“His eyes are peculiar. There is nothing in them, like an eclair without the cream filling. It's wrong, lack of cream.”
“Christianity without mission is like ice cream without frozenness.”
“For whipping cream, of course. How can you whip cream without whips?”
“Jumpin’ Jehosafats, I think I just creamed my pants,” Annette whispered, staring at Luke. Luke’s eyes locked on me. He lifted his hand and crooked his finger. “I was wrong about before. Now, I’ve definitely creamed my pants,” Annette breathed.”
“An urn? What's wrong with, like, a big margarine container? Or an ice-cream pail? We're just going to scatter the ashes, right? It's not like we're going to put them on the mantelpiece or set up a shrine.”
“There's something to be said that if everyone likes something there's gotta be something fucking wrong with it on some level. Unless it's ice cream.”