People walk around campus in December with big sticks and knock the mo-gwa out of trees. Doesn't matter if they bruise when hitting the ground– nobody is eating them anyways.

"How ribald!" he says again joyfully, apparently I had misheard him. "I didn't expect such ribaldry from you."

"Let us never attribute to race what is more easily explained by stature." admonished Brian, always trying to come off as the the voice of reason, but well known for his shortist prejudices.

Then one day my wife comes home with a toy tennis racquet with a swivel head. "Just one? How can we play without a pair of racquets?"

Geese have down right? That must be it. "How do you get down from a Goose?" I correct.

"Better zip up, Mr. President, Minister Kim will be here in a minute."

"Oh well." I say to myself, a sigh of resignation. "I can just blast the shit out of them on the final."

This is no slipshod operation. It is a highly organised offensive, presided over, with an iron hand, but the purple haired lady that Lisa has dubbed 'The Bottle Boss'.