What a bawdy bitch is fate when the best bit of a bloke's day is a brace of bloody mermaid murders.
What if he isn’t really the last of his kind, but the first of ours?
What is character, if not a man's measure of himself against his friends and enemies?
When your best friend is the son of God, you get tired of losing every argument.
Which goes to show you, right there, the difference between sailors and marines: marines are fucking stupid. Running when you don’t have to.
Which isn’t, like, as bad as it sounds, because the general public kind of sucks ass.
You think too much. Thinking will bring you nothing but suffering. Be simple.
You were supposed to empathize with your friend's problem, but they were, after all, your friend's problems...
Your puny worm god weapons are useless against my superior Christmas Kung Fu.
A chamomile chaser to Jane’s vodka and sarcasm shooter.
Antes de que el capitán empezara a contarle que había jodido en un jardín, con un delfín, en un cajón, con un ratón…
Entiendo que te sientas obligado a defender tus pecados favoritos,
Thou treacherous coal-souled wank-weasel!
Thou wretched pillar of syphilitic pheasant-fuck!
«Los héroes conservadores no existen».
Se decía: un trasero bien formado en el espacio no es más que un trasero bien formado, pero si le pones un trasero bien formado a una mujer tan ingeniosa como ella y le aplicas un poco de turbación lo...
At eighteen months, Sophie moved like a small drunk most of the time.)
Ah, já entendi - disse eu. - É uma parábola. Que giro. Vamos comer.
. . 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.
Heinous Fuckery, most foul!
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