Spike (to Giles) : Oh, poor Watcher. Did your life pass before your eyes — 'Cuppa tea, cuppa tea... almost got shagged... cuppa tea'?
Rumors had their own classic epidemiology. Each started with a single germinating event. Information spread from that point, mutating and interbreeding—a conical mass of threads, expanding into the future from the apex of their common birthplace. Eventually, of course, they'd wither and die; the cone would simply dissipate at its wide end, its permutations senescent and exhausted.There were exceptions, of course. Every now and then a single thread persisted, grew thick and gnarled and unkillable: conspiracy theories and urban legends, the hooks embedded in popular songs, the comforting Easter-bunny lies of religious doctrine. These were the memes: viral concepts, infections of conscious thought. Some flared and died like mayflies. Others lasted a thousand years or more, tricked billions into the endless propagation of parasitic half-truths.
What do you want, MacGuffin, a duel?”“No.” Julian held out both hands, one palm flat, the other held over it in a fist. “Rock, paper, scissors. Two out of three.”Ty rolled his eyes and held out his fist, apparently willing to play. Julian hit his palm three times, and Ty kept time with his fist in the air. But when Julian threw a paper, Ty reached into his jacket with his other hand and pulled his gun, aiming it at Julian.“Ty!” Zane said in exasperation from the front seat.“Glock, paper, scissors. I win.”“You are an ass,” Julian muttered.
The following Discourse [on art, by Sir Joshua Reynolds] is particularly Interesting to Blockheads as it endeavours to prove that There is No such thing as Inspiration & that any Man of a plain Understanding may by Thieving from Others become a Mich Angelo.
You didn’t feed from her,” he said, and this was not a question.“Swill poison? Not my kind of fun, little brother.”One corner of Stefan’s mouth quirked up. He made no response to this, but simply looked at Damon with eyes that were... knowing. Damon bridled.“I told the truth!”“Going to take it up as a hobby?
Gabi glared. If you want to add some variety to your sex life, why don't you just use your other hand?
Flirt with the old ladies and you’ll be fine,” I muttered, shoving my stuff into the cubby. He hung his green hoodie on the hooks right beside me. “Is that how you get by?” “Doesn’t work on the old ladies for me, but the old men on the other hand?” I paused and glanced at my nails. “Yeah, doesn’t work on them either.
How many kids are in the Graveyard?A bunch.Who sends your supplies?George Washington. Or is it Abraham Lincoln? I forget.How often do you receive new arrivals?About as often as you beat your wife.
The jury’s still out on your level of intellect. After all, you signed up with Evil Incorporated in the first place.
The trouble with today's snarky pipsqueaks who break off a sentence or two, or who write a couple of mean paragraphs, is that they don't go far enough; they don't have a coherent view of life. Spinning around in the media from moment to moment, they don't stand for anything, push for anything; they're mere opportunists without dedication, and they don't win any victories.
If there’s any greater exhibit of the malleability of human nature than the sight of someone standing, absently waiting for the light to change at a deserted intersection, I don’t know what it is.
I prefer to make up my own quotes and attribute them to very smart people, so that I can use them to win arguments
How bad do you want cancer? Bad enough to eat a rainbow of it? Personally, I think the red cancer would be the worst, but anything you swallow with artificial hues in it is going to pop a tumor out of your body the day after you eat it.
Sherrie would be there, and the last time I’d seen her at a social event she burst into tears when she saw me and ran out of the room. You’re upset, I’d yelled after her, meanly.
As a gentleman- assuming you still have some pretensions in that direction- of honor- again, perhaps presumptuous, but still supposing your passing acquaintance with the concept- it is your duty- I won't even trouble to speculate here, but remain naively hopeful- to protect those under your care.
It’s like people immediately imagine me sitting in some gothic, sweeping castle in Edinburgh, a piece of fine bone china full of English tea next to my neat writing station. They think that my car, my purse, my everything was financed by my lucrative but somehow not too time consuming writing career. I’ve even had one guy ask me if my hand cramps at signings. While I wanted to give a snarky, “Yes, just like Tom Brady’s does,” I can’t pull off snarky. My sarcasm immediately goes into b**ch territory
He shakes his head and his mouth is quirked at one corner. I can't tell if he thinks I am sort of amusing or truly pathetic. It's especially hard to tell because we are both looking resolutely at the teacher so she can't accuse us of not paying attention. We talk out of the sides of our mouths, like gangsters in those old movies my dad likes to watch.
Do you know where Jason is?” she asked Dmitri when they exited the morgue. Dmitri pressed the car remote to unlock the flame red Ferrari parked in the employees-only lot. “Tired of your Bluebell already?” A tendril of champagne circled around her senses, cut with something far harder. Never had she felt that harsh edge in Dmitri’s scent. She pitied the woman he took to his bed today.“Yeah, that’s it. I’m building a harem.
Because I want to have sex with him--and because that's sinful--I'm blushing and flushing furiously under his scrutinizing scrutiny.
Ignore the reek of feces in the air, the bloodstains on the ground, and you have yourself a glorious night.
Cleverness is like rouge - liberal application makes a woman look common and desperate. Wit is knowing how to apply it.
You will never find me in trouble. You will find me in the library. If you can remember where that is.
Snark often functions as an enforcer of mediocrity and conformity. In its cozy knowingness, snark flatters you by assuming that you get the contemptuous joke. You've been admitted, or readmitted, to a club, though it may be the club of the second-rate.
True cynics kill themselves. The rest are posers, trying to use clever sarcasm and snarky remarks to hide insecurity and the fear that if they put themselves out there, they will fail.
Hello, Mrs. Tran...I have David's homework. And if you ever want to see it again, you'll pay me the two million dollars I asked for.
You’ve missed a lot of things. But mostly I think you’ve missed several opportunities to leave. Let me assist you to the door so that you won’t miss this next one.
I understand that you don’t want to marry me,” I said. “I mean, I don’t know why, since I’m simply delightful to be around. But to each his own taste.