“I was crying on the inside, but on the outside, to the casual observer, and to the man who was dying, I was laughing. That man was my father, and I haven’t laughed that hard since his funeral. Ah, but that’s life, no?”

“I remember I laughed so hard I cried. But my response was half appropriate, because I was at a funeral.”

“When I told her my love would stop her tears from falling, she started laughing. She laughed so hard she started crying. Damn. Double damn!”

“He’s only two years younger, but that doesn’t mean I’m not old enough to be his father. I grew up fast. Ah, but that’s life, no?”

“In my life I haven’t done anything worth writing about, but that’s OK. That’s why I write fiction.”

“He doesn’t have sex with sheep—he sleeps with scapegoats. He is my father, and I haven’t seen him since before I was born.”

“I am one pair of roses away from the grave,” I told the midget with the twelve-inch erection. It wasn’t his—he was just holding it for a friend (that impressive penis belonged to a much taller man). Ah, but that’s life, no?”