One of the things that I think is really remarkable about Thomas Friedman is the way you are compelled to, as if by biological imperative, say the words “there’s my big boy. My big wet boy,” aloud any time you see him, or read something he has written, or even simply think of him.
The French call an orgasm “the little death.” No one knows why, it’s never been looked into. Interestingly, they use the same word to refer to our collective compulsion to say “there’s my big boy. My big wet boy,” any time Thomas Friedman occurs. As if, when uttering those words, your puny mind can, for but a moment, comprehend vast eternity. And that’s what I love about Thomas Friedman.
One of the things that I think is really remarkable about Thomas Friedman is the way you are compelled to, as if by biological imperative, say the words “there’s my big boy. My big wet boy,” aloud any time you see him, or read something he has written, or even simply think of him.
The French call an orgasm “the little death.” No one knows why, it’s never been looked into. Interestingly, they use the same word to refer to our collective compulsion to say “there’s my big boy. My big wet boy,” any time Thomas Friedman occurs. As if, when uttering those words, your puny mind can, for but a moment, comprehend vast eternity. And that’s what I love about Thomas Friedman.