TYPOS NUMBER TWO
My typing hasn't improved since I last listed some of my boneheaded typos. In the intervening weeks I produced the following gems. I'll leave it to you to figure out what I really intended in each case.
He sifted his gaze . . .
He'd consider it only fir.
The planet rotted on its axis . . .
A gin spread across the lord's face.
The carcass would go to the tanner for draining and skinning, thence to the bitcher for cutting up.
. . . for pubic circulation . . .
. . . the riling family . . .
. . . a cackling hearth fire . . .
. . . in a frail, stained voice . . .
. . . a grasp of the fundaments . . .
And so it goes. Come back next week--and may a real angel land on your Christmas tree.