“We are not going to die."
Butters stared up at me, pale, his eyes terrified. "We're not?"
No. And do you know why?" He shook his head. "Because Thomas is too pretty to die. And because I'm too stubborn to die." I hauled on the shirt even harder. "And most of all because tomorrow is Oktoberfest, Butters, and polka will never die.
7 comments:
Ricpic in his new silk shirt?
If a skill could be gained by watching, ever dog would become a Butcher.
“It is not from the benevolence of the butcher, the brewer, or the baker that we expect our dinner, but from their regard to their own interest.”
Who wrote that?
Adam Smith is so over.
Here's the version scheduled for the King Barack Version, to be released as part of the celebrations marking the repeal of the 22nd amendment:
It is not from the benevolence of the butcher, the brewer, or the baker that we expect our dinner, for they could not create those businesses by themselves. We expect our dinner from the benevolence of President Barack Hussein Obama (mmm--mmm-mmm!) through his agency, the Consumer Gastronomical Protection Board.
“Beware the Jabberwock, my son,” he said. He took a sip of his coffee and regarded the motion in the trees without fear. “You know what it is. You know what it wants.
This one too:
“It gets sort of Zen after a while,” Butters said brightly. “Life is a journey. Time is a river. The door is a jar.”
The beat goes on. Sometimes a chert is more than a chert.
I know it's not, but it sounds like it could be from Adam Rex's "Fat Vampire".
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