“lol” on internet comment streams actually says: “No, I did not laugh out loud.” No one laughs today—unless they are inebriated.
Christopher Allyn, Militant Vulgarity.
“Well, of course, we’re stuck with names, aren’t we? I mean not just our own particular names, but names in general.”
Everson Dwight, Being and Murder.
“Since the table leg is made of steel, there is no way it can harm my foot.” That’s the very sort of logic Charlie applied. Day after day.
Anselm Bligh, A Collection of Miniatures.
We forget how funny photographs are. Inherently funny.
Trent Musgrave, The Mystery of Sleep.
Rounders. Actors. Jugglers. In the 17th century, they were still recognized as no-goods. Like jades.
Roone Giddings, Dirty Old Coins.
“I do know something, Jayne. But I can’t remember what it is. Give me a couple of days, will you?”
Brock Keefle, Truthful Tom.
“Actually, Sam, the fish are screaming. As they drift in the flood.”
Nicholas Crisp, A Suitcase Fell on Her Head.
“How may we help you, sir?” That is the internet. That is the internet’s attitude toward me, the person.
Roger Hedgecook, Stolen and Sold for Parts.
“How can you be certain, Eleanor? After all, you’re suffering from amnesia. Remember?”
Chris Marlowe, The Phoenix Park Murders.
“I have never been ashamed,” she insisted.
“And why is that?” demanded Tom.
Diana Moone, Living Well.
dennis scharnberg 