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The three of them wore something akin to war paint. If they were trying to scare the enemy, it didn’t work. If they were trying to entertain the audience, it didn’t work either.
An old neighbor of Lisa’s was recently caught having sex with his Labrador retriever, and when I told Louis about it, he asked if the dog could get pregnant. “Are you serious?” I said. “How old are you?” That’s one of those things you think about when you’re a child, the possibility of a half boy/half pony. If it were possible to crossbreed like that, the world would be full of talking goats and sheep who could shear their own wool.
Making it worse, I had to sit through another endless preview for Titanic. Who do they think is going to see that movie?
I think it’s strange that neither of Hugh’s parents bought the People magazine he’s in.
His father says, “I’m not wasting three dollars. Just tell me what the article says.” His mother leafed through an issue at Target, then phoned to say, “I’ve got better pictures of you at home.” Any other parent would have bought a dozen copies. It’s not like getting a set of encyclopedias. I mean, really.
Yeah, that is weird, I agree.
The president is caught up in a sex scandal that could ruin him if it’s proven he encouraged the young woman to lie to the grand jury or whoever it was who needed to be lied to.
God, those were the days. Now our current douchbag's polling numbers just go up an we get called a bunch of beta cucks for bringing it up.
Luke was like a parody of a stoner. I think that’s what I liked about him. I’d hate it if the person selling me pot in the middle of the day was super-articulate. That would make me feel like even more of a loser.
A homosexual’s notion of bite-sized penis is no doubt dramatically different than that of, say, an Orthodox rabbi’s.
Today I turned in my paper on social customs. In it I wrote that on the eve of an American man’s wedding, it is customary for his parents to cut off two of his fingers and bury them near the parking lot. The groom has eight hours in which to find them, and if he does, it means that the marriage will last.
“No,” I corrected her, “I’m not a misogynist, I’m a misanthrope. I hate everyone equally.”
experienced one of those moments of extreme joy, the kind that result from something small and make you grateful that you never committed suicide.
If you see devils, they lock you up, but in America, if you see angels, they put you on morning TV.
Amy and I were near her apartment, walking up Charles Street, when we passed two teenagers graffitiing a mailbox. Like everyone I’ve ever seen tagging public property, they were white and middle class. I don’t think black people even do that anymore. They just get blamed for it.
“Oh, you should never wear a bathing suit around anyone who’s still in her twenties. My last vacation was to Sanibel Island, where everyone was in their nineties. At first I thought they were all looking for shells and then I realized that they were stooped over due to osteoporosis! God, it was marvelous.”
While on my ride I was passed by numerous cyclists and none of them returned my hello. This is sort of a relief, as it means I won’t have to say it anymore.
On the way to Tübingen we passed a smokestack with the word dick written on it.
Hate to break it to you, but in Germany that just means "thick" or "fat." Not sure what it'd be doing on a smokestack though.
We sit around like people in a magazine, but it’s not the sort of magazine I’d ever subscribe to.
While Hugh and I talked with a Canadian schoolteacher, the bearded man roamed the waiting room, loudly complaining to whoever would listen. His wife sat alone, huddled in her mink, and after a while I stopped feeling sorry for her. You don’t just suddenly become an award-winning asshole. It takes years of practice, years she’d doubtlessly spent mortified in other, larger waiting rooms with pay phones and magazine racks.
We’ve gotten ourselves a mortgage broker named Marcus Paisley, a man we obviously chose for his name. Hugh spoke to him yesterday morning and we spent the rest of the day imagining future calls. “I’m starting to see a pattern here, Paisley, and I don’t like it.”
My fingertips are haunted by the feel of struggling flies. It’s like holding a living, determined raisin.
The BBC reports that terrorists are planning to halt the Christmas shopping season, most likely with some sort of bomb. They don’t know where or when, but the public is warned to be vigilant. My reaction isn’t fear so much as confusion. Don’t they know the Christmas shopping season is essentially over? The time to strike was last weekend, not this one.
