There's no score early in the second
quarter of Washington's third preseason game, and Broom 90 means the Redskins, at the Cleveland 12, are going to run Skip Hicks into a
hole that they expect Samuels to
create on the left side.
We have entered a post-genomic era in which we yearn to
create some kind of bio-scientifically engineered paradise where all sentient life can languish in some bovine stupor, in some chemically altered pseudo reality stage - managed by transnational psychotropic drug dealers who offer to chemically separate us from the emotional squalor of our Precambrian brain through a vast array of designer lifestyle drugs, where we sit in uninterrupted epiphanic bliss at the feet of a statue of a
Quarter Pounder in some prosaic cobblestone courtyard at a secluded Ronald McDonald House next to an 18 -
hole golf course, or in some kind of edenic trans - human extended epiphany in a university seminar room overflowing with just the correct mixture of a Leibnizian optimism and Nietzschean Dionysian pessimism.