Garcia wondered why people with JESUS stickers on their bumper always drove twenty miles per hour under the speed limit. If God was my co-pilot, he thought, I'd be doing a hundred and twenty.

Hey. Sometimes life is a shit flavored Popsicle.

I’m waiting for the day when Rush Limbaugh’s pharmacist writes a book.

as a lobbyist he had long ago concluded there was no difference in how Democrats and Republicans conducted the business of government. The game stayed the same: It was always about favors and friends, and who controlled the dough. Party labels were merely a way to keep track of the teams; issues were mostly smoke and vaudeville. Nobody believed in anything except hanging on to power, whatever it took. .....

Dessert was an over baked chocolate chip cookies the size of a hockey puck and just about as tasty.

Please don't grow up to be one of those men who lie for the sport of it, and most men do. That's a fact. That's why the world is so messed up, Noah. That's why history books are full of so much heartache, and tragedy. Politicians, dictators, kings, phoney-baloney preachers-most of 'em are men, and most of 'em lie like rugs

From the bow of the canoe she asked, "Do you know a rain dance?""First I need a virgin.

...Right now there's a pair of bad cops on their way out here to shoot me.""You don't know that.""Yeah, you're right," Stranahan said. "They're probably just collecting Toys for Tots. Now go.

Remember what happened last time with the 'cuda.

Sunset on the water ought to be a quiet and easy time, but I guess some people can't stand a little silence.

The classroom fell quiet, a long heavy silence that roared in Roy's ears like a train.

As far as I'm concerned, the gator that ate T.C. deserves a medal from Crime Stoppers.

Just because something was legal didn't automatically make it right.

My father's a large man, very strong, but he says fighting is for people who can't win with their brains. He also says there are times when you've got no choice but to defend yourself from common morons.

That's the thing about being a Labrador retriever - you were born for fun. Seldom was your loopy, freewheeling mind cluttered by contemplation, and never at all by somber worry; every day was a romp. What else could there possibly be to life? Eating was a thrill. Pissing was a treat. Shitting was a joy. And licking your own balls? Bliss. And everywhere you went were gullible humans who patted and hugged and fussed over you.

Actually it was the mark of the stupid, which is what you get for sitting under a tree during a thunderstorm.

He paused and manufactured a chuckle.