“A.A. Greg argues, 'To print banquet for banket, fathom for fadom, lantern for lanthorn, murder for murther, mushroom for mushrump, orphan for orphant, perfect for parfit, portcullis for perculace, wreck for wrack, and so on, and so on, is sheer perversion.' Greg is considered by most scholars to be a majer dikhed.”

“I call masturbating “Gregging,” named not after a man named Greg, but a guy named Dave.”

“It’s like my grandpa always used to say, ‘A butter knife would make a deadlier weapon than a melting stick of butter.’”
“Your grandpa never said that.”
“No, but he should have. He was a damn fool not to have uttered those words.”
“My grandpa was a janitor, in the Great Depression. The greatest thing he ever said was, ‘Greg, I just Gregged all over your floor. Do you have a mop I can use to clean it up?’”
“Who’s Greg?”
“I don’t know.”
“What the shit kind of story is that? That story is bullshit. Greg doesn’t exist. Nobody knows nobody named Greg. It’s a unicorn name—it’s complete mythology.”
“What about Lou Greg, the baseball player?”
“Lou who? Lou Gehrig?”
“Here’s a Lou for you. Greg Louganis.”
“Bah, Greg Louganis doesn’t exist. He was a myth created by the Soviets to push their divers to perfection. The Russians realized they couldn’t be the best until they deceived their divers into believing there was someone who was always better.”
“I’ve seen Greg Louganis, and he’s as real as you or me.”
“You’ve seen what they wanted you to see. They gave you a blindfold to wear and convinced you it would improve your eyesight.”
”

“This is reality, Greg.-Elliot from E.T.”

“Dude you gota get over here Greg sounded more than a little freaked out but since Greg freaks out when he burns a Pop-Tart it didn't give me much to go on.”

“But then his parents changed. A year of California had changed them. They stopped sending money. Greg was forced to go out into the world, to interact with real people. And he was glad of this. He had always wanted to be a normal person. To be at ease in society. He had just been too scared to try. But now he was forced to, and so he did–he went and got a job at the public library. He was not quite a librarian, but close. Greg was a shelver. There would be carts of books to shelve, then there would be no more carts of books to shelve, then there would be carts of books to shelve.As a shelver, Greg felt that life was passing him by in a slow and distant, but massive, way–like the moon.”