Blessed are the meek, for to them we shall say "attaboy".

The medium obscured the message.

Blessed are the dumbfucks.

Oh, we are but soft and squishy bags of mortality rolling in a bin of sharp circumstance, leaking life until we collapse, flaccid, into our own despair.

Charlie had Sophie strapped to his chest like a terrorist baby bomb when he came down the back steps. She had just gotten to the point where she could hold up her head, so he had strapped her in face-out so she could look around. The way her arms and legs waved around as Charlie walked, she looked as if she was skydiving and using a skinny nerd as a parachute.

It's Christmas! Ah, Christmas, the time when all good people go about not decapitating each other.

You don't hurry a thinker, and you don't talk to him when he's thinking. It's just inconsiderate.