I've Won Satan's Lottery.

And I'll Have You Know That If You Hurt My Son Again, If He So Much As Sighs Sadly Over His Coffee, I Will Hire A Man, A Russian, Probably, To Hunt You Down And Rip All That Shiny Black Hair From Your Head, Then Break Your Skinny Arms And Legs, And Set You On Fire, And Then Put You Out With A Hammer. And Should There Be Children From Your Beastly Rutting, I Shall Have The Russian Man Cut Them To Tiny Pieces And Feed Them To Madame Jacob's Dog. Because, Although He May Be Only A Worthless, Simpleminded, Libertine Artist, Lucien Is My Favorite, And I Will Not Have Him Hurt. Do You Understand?

One Can't Be Free Without Action.

You Were Supposed To Empathize With Your Friend's Problem, But They Were, After All, Your Friend's Problems.

[in Reference To Turkey Bowling] He [tommy] Squinted And Picked His Target, Then Took His Steps And Sent The Bird Sliding Down The Aisle. A Collective Gasp Rose From The Crew As The Fourteen-pound, Self-basting, Fresh-frozen Projectile Of Wholesome Savory Goodness Plowed Into The Soap Bottles Like A Freight Train Into A Chorus Line Of Drunken Grandmothers.

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.