“You know what pleasure was to Epicurus?” I called out to Mary in the middle of the Steelers-Broncos playoff game. “What?” she said amid the din.
“Peace of mind!” I shouted.
Well, we had little peace of mind — and therefore, little pleasure — during that game, I tell you. There was God’s anointed, Tim Tebow, in Denver’s backfield, and on our side, a hobbled but valiant Ben from a city that had once been blackened at 8 a.m. by the smoke from its hellish blast furnaces.
“Beat God! Beat God!” we began to chant.