The chaplain glanced at the bridge table that served as his desk and saw only the abominable orange-red, pear-shaped, plum tomato he had obtained that same morning from Colonel Cathcart, still lying on its side where he had forgotten it like an indestructible and incarnadine symbol of his own ineptitude.

Jeff: At least I admit that I don't know. I know that things are fucked up, beyond belief, and I have nothing original to say about it...

«Algunas veces, hasta el mejor administrador se asemeja al muchacho que pasea un perro grande y espera a ver dónde quiere ir para llevarlo allá».

That's not what I'm asking. I'm asking, what's your vice and what brand of trouble does it lead to?

Written By Neal Stephenson

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