To Every Season

When I imagine George F. Will writing a column, I imagine it goes a little something like this. He rises from a coffin full of his native Illinoisan soil, gazes across the wide bedroom to his wife in her twin bed and sleeping cap, cinches his bowtie, drinks seven gin-and-tonics, and tells his PA to finish the column by the time he returns from his daily session of whipping Latina whores in the special dungeon Fred Hiatt maintains for him underneath the US Naval Observatory.

But if you want to see what a George F. Will column would be like if he got up, performed a linked series of sun salutations, drank an acai smoothie, kissed his power crystal, smoked a doob, and put on some Peter Paul and Mary, well, Merry Christmas.