Mrs. Zuppa was coming in from bingo just as I was leaving the building. "Looks like you're going to work," she said, leaning heavily on her cane. "What are you packin'?" "A thirty-eight." "I like a nine-millimeter myself." "A nine's good." "Easier to use a semiautomatic after you've had hip replacement and you walk with a cane," she said. One of those useful pieces of information to file away and resurrect when I turn eighty-three.

Since I can barely write two books a year the best solution seems to be co-author projects. My goal isn't to get another writer to clone me... it's more to produce a book that shares my vision of positive, fun entertainment.

Good thing he's dead," Lula said, "or that would have hurt like the devil.

[Ranger] "How's your mental health?" he asked. "I heard about Soder." [Stephanie] "I'm rattled." "I have a cure." Oh, boy. He put the truck in gear and headed for the exit. "I know what you're thinking," he said. "And that wasn't where I was going. I was going to suggest work." "I knew that." He looked over at me and grinned. "You want me bad." I did. God help me.

I attributed the incidence to temporary insanity, and in my own defense, I'd like to say I haven't run over anyone since.

I want to see your tailpipe fading off into the sunset." Good luck, I thought. My tailpipe was somewhere on Route 1, along with my muffler.

If God had wanted me to lose weight he would have made sure there was creamed spinach for dessert.