I can’t squeeze to keep the breezers in.
I can’t help it. I’m just a big gasbag. I still got leftover barbeque gas.” She squeezed her eyes shut tight and did a full minute-long far. “Excuse me,” she said.
I heard about them Rangers on TV,” Grandma said. “I heard they get dogs pregnant.” -Grandma Mazur.
His can of pepper spray was bigger than my can of pepper spray.
My big move was to get out of my underpants without snagging my foot and falling on my face.
I could help you,” I said. “Counseling, drugs, a religious advisor, a girlfriend.
I liked you better when you had vordo.” “You’re not suggesting we do it in this tiny closet with two men watching television in the next room, are you?” “It’d be limiting,” Ranger said, “but at least you wouldn’t have your ass on the horn.
Working at Rangeman is a high-stress job, and you’re one of our few sources of comic relief. I give you a car and my men start a pool on how long it will take you to trash it. You’re a line item in my budget under entertainment.
Ranger slung an arm around my shoulders and kissed me on the top of my head. “Someday I need to talk to you about car care.” “I know about car care. I kept a case of motor oil in the back.” “That’s my girl.
Ranger was not husband material. He was a heart-stopping handsome Latino, dark-skinned and dark-eyed. He was strong inside and out, an enigma who kept his life scars pretty much hidden.
I had a long history of calamitous mishaps.
Babe, you’ve destroyed a car, burned down two buildings, stapled a guy’s nuts, and you have sixteen stitches in your leg. Take a night off. Have a glass of wine, watch some television, and go to bed early.
I mostly eat peanut butter sandwiches. Peanut butter and banana, peanut butter and jelly, peanut butter and potato chips, peanut butter and olives, and peanut butter and marshmallow goo. So sue me, I like peanut butter.
I write to entertain. When people read one of my books I want them to finish with a smile on their faces, feeling a little bit better about themselves and the people in their lives.
Only men you can count on these days are Ben and Jerry.
Personally, I’m a lazy kind of guy, and leaving the door open on the mystical saves me work. I don’t have to stress my brain trying to explain the unexplainable. It’s magic. End of discussion.
I’m so busy writing and editing two books a year that I don’t have time for painting anymore.
If anything happened to you, I’d be so destroyed they’d have to strap me to a bed and feed me through a tube. After five or six years, I might be capable of taking care of Rex. In the interim, you should assign a guardian.
My mother drove back to the intersection. “Who are you dating?” “Don’t ask,” I said. I wasn’t dating anyone. I was fornicating with Batman.
I really wouldn’t classify the books as mysteries. I prefer to say that they’re adventures.