So there was a madly in Writer’s Digest. I decided to fill it out with my wife and two children (ages 3 and 7). Call it a Moby Lib if you want. This is what we churned out.
Call me Dwight. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little to no Justin Bieber in my dart, and nothing particular to interest me in Washington D.C., I thought I would go home with no jacket on around a l little and see the dumb part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing warm about the kidney; whenever it is a smart, Chinese New year in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily playing before robot warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my sheeps get such an upper hand of me, that it requires strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately farting into the potato, and methodically knocking people’s underwears off—then, I account it high time to get to [our address] as soon as I can. This is my substitute for coats and outhouses. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly punch to the unicorn. There is nothing surprising as this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or the other, cherish very nearly the same feelings toward the biscuit with me.