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. . . And so Charlie Asher . . . led an army of fourteen-inch-tall bundles of animal bits, armed with everything from knitting needles to a spork, into the storm sewers of San Fransciso.

Christopher Moore

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Christopher Moore
Age: 68
Born: 1957
Born: January 1
Actor
Assistant Director
Journalist
Novelist
Radio Dj
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
Toledo
Ohio
Bits
Inch
Animal
Fourteen
Everything
Charlie
Armed
Asher
Inches
Sewers
Tall
Bundles
Storm
Knitting
Army
Needles

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Love needs room to grow. Like a rose. Or a tumor.
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Like God's own chocolate, I'd lick her shadow off a hot sidewalk
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So Now You're Death: Here's What You'll Need
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Pondering is a little like considering and a little like thinking, but looser. To ponder, one must let the facts roll around the rim of the mind's roulette wheel, coming to settle in whichever slot they feed pulled to.
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Life is loneliness, broken only by the gods taunting us with friendship and the odd bonk
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Lonliness evaporated off of them like the steam off dry ice, and by morning it was just a cloud on the ceiling of the room, then gone with the light.
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What is your name? asked Lear. Caius, said Kent. And whence do you hail? From Bonking, sire. Well, yes, lad, as do we all, said Lear, but from what town?
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Marry for love, stay married, and raise happy children who are quick to laugh and slow to judge.
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The fact that 'A Dirty Job' has comedy and supernatural horror in it, that both are woven in and out of it with a whimsical tone, despite the fact that it's about death, makes it hard to characterize with standard genre labels - but I have no problem with that. I'd call it a funny story about death, and leave it at that.
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We know there's going to be nothing but pain, but we go back again and again.
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Routine feeds the illusion of safety.
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If they'd been dogs, they would have all been in the yard eating grass and trying to yak up whatever was making them feel so lousy. Not a bone gnawed, not a ball chased-all tails went unwagged. Oh, life is a fast cat, a short leash, a flea in that place where you just can't scratch.
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He wanted her to experience all the glorious cheese of life.
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She knew it should bother her more, being evil and all, but after she put on a little mascara and some lipstick and poured herself another cup of blood-laced coffee, she found that she was okay with it.
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I've won Satan's lottery.
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It's like time travel only, you know, slower.
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And an inky-colored despair of rejection enveloped me like the black tortilla of depression around a pain burrito.
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Chapter 8, Dinner With the Vampire: Is there something wrong with your food? No, I'm just not very hungry. You're going to break my heart, aren't you?
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Don't be ridiculous, Charlie, people love the parents who beat their kids in department stores. It's the ones who just let their kids wreak havoc that everybody hates.
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