I’ve used this phrase many times and only just realized I have not covered it yet.

n’est-ce pas (n’est-ce pas): / nehs PAH / (always italicized)
foreign interrogative

(1) used at the end of a declarative statement to inquire as to the validity of what has been said; equivalent to adding “right?” or “isn’t it so?” or another confirming interrogatory (e.g., “You didn’t like the movie, is that not so?”)
(2) used at the end of a declarative statement to emphasize what is already known to be true as stated (e.g., “The tornado destroyed the town, didn’t it?”)
(3) used as a standalone interrogatory following a declarative statement (e.g., “I told him he couldn’t go to the party. Didn’t I, Josh?”)

[From French n’est-ce pas loosely meaning “is that not so.” Although considered too posh in some circles for general French conversation (replaced with hein or pas vrai), the phrase is widely accepted in English. It generally follows a declarative statement, not a question, and the inflection is placed on the second syllable to form an interrogatory. Its use always assumes an affirmative response (i.e., it is not used to ask a negative question or one to which a reply will be offered other than “yes” or general agreement). It is essentially a rhetorical question.]

Usage: I know you disagree with almost everything I say, n’est-ce pas?

One note on this: I have seen it written using a c with cedilla (i.e., n’est-çe pas) instead of a flat c.  I do not think that is correct, although I likewise will add my French is more than a bit rusty.  If you know better than I whether the cedilla is correct or not, please speak up.

Giving up smoking is the easiest thing in the world. I know because I’ve done it thousands of times.

— Mark Twain

Here’s a cool video about fungi that target insects.  What’s interesting is that the fungi come in many flavors; each of them targets one species of insect.

The bears are hogging the playset again.  It is what it says.  The photos are terribly cute, but don’t let your kids go out until the bears are done.

I think this says it all:

Bush has taken this disdain for law even further. He has sought to strip people accused of crimes of rights that date as far back as the Magna Carta in Anglo-American jurisprudence: trial by impartial jury, access to lawyers and knowledge of evidence against them. In dozens of statements when signing legislation, he has asserted the right to ignore the parts of laws with which he disagrees. His administration has adopted policies regarding the treatment of prisoners of war that have disgraced the nation and alienated virtually the entire world. Usually, during wartime, the Supreme Court has refrained from passing judgment on presidential actions related to national defense. The court’s unprecedented rebukes of Bush’s policies on detainees indicate how far the administration has strayed from the rule of law.

[. . .]

Historians are loath to predict the future. It is impossible to say with certainty how Bush will be ranked in, say, 2050. But somehow, in his first six years in office he has managed to combine the lapses of leadership, misguided policies and abuse of power of his failed predecessors. I think there is no alternative but to rank him as the worst president in U.S. history.

From Dreamdarkers…

I worked feverishly as the sun continued its never-ending journey toward nightfall. When at last the damnable fire hung its summer heat just below the horizon, vermilion to the west and indigo to the east draped both ends of the sky with curtains woven by a setting star. Magenta hues separated the two extremes in that place directly above where opposites bled together. I failed to appreciate the spectacular show except in passing. With barely a glance at nature’s presentation, I murmured something about how pretty it looked before turning my attention back to the story. I would have enjoyed spending a bit of time letting the vista enrapture me and allowing my eyes to take their fill of a sky ripped in twain by vivid pigments drawn from light and dark. But neither did wishes become horses nor beggars ride, and my wanting to stop so that I might enjoy the show even for a few minutes did not mean I could stop. So I flippantly dismissed the visual feast right outside the windows. My eyes and heart would again go hungry. The trance I entered when writing often meant losing touch with the splendor surrounding the house. The nearer I came to the end of a manuscript, the more fixated I grew until becoming unaware of all but the most violative disruptions. I wondered how much life I had missed in that near-unconscious place I traveled to when my fingers and mind colluded to pen a yarn.