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" This came, on stationery from the Young Fogies Club and smelling faintly of Milk Bones and doggy ball-sweat, tied to a brick through the windows of Blog HQ this morning. The note read: &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m very worried. I think he&amp;#039;s lost it. M.H.&amp;quot; It also contained the following sentence from a recent column in The New York Times by David Brooks.  This is the kind of talk employed by philosophy TA&amp;#039;s desperate to score with sophomores. It also contained this question from the same column.  Why do we park in a driveway and drive on a parkway? Why is there air? When am I, anyway? If you keep going long enough, it turns into the flip side of a Firesign album. Shoes for the dead, my friends. A mighty hot dog is our Lord. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.esquire.com/news-politics/politics/a32188/the-metaphysics-of-david-brooks/>