You planning top kill me with a Wiffle bat?" [Carson asked] "Yeah." "Why?" he asked. The bat was shaking in my tight grip. "Because I don't have my Minnie Mouse pillow.

I shoved him off the snowmobile. He landed on his back in the snow. "Love is a brat, you think? No, love id fine. You are the brat, you spoiled, rotten brat!

I have standards. Well, okay, they're love standards, but I have them.

You planning top kill me with a Wiffle bat?" [Carson asked] "Yeah." "Why?" he asked. The bat was shaking in my tight grip. "Because I don't have my Minnie Mouse pillow.

I smashed his hand as hard as I could with the Wiffle bat. "Ow!" he screamed. Carson was rubbing his red palm, inspecting it for damage. "That hurt," he shrieked. "You really hurt me." "Right back at you," I said. "Good-bye Carson." He frowned, massaging his hand, the big baby. "I just wanted to end this nicely." "Yeah?" I cocked the bat up to hit him again. "Well, this time you don't get what you want.

I keep looking for ultimate answers, but maybe there aren't any or maybe I'm not looking in the right places, because in the section marked ANSWERS in the back of my geometry book, there's only a bunch of numbers, and all I can find to stare at in the refrigerator is five carrots and a jar of no-fat mayonnaise.

Great point made in son's college orientation re sex/safety/respect/etc: 'Consent is really too low a bar. Hold out for enthusiasm.'