If This Book Exists, You're in the Wrong Universe (John Dies at the End, #4)

by Jason Pargin

If you think about it, anxiety is also a kind of parasite.

Dude...yeah.

Sometimes when life’s Warning Light won’t stop flashing, the best thing you can do is just put some electrician’s tape over

“No. No. You didn’t say ‘crazy.’ Tell me what you said.” “Oh yeah, I said it was da filthy. It’s what people say now, like when a party gets out of control and stuff gets broken, the kids are like, ‘Man, that shindig was hella da filthy, hog-swingers.’” “Pull over. Let me out of the fucking van.” “What?” “No one has ever said that phrase in the history of language, and they’re not going to start.”

I love them so much.

“Regina, I’m John. This is Dave. So I understand your daughter is worshipping a little too much Satan?”

I confess, I was secretly hoping for a different conversation this time, but I suppose when your adversary is the intellectual equivalent of a hot dog stand, you cannot show up expecting foie gras.

Getting old already feels like several of your body parts are haunted.

Without looking up from her phone, she said, “Oh, do you want some of that German chocolate cake I brought home? Or do you just eat clown food?”

Joy is everything.

It’s like if we had a chance to go back and kill baby Hitler. All philosophers agree that, in that situation, you’d yank that infant from his mother’s breast and three-sixty dunk that shit straight into a wood chipper.”