“Shit," he said. "I don't know why you're feeling sorry for yourself because you ain't had to fight a war. You're lucky. Shit, all you had was that damn Desert Storm. Should have called it Dessert Storm because it just made the fat cats get fatter. It was all sugar and whipped cream with a cherry on top. And besides that, you didn't even have to fight in it. All you lost during that was was sleep because you stayed up all night watching CNN.”

“The Greatest Generation gets too much credit. Those World War II guys, if they had all the shit we have today, they'd be assholes too. It's just circumstantial. It's what you're called on to do that makes you great. We haven't been called on to do anything but buy shit and get fat.”

“Have you ever seen such an ugly damn cat?” Beckett had said with a wry smile. “Aren’t kittens supposed to be all cute and shit?” He liked this kid.”

“Sorry, but retirement offends me. You don’t just stop fighting in the middle of a war because your legs hurt. So why do you get to stop working in the middle of your life just because your prostate hurts? That’s desertion.”

“Once you get into it, it's all you can think about. Look, I know you don't trust my judgment because I eat cat shit. Someday I'll explain that to you. But right now do what I say. Just pick up the ball and throw it.”

“Oh...I remember you...You're that weird cat-eared cosplay-kid!You called me a cospl...How'd you get all the way up to the third-floor window...Because I'm a cat.”