In my neighborhood there is a cookie factory. It used to belong to Nabisco, but a few years ago they sold it to a generic cookie company, even more generic than the National Biscuit Company. When the wind blows from the east, counter to the prevailing winds, so it doesn't happen all that often, we can smell the baking. When I got off the bus tonight, coming home tired and hungry, the whole neighborhood smelled of cinnamon.

Checking where my hits come from, I have noticed that a buttload come from searches for the first few lines of "Paradise Lost." Welcome to all you Miltonheads, who I am sure approve of my use of the poetically sound word "buttloads" above.

Did you hear about the Yogi who refused novacaine?

He transcends dental medication.