as, Kiss the girl, you fool. She leaned in a tiny bit. He warmed her hands. “So…” she said. “I suppose we know our scene, more or less,” he said. Was he going to kiss her? No, it seemed nobody ever kissed in Regency England. So what was happening? And what did it mean to fall in love in Austenland anyway? Jane stepped back, the weird anxiety of his nearness suddenly making her heart beat so hard it hurt. “We should probably return. Curtain, or bedsheet, I should say, is in two hours.” “Right. Of course,” he said, though he seemed a little sorry. The evening had pulled down over them, laying chill like morning dew on her arms, right through her clothes and into her bones. Though she was wearing her wool pelisse, she shivered as they walked back to the house. He gave her his jacket. “This theatrical hasn’t been as bad as you expected,” Jane said. “Not so bad. No worse than idle novel reading or croquet.” “You make any entertainment sound like taking cod liver oil.” “Maybe I am growing weary of this place.” He hesitated, as though he’d said too much, which made Jane wonder if the real mad had spoken. He cleared his throat. “Of the country, I mean. I will return to London soon for the season, and the renovations on my estate will be completed by summer. It will be good to be home, to feel something permanent. I tire of the guests who come and go in the country, their only goal to find some kind of amusement, their sentiments shallow. It wears on a person.” He met her eyes. “I may not return to Pembrook Park. Will you?” “No, I’m pretty sure I won’t.” Another ending. Jane’s chest tightened, and she surprised herself to identify the feeling as panic. It was already the night of the play. The ball was two days away. Her departure came in three. Not so soon! Clearly she was swimming much deeper in Austenland waters than she’d anticipated. And loving it. She was growing used to slippers and empire waists, she felt naked outside without a bonnet, during drawing room evenings her mouth felt natural exploring the kinds of words that Austen might’ve written. And when this man entered the room, she had more fun than she had in four years of college combined. It was all feeling…perfect.

Randomness can be of considerable help with the matter. For there is another, far more entertaining way to make the distinction between the babbler and the thinker. You can sometimes replicate something that can be mistaken for a literary discourse with a Monte Carlo generator but it is not possible randomly to construct a scientific one. Rhetoric can be constructed randomly, but not genuine scientific knowledge. This

All girls love the idea of Almack’s. They spend the majority of their early years envisioning exactly what their first evening there will be like. They go all starry-eyed about the ruddy place, imagining just who will be the first man to steal their hearts.” “Not these girls,” piped in Ella. “I, for one, have no interest at all in having my heart stolen,” Alex interjected, ire rising. Gavin leaned back in his chair and studied the trio of girls, taking note of Alex’s rising temper. “To be honest, Nick, I’d be surprised to hear these three speaking of having their hearts stolen…with an attitude like this…I’m guessing this lot is much more interested in who will be the first man to have his heart stolen—they don’t seem the wall-flower type.” Alex exploded in irritation. “Why is it that men believe that all women care to think about is the trappings of romance and love? You really don’t consider the possibility that there’s anything more to us, do you?” The boys looked at each other and turned to the girls with expressions that clearly articulated the answer to her question—rendering words unnecessary. “Fools,” Alex mumbled under her breath. “In actual fact, gentlemen, I think we’d all much prefer to steer clear of heart stealing of any kind, victim or perpetrator,” Alex continued. “Of course, you lot wouldn’t understand that. You’re never going to be forced into dancing with some namby-pamby so your mothers can feel better about your marriage prospects.” Will snorted in laughter. “Spoken like someone who has never been to a ball with our mother. I promise you, Alex, as difficult as she can be with you, she’s just as impossible with us. The duchess wants a wedding…any wedding will do.” Gavin joined in. “I second that. Last season our mothers aligned against me—I thought for sure I was done for. I danced scores of quadrilles with any number of desperate young ladies before I realized it would be smart for me to beg off attending balls altogether.” His tone turned thoughtful. “I had planned on doing the same this year…but seeing Alex take London by storm just might be entertaining enough to drag me to a society gathering or two.” “Be careful what you ask for, Blackmoor,” Nick interjected. “It is I who has been forced to play partner to her during her dancing lessons. She’s not the most graceful of ladies.” “Nor the lightest. Mind your toes, chap.” Kit, as usual, delivered his barb with an impish grin thrown in the direction of an increasingly irritated Alex. With a chuckle, Will interjected, “Ah, well, as brothers, we can rest easy from the fate of Alex’s clumsiness. We’ll never have to dance with her again. Wednesday evening, she shall be loosed upon the men of London. I’m sure someone in the mix won’t mind partnering her.” With an exasperated groan, Alex leveled her gaze at the men in the room. “Well, I console myself with this: No matter who I end up having to dance with, he can’t be more boorish than you three oafs. Lord save your future wives.

It wasn’t dignified in the least, the way the grown man crouching on the floor played with the child—made a fool of himself to entertain a stranger’s abandoned baby. Not dignified, but it was… oddly endearing. Sophie felt an urge to get up and put some distance between herself and this tomfoolery on the floor, and yet she had to wonder too: if she brushed a lock of her hair over the child’s nose, would the baby take as much delight in it? She sat back. “How is it you know so much about babies?” “My half sisters are a great deal younger than my brother and I. We more or less raised them, and this is part of the drill. He’ll likely nap next, as outings tend to tire them when they’re this young.” He crouched low over the child and used his mouth to make a rude noise on the baby’s belly. The child exploded with glee, grabbing wildly for Mr. Charpentier’s hair and managing to catch his nose. It was quite a handsome nose in the middle of quite a handsome face. She’d noticed this at the coaching inn, in that first instant when he’d offered to help. She’d turned to find the source of the lovely, calm voice and found herself looking up into a face that put elegant masculine bones to the best possible use. His eyes were just the start of it—a true pale blue that suggested Norse ancestry, set under arching blond brows. It was a lean face, with a strong jaw and well-defined chin—Sophie could not abide a weak chin nor the artifices of facial hair men sported to cover one up. But none of that, not even the nose and chin and eyes combined, prepared Sophie for the visceral impact of more than six feet of Wilhelm Charpentier crouched on the floor, entertaining a baby. He smiled at the child as if one small package of humanity merited all the grace and benevolence a human heart could express. He beamed at the child, looked straight into the baby’s eyes, and communicated bottomless approval and affection without saying a word. It was… daunting. It was undignified, and yet Sophie sensed there was a kind of wisdom in the man’s handling of the baby she herself would lack. “He’ll

In his professional and private life he seemed to treat the world as a hugely entertaining game. The physical universe presented him with a fascinating series of puzzles and challenges, and so did his social environment. A lifelong prankster, he treated authority and the academic establishment with the same sort of disrespect he showed for stuffy mathematical formalism. Never one to suffer fools gladly, he broke the rules whenever he found them arbitrary or absurd.

I will tell you something about stories, [he said] They aren’t just entertainment. Don’t be fooled. They are all we have, you see, all we have to fight off illness and death.   You don’t have anything if you don’t have the stories.   Their evil is mighty but it can’t stand up to our stories. So they try to destroy the stories let the stories be confused or forgotten. They would like that They would be happy Because we would be defenseless then.   He

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Jav stared at Rina, speechless. It's not that you've made a fool of me, it's that you're so entertained. It hurt.

Why would I do something for you. If I am not benefiting anything ? Why would I entertain you? If you are not entertaining me. As a kind person. I might do It for once , twice even three times for you for free, but I can't do it every time. That will only Imply that I am stupid and I am your fool.

table with them? That was unthinkable. The greatest illustration of prayer Jesus gave is the one he lived—the Infinite Other, the Alpha and Omega, the Holy and Infallible, welcomes us to his table. He does not simply tolerate our company or benevolently entertain our requests; he affirms our person, chooses our company, and delights in our presence.

Then he thought suddenly of Howard Roark. He was surprised to find that the flash of that name in his memory gave him a sharp little twinge of pleasure, before he could know why. Then he remembered: Howard Roark had been expelled this morning. He reproached himself silently; he made a determined effort to feel sorry. But the secret glow came back, whenever he thought of that expulsion. The event proved conclusively that he had been a fool to imagine Roark a dangerous rival; at one time, he had worried about Roark more than about Shlinker, even though Roark was two years younger and one class below him. If he had ever entertained any doubts on their respective gifts, hadn’t this day settled it all? And, he remembered, Roark had been very nice to him, helping him whenever he was stuck on a problem ... not stuck, really, just did not have the time to think it out, a plan or something. Christ! how Roark could untangle a plan, like pulling a string and it was open ... well, what if he could? What did it get him? He was done for now. And knowing this, Peter Keating experienced at last a satisfying pang of sympathy for Howard Roark.

We live today in the grand age of diversion, and the reasons why are obvious. With our economic prosperity, our high-tech devices and the cornucopia of entertainment pressing for our attention, we can surround ourselves with diversion from the cradle to grave. We do not focus our attention on anything for long. We do not ask what 'the good life' is and what it requires. Happiness is a small circle, and it is no surprise that the last thing on most people's minds at any moment is the question of the meaning of life, the coming of death and the priorities that are needed to choose wisely. What Socrates call the 'unexamined life' that is 'not worth living' now seems to be the life more people have slipped into than ever before.

The success of professional wrestling, like most of the entertainment that envelops our culture, lies not in fooling us that these stories are real,” he writes. “Rather, it succeeds because we ask to be fooled. We happily pay for the chance to suspend reality. The wrestlers, like all celebrities, become our vicarious selves. They do what we cannot.

Me: In college, I was clipping my toenails and ended up having to wear an eye patch for a month. Mr. Wrong Number: Disgusting, but impressive. #2? Me: I once got stuck in a tipped-over porta-potty. Mr. Wrong Number: Good Lord. Me: Music festival, strong winds. The thing blew over, door side down. I still have nightmares. Mr. Wrong Number: I want to move on to #3, but I have to know how long you were trapped. Me: Twenty minutes but it felt like days. My drunk friends lifted it enough for me to squeeze through the door crack. Mr. Wrong Number: I’m assuming you were . . . Me: Absolutely covered in waste. Mr. Wrong Number: I just threw up a little in my mouth. Me: As you should. And just to add a cherry to the top of your entertainment sundae, the story ends in me being doused with gallons of high-powered water that were dispensed by a fire hose. Mr. Wrong Number: Wow. You definitely can’t top #2. Me: Oh, you ignorant little fool. #2 is but a warm-up. Mr. Wrong Number: Well give me #3, then. I thought about it for a minute. I mean, there were hundreds of embarrassing bad luck moments I could’ve shared with him.

This tension stimulated the gland of entertainment in me and I found myself in the role of master of revels, the evening fool, with cards in my sleeves and a ready joke for every interval of silence.

Adapting’ is what constitutes selling out,” he explained to me in a largely unprinted interview for Terrorizer magazine in 2007. “Adapting to the preferences of the masses, ridding yourself of unwanted contents, washing your hands until they are clean and shiny, ready for mass production. The genius of black metal lies within its unbound chaotic essence, untamed artistry, and wild and evil creative thinking. This is why selling out is considered not so sexy within a black metal context. Both Gorgoroth and Dissection refused to adapt themselves to the will of others. Satyricon stands for rock ‘n’ roll entertainment, Dissection for Satanism. The former means showbiz, the latter means black metal. I see nothing wrong with being involved in showbiz—I like Frank Sinatra and stuff like that. But what I just don’t understand is who these bands are trying to fool when they claim to still be bonded to the black metal legacy. They blindly follow rule number one in the book: ‘How to lose one’s credibility,’ namely, ‘Don’t be credible.

If we have a nation of consumers, obviously the quickest and most effective way to get them into our congregations is to identify what they want and offer it to them, satisfy their fantasies, promise them the moon, recast the gospel into consumer terms—entertainment, satisfaction, excitement, adventure, problem solving, whatever. This is the language Americans grow up on, the language we understand. We are the world’s champion consumers, so why shouldn’t we have state-of-the-art consumer churches?

rebellion and doesn’t want to listen to God’s warnings. He’s too busy entertaining himself. And when a fool decides to reject God’s voice, he’ll stubbornly and inexplicably allow his life, job, marriage, family, children, and money to go up in smoke.

Oh it’s all so lovely, isn’t it? Life’s magnitude is madly bipolar—just look at Earth—betwixt it all we try so so desperately to be sensical. Life is the funniest joke ever told for those who manage to see its humour! I reckon we, the Human race, are the divine comedy: The Fools of Folly who, bored by drifting senselessly, crafted an endless universe of entertainment and intrigue; a stage where clueless puppets swing at each other in the name of love.

You can’t go to Bradshaw’s. Reasons of morality and safety aside, you don’t even know where the hell it is.” Amelia didn’t flinch at the profanity. “I assume a great deal of business is sent back and forth between your establishment and Bradshaw’s. You say the place is nearby, which means all I have to do is follow the foot traffic from here to there. Goodbye, Mr. Rohan. I appreciate your help.” Cam moved to block her path. “All you’ll accomplish is making a fool of yourself, Miss Hathaway. You won’t get past the front door. A brothel like Bradshaw’s doesn’t take strangers off the street.” “How I manage to retrieve my brother, sir, is no concern of yours.” She was correct. It wasn’t. But Cam hadn’t been this entertained in a long time. No sensual depravities, no skilled courtesan, not even a room full of unclothed women, could have interested him half as much as Miss Amelia Hathaway and her red ribbons. “I’m going with you,” he said. She frowned. “No, thank you.” “I insist.” “I don’t need your services, Mr. Rohan.” Cam could think of a number of services she was clearly in need of, most of which would be a pleasure for him to provide. “Obviously it will be to everyone’s benefit for you to retrieve Ramsay and leave London as quickly as possible. I consider it my civic duty to hasten your departure.

Researchers have found some interesting facts about computer-generated short social media posts:3 •The average person is twice as likely to be fooled by these posts as a security researcher is. Computer-generated posts that are contrary to popular belief are more likely to be accepted as true. •It is easier to deceive people about entertainment topics than about science topics. •It is easier to fool people about pornographic topics than any other topic.

You’ve got a good man there,’ Ivy said to Lena. ‘Yes,’ Lena said. Ivy looked at her sharply. ‘Deep down he’s full of heart,’ Ivy insisted. Ivy, who knew how unfaithful he was, how hard she tried to entertain him. Ivy, who alone knew that they were not married, could be fooled by this little gesture of goodwill.

I asked my daughter how many kids would come to her birthday party if all we offered was cake. No games, no entertainment. They could come to the house to spend time with her and bring gifts to celebrate her, but we wouldn’t have anything else for them. She thought for a minute and said, “Maybe just a couple.” Then I asked her how many would come if I rented out Dave & Buster’s and let them have unlimited tokens, food, and prizes. She laughed and said confidently that the whole school would show up. So let’s say that for her birthday party I rent out the arcade and her whole school comes. They’re all going nuts, having the time of their lives. Imagine if I pulled her aside during the party, put my arm around her, and said, “Look at all the people who came to be with you!” Would she actually believe those people were there because they love her and want to spend time with her? Or would my comment actually be insulting? Isn’t this basically what we do with God? We have learned that we can fill church buildings if we bring in the right speaker or band. Make things exciting enough and people will come. We say, “God, look how many people are coming because they love being with You!” But do we really think God is fooled by this? Do we think God is pleased? He knows how many would show up if it was just Him. He knows there might be only a few if all we offered was Communion or prayer.

Winchell was enormously entertaining to the common man, his harsh and staccato voice wrapped in a fearless facade. He saw himself as a “protector of little people,” wrote Dickson Hartwell in a 1948 Collier’s profile. “Nobody browbeats a waiter in his presence.” He took on Hitler, Congress, and the president, and he wasn’t afraid to lambaste by name prominent Americans he suspected of a pro-Axis attitude. At various times he heaped scorn upon Huey Long, Hamilton Fish, Charles A. Lindbergh, Martin Dies, and the Ku Klux Klan. He sometimes referred to Congress as “the House of Reprehensibles,” and he got in trouble with his sponsor and network (one of many such troubles) when he characterized as “damn fools” voters who had returned isolationists to office.