Faced with an exciting question, science tended to provide the dullest possible answer. Ions might charge the air but they fell flat when it came to charging the imagination - my imagination, anyway.

Sometimes people say, do you want a drink? And I say, oh, I'd like to, but I'm a tragic alcoholic. I always say tragic. I'm a tragic alcoholic.

I was just struggling with my inner vachette and pondering the depths of my own inhumanity.

I'd always thought that I understood this, but lately I realize that what I call "understanding" is basically just fantasizing.

Snowball just leads elves on, elves and Santas. He is playing a dangerous game.

I find it ridiculous to assign a gender to an inanimate object incapable of disrobing and making an occasional fool of itself.

I've been keeping a diary for thirty-three years and write in it every morning. Most of it's just whining, but every so often there'll be something I can use later: a joke, a description, a quote. It's an invaluable aid when it comes to winning arguments. 'That's not what you said on February 3, 1996,' I'll say to someone.