Most of those who spend their lives as critics secretly wish they'd be considered important enough for someone to bother criticizing them.

I didn't see much besides Melbourne and a quick trip down to the Twelve Apostles, but all the Aussies I encountered were good-spirited and had a fine sense of humor.

People huddle together in doctrinaire herds, and the same jackasses who, without the slightest risk, now scream against racism are the same conformist personality types who would have carried torches in lynch mobs a century ago.

Many of the racial problems in America are caused by the fact that people are innately tribal, and politicians know how to exploit that biological fact.

I never want to think or write about the topic again when I'm finished with it.

You truly need to witness me goo-gooing and coo-cooing and making up goofy little songs to glean a full appreciation of how nauseating I can be. This is another instance where things seemingly don't add up - how can this vile, hateful, violent, misogynist, racist, loathsome, repugnant, worthless, reprehensible subhuman be so insanely tender and kind to little doggies and kitty-cats?

A lot of people expend great time and effort explaining why they don't like me, but none of them ever try to explain why their opinion should matter to me. I think most of them sense, but would never be brave enough to admit, their subordinate role in the food chain relative to me.