Brownie Points Quotes

Each time a person passes by you and you say 'hello', imagine that person turning into a candle. The more positivity, love and light you reflect, the more light is mirrored your way. Sharing beautiful hellos is the quickest way to earn spiritual brownie points. You should start seeing hellos as small declarations of faith. Every time you say hello to a stranger, your heart acknowledges over and over again that we are all family.

Incredible,” Jason said. “These are really good brownies.” “That’s your only comment?” Piper demanded. He looked surprised. “What? I heard the story. Fish-centaurs. Merpeople. Letter of intro to the Tiber River god. Got it. But these brownies—” “I know,” Frank said, his mouth full. “Try them with Esther’s peach preserves.” “That,” Hazel said, “is incredibly disgusting.” “Pass me the jar, man,” Jason said. Hazel and Piper exchanged a look of total exasperation. Boys. Percy, for his part, wanted to hear every detail about the aquatic camp. He kept coming back to one point: “They didn’t want to meet me?” “It wasn’t that,” Hazel said. “Just…undersea politics, I guess. The merpeople are territorial. The good news is they’re taking care of that aquarium in Atlanta. And they’ll help protect the Argo II as we cross the Atlantic.” Percy nodded absently. “But they didn’t want to meet me?” Annabeth swatted his arm. “Come on, Seaweed Brain! We’ve got other things to worry about.

What's the point of having a book club if you don't get to eat brownies and drink wine?

Then you'd better listen, because me sounding like Bronte is one of the signs of the apocalypse-and if the end fo the world is coming, good deeds could earn you Judgment day brownie points.

Bharat as a civilisation was a reality, and reducing that reality and near-unbroken lived experience to a mere talking point to score brownie points over one another was more a proof of expediency than real conviction in the values the Indic civilisation stood for.

Our huffing and puffing to impress God, our scrambling for brownie points, our thrashing about trying to fix ourselves while hiding our pettiness and wallowing in guilt are nauseating to God and are a flat denial of the gospel of grace. Our approach to the Christian life is as absurd as the enthusiastic young man who had just received his plumber’s license and was taken to see Niagara Falls. He studied it for a minute and then said, “I think I can fix this.”2

Even the constantly reiterated insistence that we are miserable offenders, born in sin, is a kind of inverted arrogance: such vanity, to presume that our moral conduct has some sort of cosmic significance, as though the Creator of the Universe wouldn’t have better things to do than tot up our black marks and our brownie points.

Guilt is always preferable to the thing that might give you brownie points for being a good person but ruin your mental health. Choose guilt over resentment, because guilt is a natural part of life, a thing we can work with and absolve ourselves of, while resentment is something that we heap on other people who weren’t asking for it anyway.

It would be nice to see people earn brownie points for acknowledging uncertainty in their beliefs, questioning the dogmas of their political sect, and changing their minds when the facts change, rather than for being steadfast warriors for the dogmas of their clique.

That he didn’t demand to know why she was so upset and stupid won the guy so many brownie points, he could have led every Girl Scout troop in the contiguous forty-eight states.

Guilt is always preferable to the thing that might give you brownie points for being a good person but ruin your mental health.

I had a moment to visualize Larry out in the dark all alone, unarmed except for his cross. The thought made my skin cold. I opened my mouth to yell at him and closed it. Never dress anyone down in public unless it's an object lesson. I said, "Any tracks?" I gave myself a dozen brownie points for yelling. "Do I look like Tonto? Beside the ground is just grass and it's been so dry lately. I don't think there'd be any tracks.

You can call me Remy, but, when I get your thighs around my neck, feel free to call me God. It totally pisses Lucifer’s brother off, which means brownie points for me.

Breastfeeding doesn’t give you brownie points. It’s simply the normal way to raise a baby.

the older man put one hand on Joe’s shoulder, his expression serious as he focused his attention on Joe. “Son, a good woman is hard to find and a priceless treasure. Never forget God’s gift to you or His grace, and always turn to Him in times of hardship. Be her friend, her biggest fan and supporter, and always, always take out the trash, and if you want brownie points, offer to do the dishes.

The Christian Miracle’s chief disclosure is this: the Creator of the universe is not at war with us. Neither is his favor for sale; no number of brownie points can possibly buy it. God loves us freely and unconditionally.

If I’d known how many brownie points this daddy stuff could win me, I’d have talked you into kids years ago. Would have saved me a lot of trouble.” “It would have.” “Problem is, they’re going to grow up.” He paused. “We may need to have more.” “We may.

Tall, way taller than her five foot five frame, his body bulged with muscles covered in tanned skin. He possessed layered down brown hair with gold highlights, vivid turquoise eyes and chiseled features, including a strong straight nose--surprising because with a taunting mouth like his she expected he'd gotten it broken more than once in his life--a square chin, and wickedly full lips that now quirked into a grin. -"Enjoying the view?" he taunted. -"Deciding what part to carve off your body first," she replied."Do you have a name by the way? Or should I just refer to you as 'that asshole'?" -"You can call me Remy, but when I get your thighs around my neck, feel free to call me God. It totally pisses Lucifer's brother off, which means brownie points for me.

What did he say?” “That he wished he had.” I sigh. “That I needed to be shaken out of my life.” She nods. The horn of a ferry punches the lingering quiet between us. “Well, you know how I feel about agreeing with white guys with trust funds, but . . . I might have to give him a brownie point here.

Under the mellowing influence of good food and good music, Adam relaxed, and I discovered that underneath that overbearing, hot-tempered Alpha disguise he usually wore was a charming, over-bearing, hot-tempered man. He seemed to enjoy finding out that I was as stubborn and disrespectful of authority as he’d always suspected. He ordered dessert without consulting me. I’d have been angrier, but it was something I could never have ordered for myself: chocolate, caramel, nuts, ice cream, real whipped cream, and cake so rich it might as well have been a brownie. “So,” he said, as I finished the last bit, “I’m forgiven?” “You are arrogant and overstep your bounds,” I told him, pointing my clean fork at him. “I try,” he said with false modesty. Then his eyes darkened and he reached across the table and ran his thumb over my bottom lip. He watched me as he licked the caramel from his skin. I thumped my hands down on the table and leaned forward. “That is not fair. I’ll eat your dessert and like it—but you can’t use sex to keep me from getting mad.” He laughed, one of those soft laughs that start in the belly and rise up through the chest: a relaxed, happy sort of laugh. To change the subject, because matters were heating up faster than I was comfortable with, I said, “So Bran tells me that he ordered you to keep an eye out for me.” He stopped laughing and raised both eyebrows. “Yes. Now ask me if I was watching you for Bran.” It was a trick question. I could see the amusement in his eyes. I hesitated, but decided I wanted to know anyway. “Okay, I’ll bite. Were you watching me for Bran?” “Honey,” he drawled, pulling on his Southern roots. “When a wolf watches a lamb, he’s not thinking of the lamb’s mommy.” I grinned. I couldn’t help it. The idea of Bran as a lamb’s mommy was too funny. “I’m not much of a lamb,” I said. He just smiled.

The war is not over, however. Even organisations like Wikipedia succumbed to the authoritarian twitch, appointing editors with special privileges who could impose their own prejudices upon certain topics. The motive was understandable – to stop entries being taken over by obsessive nutters with weird views. But of course what happened, just as in the French and Russian revolutions, was that the nutters got on the committee. The way to become an editor was simply to edit lots of pages, and thereby gain brownie points. Some of the editors turned into ruthlessly partisan dogmatists, and the value of a crowd-sourced encyclopedia was gradually damaged. As one commentator puts it, Wikipedia is ‘run by cliquish, censorious editors and open to pranks and vandalism’. It is still a great first port of call on any uncontroversial topic, but I find Wikipedia cannot be trusted on many subjects.

Pete walks in front of me, and I reach out and shove his hip. He looks down at me. “Are you guys talking about my ass?” he asks. He looks down at his butt, making a big deal of it. “I mean, damn, I know it’s pretty, but still.” I place my shoe on his butt and kick him to the side. He walks over and hides behind Reagan. “Look what he did, princess,” he says. “He kicked me.” He wraps his arms around her and says, “Go kick his ass for me, will you?” He shoves her in my direction. Everyone knows that Reagan is a martial arts expert and she’s flipped me over her shoulder more than once in practice situations. I hold up my hands in surrender. “Please don’t,” I say. “I had cancer,” I remind the crowd. I still get brownie points. Reagan laughs. “You can’t pull the cancer card anymore,” she says. “Two years with a clean bill of health.” She holds up two fingers. “Remember, we had a party to celebrate?

All leaders were equal at the conference table, but those from heavyweight countries showed that they were more equal by arriving in big private jets, the British in their VC 10s and Comets, and the Canadians in Boeings. The Australians joined this select group in 1979, after Malcolm Fraser's government purchased a Boeing 707 for the Royal Australian Air Force. Those African presidents whose countries were then better off, like Kenya and Nigeria, also had special aircraft. I wondered why they did not set out to impress the world that they were poor and in dire need of assistance. Our permanent representative at the UN in New York explained that the poorer the country, the bigger the Cadillacs they hired for their leaders. So I made a virtue of arriving by ordinary commercial aircraft, and thus helped preserve Singapore's third World status for many years. However, by the mid-1990s, the World Bank refused to heed our pleas not to reclassify us as a "High Income Developing Country", giving no Brownie points for my frugal travel habits. We lost all the concessions that were given to developing countries.

Don’t cry Meg. It’s not that bad.” “It’s not that bad? Ha! I’m thirty years old, with two black eyes, a swollen nose, a big, honking, yellow knot on my forehead, and the haircut from hell. As if that isn’t enough, I had a transvestite in my bed this morning, my husband is a lying, cheating, cradle robbing, bastard, who at some point slept with my best friend.” Jack scooted over to the middle of the seat, and stopped listening to his head and wrapped his arms around her. Big mistake! From inside, four faces were pressed to the window. “My last orgasm-with a partner- was…hell I can’t remember when! I frequently knock myself out for entertainment purposes, I have little boobs, big feet, squishy panties, nosy neighbors and demon possessed fish. God hates me!” Jack held her tighter. “I have frequent flyer miles at the hospital. I fed my husband marijuana Ex-lax brownies and shoved a marble up his butt.” Jack pulled away to look at her and she was serious. And crying. Big, sad, alligator tears that made his heart swell. “My mother is a holy rolling, Catholic Dr. Ruth, complete with condoms and Rosary beads. I write about relationships and sex, both of which I suck at and I hired a Private Investigator to pimp me out.” Jack burst out laughing and she pushed him away and swatted his shoulder. “And now you’re laughing at me. Could things get any worse?

Fire Fighting Although helping users with their various problems is rarely included in a system administrator’s job description, it claims a significant portion of most administrators’ workdays. System administrators are bombarded with problems ranging from “It worked yesterday and now it doesn’t! What did you change?” to “I spilled coffee on my keyboard! Should I pour water on it to wash it out?” In most cases, your response to these issues affects your perceived value as an administrator far more than does any actual technical skill you might possess. You can either howl at the injustice of it all, or you can delight in the fact that a single well-handled trouble ticket scores as many brownie points as five hours of midnight debugging. You pick!

I’d much rather run to the mall and get a new shirt than run to God and get a new attitude. I’d much rather dig into a brownie than dig into my heart. I’d much rather point the finger at other people’s issues than take a peek at my own.

It was that Michelle had the rare gift of taking people as they came.

You visit your brownies?” I asked. She nodded with satisfaction. “There are many ways to have a relationship with food other than eating it. That’s from the Answer store’s new diet book.

Logan is a Girl Scout?” he said, shaking his head in his hands. I nodded to confirm.

He interrupted. “No, Lisa, other families do not have sons who are Girl Scouts. I’m teaching that boy to fight,” Jason muttered to himself, “A gay, black Girl Scout. What the hell happened to this family? We were normal back in San Francisco.

This helped me a lot,” he said. What helped who a lot? I wondered as I stood beside the open door. “PFLAG?” Jason asked after I heard the sound of a book dropping on his desk. “Parents, Families and Friends of Lesbians and Gays. I heard you talking to the missus and … my brother was gay.

No more?” Jason asked. What?! Is my once-sane husband actually thinking of gay rehab for our son, ’cause I don’t think there’s a referral list in that PFLAG book. “He died. Killed himself when he was seventeen.” Silence fell like fog. “Man, that’s tough. Sorry, Chuck,” Jason finally said. “Know who’s sorriest?” Chuck asked. Jason must have gestured for him to continue. “My dad.” I heard Jason’s seat cushion exhale as he sat down on it. “A boy’s gotta know his old man’s behind him no matter what.

Nobody gets any brownie points for loving people who are easy to love. Difficult people are God's sandpaper. They'll rub those rough edges off you and let you prove your faith.

The Law was not how Israelites achieved salvation—it was how they showed loyalty to the God they believed in. Salvation for an Israelite was about faith in the promises and character of the God of gods and about refusing to worship another god. It was about belief and loyalty from the heart, not earning brownie points with God. King

She pointed a finger at him. "Smart men don't comment on a woman's eating habits, regardless of how many brownies she can shove in her mouth at one time." He laughed. "In that case, I guess I'm not as smart as you think I am.

Stacy McKee (who is one of the new head writers at Grey’s Anatomy but started out way back in the beginning as the assistant on the show) IS the kind of mom who does crafts with her kids and puts photos of them up on Pinterest and Instagram. She works long, hard hours but still, you go into her office and as she’s talking scripts and story, she’s hot-gluing beads onto a princess cape for her daughter. I always furrow my brow and ask her why the hell she is doing this. Why? Or why the hell is she delicately hand-painting vistas onto Easter eggs? Or why is she doing any number of crazy amazing crafty things Stacy does for her kids? For the love of wine, why? Stacy will furrow her brow back at me, equally confused. “Why wouldn’t I?” she says. See, Stacy LOVES doing this stuff. She’d probably do it even if she didn’t have kids. Oh wait. I knew her back when she didn’t have kids and she WAS doing it. Stacy once spent days making incredibly lifelike renderings of all the Grey’s Anatomy characters out of pipe cleaners. PIPE CLEANERS. So it’s not about working moms vs. nonworking moms. It’s about people who love hot-gluing beads on capes vs. people who do not know what a hot-glue gun is. And it’s not even that. It’s about the non–glue gun people not assuming the glue gun people are judging them, and vice versa. Maybe don’t start out with your weapons raised. Maybe that Perfect PTA Mom didn’t even realize that homemade brownies could be a hardship. Maybe instead of yelling obscenities at the mention of homemade brownies, it would be better to stand up and gently point out that not everyone has the time or the bandwidth to make brownies.

eggs and curried chicken salad and double fudge brownies. That was all she was good at: eating. In the summer the Castles, the Alistairs, and the Randolphs all went to the beach together. When they were younger, they would play flashlight tag, light a bonfire, and sing Beatles songs, with Mr. Randolph playing the guitar and Penny’s voice floating above everyone else’s. But at some point Demeter had stopped feeling comfortable in a bathing suit. She wore shorts and oversized T-shirts to the beach, and she wouldn’t go in the water, wouldn’t walk with Penny to look for shells, wouldn’t throw the Frisbee with Hobby and Jake. The other three kids always tried to include Demeter, which was more humiliating, somehow, than if they’d just ignored her. They were earnest in their pursuit of her attention, but Demeter suspected this was their parents’ doing. Mr. Randolph might have offered Jake a twenty-dollar bribe to be nice to Demeter because Al Castle was an old friend. Hobby and Penny were nice to her because they felt sorry for her. Or maybe Hobby and Penny and Jake all had a bet going about who would be the one to break through Demeter’s Teflon shield. She was a game to them. In the fall there were football parties at the Alistairs’ house, during which the adults and Hobby and Jake watched the Patriots, Penny listened to music on her headphones, and Demeter dug into Zoe Alistair’s white chicken chili and topped it with a double spoonful of sour cream. In the winter there were weekends at Stowe. Al and Lynne Castle owned a condo near the mountain, and Demeter had learned to ski as a child. According to her parents, she used to careen down the black-diamond trails without a moment’s hesitation. But by the time they went to Vermont with the Alistairs and the Randolphs, Demeter refused to get on skis at all. She sat in the lodge and drank hot chocolate until the rest of the gang came clomping in after their runs, rosy-cheeked and winded. And then the ski weekends, at least, had stopped happening, because Hobby had basketball and Penny and Jake were in the school musical, which meant rehearsals night and day. Demeter thought back to all those springs, summers, falls, and winters with Hobby and Penny and Jake, and she wondered how her parents could have put her through such exquisite torture. Hobby and Penny and Jake were all exceptional children, while Demeter was seventy pounds overweight, which sank her self-esteem, which led to her getting mediocre grades when she was smart enough for A’s and killed her chances of landing the part of Rizzo in Grease, even though she was a gifted actress. Hobby was in a coma. Her mother was on the phone. She kept

Life is nothing but a game of collecting brownie points. The married will understand this.

Can you describe versatile and earn your brownie points?”, asked the Archangel, “Now.” Candid Angel thought for a moment. “Black, white” She said nodding with a holy countenance, “all the colors of the rainbow are beautiful, why stop at bias” She offered. “That's right, I want all the smoke.“, he said.

Customer service is vital. How do we turn PAIN points into opportunities for BROWNIE points.

As a service excellence provider, I always think about how to turn a customer's pain point into brownie points. Never underestimate the power of any customer transaction

Broadly speaking, the idea of systems that “reason as if they are incomplete and potentially flawed in dangerous ways” and that strive for “brownie points in heaven”—even if it means forgoing explicit rewards in the here and now—sounds rather . . . Catholic. For centuries, Catholic theologians have struggled with the question of how to live life by the rules of their faith, given that there are often disagreements among scholars about exactly what the rules are. If, hypothetically, eight out of ten theologians think that eating fish on a Friday is perfectly acceptable, but one out of ten thinks it’s forbidden, and the other thinks it’s mandatory, then what is any reasonable, God-fearing Catholic to do?71 As the saying goes, “A man with a watch knows what time it is, but a man with two watches is never sure.”72 These were particularly hotly contested questions in the Early Modern period following the Middle Ages, between the fifteenth and eighteenth centuries. Some scholars advocated for “laxism,” where something was

The reasons why Ngaba led the plateau in self-immolation were obscure. Ngaba was not the worst-off town under Chinese rule. Its residents were wealthier than some others. The public facilities and infrastructure were much better than in many Tibetan towns in Qinghai province where sewage ran through open gutters of the streets and former nomads had been resettled in concrete boxes. Testifying before a U.S. congressional commission in 2011, Kirti Rinpoche suggested the reason was that Ngaba was the first place where Tibetans encountered the Chinese Communists in the 1930s. “The people of this region have a particular wound causing excessive suffering that spans three generations. This wound is very difficult to forget or heal,” Kirti Rinpoche testified. Daniel Berounský, a scholar who contributed a paper at the Paris conference, also pointed to the high level of political awareness at the monastery. “When taking into account the historical outline concerning the kings of Ngawa [Ngaba] and the Kīrti masters, it becomes apparent that the monks are strongly affected by their past history, which is seen as a golden time.” “A Tibetan Party official who penned a rare open letter published (and quickly removed) on a public forum blamed Shi Jun, the Party secretary for Ngaba prefecture. “Some called him the Lord of Demons, because he escalated small incidents into huge confrontations in order to secure his own advancement and to try to win brownie points,” wrote the official, who used his Chinese name, Luo Feng. He complained that Tibetan-speaking officials were excluded from promotion and that out of six hundred Party officials who had been recently promoted, only twenty spoke Tibetan. If you were Tibetan, you were an object of suspicion, Luo Feng wrote.

I made eye contact with Taytum for a split second, and it was obvious that we both shared a distaste for Chad. Brownie points for Taytum.

The message implicit in the account of the lepers coordinates with the one already made clear in the preceding parable: what we do for God cannot make God our debtor, and should never be done primarily for our gain. For if we are serving God primarily for our personal gain, then whom are we really serving? Only self. Too many Christians fail to realize this. They serve God in order either to get favors from him (in which case their real motive is self-promotion) or to keep “the ogre in the sky” off their backs (in which case their real motive is self-protection). In each of these cases the motive behind the service is nothing more than sanctified selfishness and, thus, the efforts do not actually honor God. What such people think is gaining them “brownie points” with God is actually to their demerit in heaven’s accounting, which considers the motives of the heart as well as deeds of service. Dealing with God according to his grace is hard to conceptualize for Christians used to thinking that they must broker God’s affection with their deeds.

All leaders were equal at the conference table, but those from heavyweight countries showed that they were more equal by arriving in big private jets, the British in their VC 10s and Comets, and the Canadians in Boeings. The Australians joined this select group in 1979, after Malcolm Fraser's government purchased a Boeing 707 for the Royal Australian Air Force. Those African presidents whose countries were then better off, like Kenya and Nigeria, also had special aircraft. I wondered why they did not set out to impress the world that they were poor and in dire need of assistance. Our permanent representative at the UN in New York explained that the poorer the country, the bigger the Cadillacs they hired for their leaders. So I made a virtue of arriving by ordinary commercial aircraft, and thus helped preserve Singapore's third World status for many years. However, by the mid-1990s, the World Bank refused to heed our pleas not to reclassify us as a "High Income Developing Country", giving no Brownie points for my frugal travel habits. We lost all the concessions that were given to developing countries.

Your good karma is the key to survival! The brownie points you earn at least expected times, is actually you coming face to face with the circle of life!

By the way, I googled the meaning of Brandon, and it literally means prince or king. Don't I get brownie points for calling you Prince Charming?

When I die, I don’t much care if anyone remembers my name. What matters to me is if people’s lives are better, and our world is a kinder place because of the work I’ve done.

Karma is not a doctrine. You do not get any brownie points for subscribing to it. You do not get any negative marks for disbelieving it. Karma is not a creed, a scripture, an ideology, a philosophy, or a theory. It is simply the way things are. It is an existential mechanism. Like the sun, it operates whether you acknowledge it or not, whether you pay obeisance to it or ignore it. It is not looking for a fan club.

All my mind and body wanted at this point was to be tucked away somewhere with the entire tray of brownies and to eat them as fast as possible. It was as if eating them faster would make the whole thing feel less real, that eating them faster wouldn't give me time to stop eating them. For this moment, they were the bits of euphoria that paradoxically, kept me rooted in this world. I grabbed another brownie. Coach Woj saw me grab my third.

Need to Be Honest about My Issues Search me, God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting. (PSALM 139:23 – 24) Thought for the Day: Avoiding reality never changes reality. Mostly I’m a good person with good motives, but not always. Not when I just want life to be a little more about me or about making sure I look good. That’s when my motives get corrupted. The Bible is pretty blunt in naming the real issue here: evil desires. Yikes. I don’t like that term at all. And it seems a bit severe to call my unglued issues evil desires, doesn’t it? But in the depths of my heart I know the truth. Avoiding reality never changes reality. Sigh. I think I should say that again: Avoiding reality never changes reality. And change is what I really want. So upon the table I now place my honesty: I have evil desires. I do. Maybe not the kind that will land me on a 48 Hours Mystery episode, but the kind that pull me away from the woman I want to be. One with a calm spirit and divine nature. I want it to be evident that I know Jesus, love Jesus, and spend time with Jesus each day. So why do other things bubble to the surface when my life gets stressful and my relationships get strained? Things like … Selfishness: I want things my way. Pride: I see things only from my vantage point. Impatience: I rush things without proper consideration. Anger: I let simmering frustrations erupt. Bitterness: I swallow eruptions and let them fester. It’s easier to avoid these realities than to deal with them. I’d much rather tidy my closet than tidy my heart. I’d much rather run to the mall and get a new shirt than run to God and get a new attitude. I’d much rather dig into a brownie than dig into my heart. I’d much rather point the finger at other people’s issues than take a peek at my own. Plus, it’s just a whole lot easier to tidy my closet, run to the store, eat a brownie, and look at other people’s issues. A whole lot easier. I rationalize that I don’t have time to get all psychological and examine my selfishness, pride, impatience, anger, and bitterness. And honestly, I’m tired of knowing I have issues but having no clue how to practically rein them in on a given day. I need something simple. A quick reality check I can remember in the midst of the everyday messies. And I think the following prayer is just the thing: God, even when I choose to ignore what my heart is saying to me, You know my heart. I bring to You this [and here I name whatever feeling or thoughts I have been reluctant to acknowledge]. Forgive me. Soften my heart. Make it pure. Might that quick prayer help you as well? If so, stop what you are doing —just for five minutes — and pray these or similar words. When I’ve prayed for the Lord to interrupt my feelings and soften my heart, it’s amazing how this changes me. Dear Lord, help me to remember to actually bring my emotions and reactions to You. I want my heart reaction to be godly. Thank You for grace and for always forgiving me. In Jesus’ name. Amen.

Would he go for a bribe? Straight cash?' 'He says it's against his principles,' David Dilbeck said. 'But he's amenable to a free blowjob.' A pulse became visible in Moldowsky's neck. 'Let's see if I understand. Only if the lady goes down on the judge does she get custody of her child?' 'He says he'll consider it, that's all. 'Brownie points' is the way he put it.' 'David, I'll say this: you're one terrific negotiator. They needed you at the fucking SALT talks.

Recent medical research by the top 1% of doctors now proves you may actually be allergic to another person,” the commercial began. Jason turned off the TV.

If you ever use me or my horses to win brownie points in your billionaire-baby sandbox, I will bury you there myself. Are we clear?

Again, I beg to differ with your opinion. I’d hardly call the lives of the immortals quiet. And why is it that God can write a fucking book and I can’t?” I shot back, leaning back in my chair and waiting for her to play favorites in favor of my brother—again. My mother was the only one in the Universe that could get away with calling me a little shit and live to speak of it. The only reason I let it go was because I’d heard her call God the same thing. I knew the bastard phoned her on a regular basis. It chafed my ass that my brother had racked up more brownie points with our certifiable matriarch than I had. God was the ultimate kiss ass and I was the ultimate bad boy. “God didn’t write a tell all,” Mother Nature said, confused. “Lucifer’s referring to the bible,” my father explained, fondly patting her bottom. “Oh for the love of everything good, evil, and somewhere in between,” my mother groused and stamped her tiny Jimmy Choo clad foot causing a small tremble in Hell. “God wrote a history book.” “And I did as well,” I said, defending my life story. “At least my book wasn’t passed down by word of mouth for hundreds of years and then written in a dead language only to be translated innumerable times and interpreted by halfwits. Mine is straight from the guilty bastard’s mouth.” “Little harsh on your brother there—not to mention yourself,” Bill muttered. “Yes, well the truth hurts,” I informed him, doing my best imitation of my mother’s raised brow. “This is why lies are so much more fun.

Kitianna stared at them with concern. “Are you sure you want to hear this?” “Do you think we asked because we wanted brownie points to dispense our childhood misery to Otherworlders?” retorted Marge loudly and Caesar quacked in response.