Practical Demonkeeping

If you think anyone is sane you just don't know enough about them.

I've seen more intelligence in the crotch lice of harem whores.

I can be most colorful and inventive when I am angry.

By Aladdin's lamplit scrotum, man! Everything is a story. What is there but stories? Stories are the only truth.

May the IRS find that you deduct your pet sheep as an entertainment expense.

The netherworld is timeless and unchanging, and boring -- much like a doctor's waiting room.

The prospect of change is a many-fanged beast, my dear.

Slowly and gently, Augustus Brine explained to the king of the Djinn about the illusion created by motion pictures. When he finished, he felt like he had just raped the tooth fairy in front of a class of kindergartners.

One day the good times had to keep on rolling, and all of life's horseshit would turn to circuses.

Rachel could not believe what she was hearing. Accepting that her magic worked was a huge step, yet she was speaking to the evidence. But to be offered the power to rule the world? She wasn't sure her career in exercise instruction had prepared her for this.

Everything is a story. What is there but stories? Stories are the only truth.

In business, as in politics, the public is ever so tolerant of those who slime.

In Breeze’s business one got used to running across the skeletons in people’s closets. If Billy’s skeleton wore women’s underwear, it didn’t really matter. Homosexuality on Billy Winston was like acne on a leper.

Everyone at the bar turned toward The Breeze and waited, as if the next few words he spoke would reveal the true meaning of life, the winning numbers of the lottery, and the unlisted phone number of God.

For the tourist, immersed in the oblivion of vacation spending, Cypress Street provided a bonanza of curious gifts to prove to the folks back home that they had been somewhere. Somewhere where they had obviously forgotten that soon they would return home to a mortgage, dental bills, and an American Express bill that would descend at the end of the month like a financial Angel of Death. And they bought. They bought effigies of

He had tapped into the Zen of ignorance, the enlightenment of absurdity.

The garlic bread lay there between them, steaming with implications. They, of course, must both eat it or neither could. Garlic bread meant garlic breath. There might be a kiss later, maybe more. There was just too damn much intimacy in garlic bread.

Creatures of the night were rising from their resting places and venturing forth to feed on their unsuspecting victims.

To say that Effrom was not a particularly good cook was an understatement akin to saying that genocide is not a particularly effective public relations strategy.