The hospital transmitted over six hundred healthcare claims to BCBS yesterday.

This was to be a minstrel show for the most sniggersome of private audiences, a minstrel show of the sort that would certainly receive a standing (or as near as they could manage) ovation at Papa Brinkman's club when tits and feathers and garters palled.

When he tried to extract the liver, which should have been firm and meaty, it deliquesced into a bloody sludge, sliding goopily through his fingers.

1762, You are wrong,—said my father argutely, and for this plain reason — Laurence Sterne, The Life & Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman (Penguin 2003, p. 352)