Fancy Pants

If you want me, you'll have to earn me. And, mister, I don't come cheap.

Dallas, is it remotely possible for you to carry on a conversation that's not loaded down with manure?

As far as I'm concerned, men like you were put on this world to entertain women like me.

At some point people either had to throw off the wounds of their childhood or go through life permanently crippled

You remind me of someone with a bad toothache who's hitting herself in the head with a hammer to distract herself from the pain in her mouth.

Take it off first, soldier." He looked at her suspiciously. "Take what off?" "Your clothes. Entertain the troops." "My clothes?" He frowned. "I was sort of thinking you might want to do that for me." She shook her head and leaned back on one elbow, giving him her witchiest, bitchiest smile. "Strip." "Now, listen here, Francie--" Lifting a languid hand, she once again pointed toward the center of the room. "Do it real slow, good-looking," she purred. "I want to enjoy every minute.

Damn. It looks to me like I just missed the best reunion since Sherman got together with Atlanta.

Damn, I love you," Dallie murmured. "My sweet little Fancy Pants, driving me half crazy, nagging me to death." He kissed her again, long and slow. "You're almost the best thing that ever happened to me." "Almost?" she murmured against his lips. "What's the best?" "Being born good-looking." And then he kissed her again.

Old radicals never changed. They just got law degrees and updated their bag of tricks.

And no matter what anybody says, I don't believe all this trouble started when women got the vote. As far as I'm concerned, it goddamn well got started when you taught each other how to read.

Does all your underwear look like it belongs in a high-class strip show?

This is a perfect example of how entirely out of hand the women in this country have gotten. You act like men aren't anything more than extraneous amusements, little toys to keep you entertained.

As she gazed into those cool blue eyes, something strange happened in the vicinity of her middle. She suddenly felt like a hungry woman who had just been presented with a tempting dessert. Her moment of sensory weakness embarrassed her, and she frowned. "Damn, you're pretty," Dallie said softly. "Not half as pretty as you," she snapped, determined to squash whatever strangeness was lurking in the air between them.

You got your designer blue jeans, your designer shoes, your designer luggage. Now Miss Fancy Pants got her some designer pussy.

And wasn't that a great moment in baseball history," Holly Grace replied with withering sarcasm. "Helen Keller pitching and Little Stevie Wonder catching.

In Dallie's mind that was one of the world's stupidest questions, right up there with: was it as good for you as it was for me?