Fruit is your friend.

He rode astride while hawking; she falconed in the ladylike position of sidesaddle.

I was managing editor of the newspaper in my home town in Missouri — the place where my lifelong friends and my parents lived, where my kids could walk to the neighborhood school, where I had built what I thought was my forever house, where the golf course on which I played forgave my scattergun shots.

They have insulted me most beastly. Moreover, they are, everyone of them, black-satan filthmen.