Christopher Moore Quotes - Page 2

Mr. Asher, you can resist who you are for only so long. Finally, you just decide to go with fate.

... but to remain historically accurate, I would have had to leave out an important question that I felt needed to be addressed, which is, 'What if Jesus had known kung fu?

And I was all, "Don't be gross, you crustacious fuck. You pull that thing out and I'll pepper-spray you until you fry." (You have to be stern with weenie waggers-I've been exposed to on the bus over seventeen times, so I know.)

Abby Von Normal - And I'm like, "Don't change the subject, Kung Pao, what I want to know is if you're ready to spend some up-close and personal time with ninety pounds of barbarian woman-flesh! Sorry, I don't know how much that is in kilos.

As a teacher of fourth-graders in a public school, where corporal punishement was not allowed, she had years of violence stored up and was, truth be told, sort of enjoying letting it out on Kona, who she felt could have been the poster child for the failure of public education.

Science, you don't know, looks like magic.

All killer whales are named Kevin. You knew that, right?

Stephenie Meyer: Her vampires are sparkly, which I think we can all agree is wrong.

The angel has confided in me that he is going to ask the Lord if he can become Spider-Man. [...] The children need heroes, he says. I think he just wants to swing from buildings in tight red jammies.

Blessed are the meek, for to them we shall say "attaboy".

...and thus he found his single source of joy in the society of other people: frightening the girls with his penis.

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

Nobody's perfect. Well, there was this one guy, but we killed him....

...as if someone had thrown a hand grenade into the middle of a teddy bear orgy and the only survivors had had their fur blown off.

I'm feeling full of tiny princes, bustling to get out into the world and start plotting against one another.

So I am death" Charlie said then turned to his daughter while buttering his toast.

"This is death toast sweety.

The Painting is not shit,' said Lucien.

'I know,' said Henri. 'That was just part of the subterfuge. I am of royal lineage; subterfuge is one of the many talents we carry in our blood, along with guile and hemophilia.

'Paint only what you see,' his hero Millet had admonished.
'Imagination is a burden to a painter,' Auguste Renoir had told him. 'Painters are craftsmen, not storytellers. Paint what you see.'
Ah, but what they hadn't said, hadn't warned him about, was how much you could see.

Of course they won't bloody remember, they'll be dead.' Then she called him a name in a dead language that translated, roughly, to 'poop on a stick,' but sounded more succinct, like this: 'Of course they won't bloody remember, they'll be dead, Poopstick.

I love you, Lucien, but I am a muse, you are an artist, I am not here to make you comfortable.