I’m waiting for the day when Rush Limbaugh’s pharmacist writes a book.
One problem with age is that patience begins to ebb.
The evening news made her wonder if God was dead; the morning sun made her believe He wasn’t.
From my experience, politicians are much more uncomfortable being made fun of than they are being preached at and screeched at – you know, and the soapbox routine. They’re much more uneasy knowing they’re a target of ridicule.
Everybody’s idea of a great book is different, of course. For me it’s one that makes my jaw drop on every page, the writing is so original.
As frightening as this may sound, what you see in the books is the way I see the world. And so far I haven’t seen anything, either in Florida or elsewhere, to dissuade me from it.
That’s what people do when they find a special place that wild and full of life, they trample it to death.
There’s so much hate that we direct externally that we forget we have our own psychos. But that’s the role of the satirist – you have to examine your own country and say, look!
If you write satire, the guilty pleasure these days is that there’s just so much material about. On the other hand, if you have a family it can be depressing.
Humor can be an incredible, lacerating and effective weapon.
I won’t be making any friends in the corporate suites.
I’d love to see a good script of one of my books, in these years of animations and comic book sequels, and had so many written over the years, but none quite clicked.
My father used to say that you live most of your life inside your own head, so make sure it’s a good space.
Just because something was legal didn’t automatically make it right.
He wondered if something was mentally wrong with him for being content with what he had.
Her given name was Lucinda but she’d called herself Juveline since age fifteen, when she’d been caught selling knockoff Burberry totes and a cop at the booking desk misspelled the word “juvenile.” Big.
My roommate is a 240-pound homicidal hermit. For dinner he’s fixing me a dead fox he scraped off the highway near Ponchatoula, and after that we’re taking a leaky tin boat out on a windy lake to spy on some semi-retarded fishermen. Don’t you wish you were here?
So for a while, they sat peacefully in the swamp, listening to Mrs. Starch hum while the little panther slurped happily and the emerald leaves overhead shimmered and shook in the sunlight.
Still the congenitally clueless – tourists and locals alike – continue to flop into the Gulf and mess with these phenomenal creatures, dooming them to a future of begging, sloth, and worse. A dolphin that swims close enough to take a treat from your fingers is also close enough to be stabbed by a scumbag with a screwdriver.
Not my circus, not my monkey.” Yancy.