It's the Government's job to print the money, deliver the mail and declare war. Now give me my cigarettes.

Nothing is more likely to start me screaming like a madwoman than New York in February with its piles of blackened snow full of yellow holes drilled by dogs.

God may have loved the common people, but a trip to any shopping mall suggests that He made far too many of them.

Thank God I'm over the hill. The only heat I have left comes from hot flashes, my promiscuity is confined to the words "one size fits all," and I buy my white cotton unmentionables at Boadicea's Retreat, not Victoria's Secret. None of the things men do to women could possibly happen to me now unless the U.S. is invaded by one of those new Russian republics whose soldiers aren't fussy.

Showing up at school already able to read is like showing up at the undertaker's already embalmed: people start worrying about being put out of their jobs.

It's the Government's job to print the money, deliver the mail and declare war. Now give me my cigarettes.

Insecurity breeds treachery: if you are kind to people who hate themselves, they will hate you as well.