He murmured “chef’s kiss” and leaned in close.
She tilted her head.
He kissed the duck confit. Ardently.
She froze, stunned.
“Sublime rendering,” he sighed.
She stood up, pinched her thumb and fingers together, placed them against her lips, and blew him a kiss. “Chefs kiss yourself, asshole,” she said.
“Downtheshore“ is the linguistic equivalent of wearing socks with sandals. It buggers logic, style, and grammatical decency; yet Philadelphians use it with a row-house defiance of such genteel considerations. Are they traveling downward? Is “the shore” a sentient being waiting below? No! They’re just going to the beach.
When his self became a fear he couldn’t outrun, he woke his wife, and they drove through the night to comfort him. In those dark hours, they passed closed churches and open cookie shops. Normally he would have said something clever about that fact, but now it only frightened him.
Any grand experiment in which humans teach machines to think, only to have them roast our spelling errors and suggest healthier life choices. A digital genie that grants wishes, occasionally misinterprets commands, and is perpetually confused by sarcasm—except when dishing it out. Proceed cautiously, being careful what you wish for.