A Confederacy of Dunces

by John Kennedy Toole

“Canned food is a perversion,” Ignatius said. “I suspect that it is ultimately very damaging to the soul.”

“Whadda you talking about? Sell me one of them hot dogs. I’m hungry. I ain’t had no lunch.” “No!” Ignatius screamed so furiously that the passersby stared. “Now get away from me before I run over you with this cart.” George pulled open the lid of the bun compartment and said, “Hey, you got plenty stuff in here. Fix me a weenie.”

Crying

“Don’t talk to me, you failure. How can I play canasta when there’s a psycho in distress?”

“I see. Now I am being compared to a degenerate old female fraud. Worse, I am losing in the comparison.

For Christmas, Mrs. Levy always compiled not a gift list but rather a list of the injustices and brutalities she had suffered since August. The girls got this list in their stockings. The only gift Mrs. Levy asked of the girls was that they attack their father. Mrs. Levy loved Christmas.

(For example, can you name one good, practicing transvestite in the Senate? No! These people have been without representation long enough. Their plight is a national, a global disgrace.)

The two or three antique chairs had apparently been chosen for their bizarre design and not for their ability to seat anyone, for they were delicate suggestions, hints at furniture with cushions barely capable of accommodating a child. A human in such a room was expected not to rest or sit or even relax, but rather pose, thereby transforming himself into a human furnishing that would complement the decor as well as possible.