Yay Me Quotes

If I have to beat you up to keep you safe, that’s just what I’ll do. It’s this kind of regard for others that makes me believe I’d be a good politician.

I wonder if rooms in an insane asylum have Do Not Disturb signs for the doors. I should hope not, because knock or no knock, every occupant in those rooms is already disturbed.

I once saw a snake having sex with a vulture, and I thought, It’s just business as usual in Washington DC.

The wind blew my words away from you. So while I told you I love you, the phrase was carried in the opposite direction and landed 333 miles away in the ears of a confused farmer. He was nice, though. He sent me a kind letter saying that while he was flattered, I wasn’t really his type.

When people change, I’m disappointed they’re not who I remember them being. And when people don’t change, I’m disappointed they still are who they were. All people do is disappoint, and I do mean all people.

I’m trying to translate what my cat says and put it in a book, but how many homonyms are there for meow?

More people are leaving TV behind to read my books than ever before. In the last year alone I gained over two readers (three, to be exact). So I’d like to take a moment and say thanks mom, dad, and kidnap victim I keep chained in the basement.

Scars exist to show that I existed. I myself don’t have any scars, but every single one of my friends has a healed up knife wound deep in their back.


Hydrogenated and androgynous milky white love is all I have to offer you. Would you like me to pour it in your coffee, or directly into your soul?


Fight or flight? If I had wings, there’d be no choice. But since I don’t have wings, I have to rely on my cape, and a long running start.

After losing my job, I felt the only options available to me were razors, cyanide, or a shot to the face, until Renaldo, being the good friend that he is, reminded me how to tie a noose.


I travel light. But not at the same speed.


Death cannot stop true love. That’s why it’s pointless for me to try to murder all my adoring female fans.

Reading a book is like having the ability to dip a straw into the author’s soul and sip and slurp without lowering the water table of wisdom.


How can I clearly see what’s wrong with someone else, and then look at myself as though I’m standing in front of a fogged mirror?


All the ideas in the universe can be described by words. Therefore, if you simply take all the words and rearrange them randomly enough times, you’re bound to hit upon at least a few great ideas eventually. Sausage donkey swallows flying guillotine, my love assembly line.

When I meet a European, the first thing I say is, “I’d much rather watch football than football.” But I’m just teasing them, and they know I’d really rather watch football than football.

The only problem with politicians taking two week vacations every year is it’s about 50 weeks too short.


Smiling is the way the soul says hello. Obviously a frown means goodbye. Is there a word halfway between hello and goodbye? Because that’s what my soul is saying right now.


I’ve got a sizeable retirement nest egg. It’s an ostrich egg, and it’s going to make an omelet so big that it’ll produce enough leftovers for decades.


Ideas are like legs: what good are they if you can't run with them, or spread them?

Isn’t this exciting? I’m so excited I can hardly STAND IT. That’s why I’m this color, by the way. I have been trying all morning to turn myself something more dignified and I can’t do it; my scales are all like, YAY WE’RE REALLY HERE! and will not listen to me.

The reason it’s hard for men to say “I love you” is because those three words represent 10% of the average man’s vocabulary.

Love will find you eventually, I guarantee it. That’s why you need to buy an invisible cloak from me for the one-time low price of $77,777.77. Offer valid for emotional invalids only.

My grandpa died yesterday. I ought to know, because I shot him. So come, join me in the fight against patricide by killing your father’s father.

I have good news and I have bad news. The good news is that your house hasn't burned down, you don't have cancer, and your daughter hasn't been raped or murdered. The bad news is that I ran over your dog. And your son. And his wife. But not before I ran out of gas to achieve all of that.

Half of what I write is garbage, but if I don't write it down it decomposes in my head.

I’m not exactly sympathetic, but I do have a big heart. I have to, to be able to pump all the blood required to operate my massive penis.

Every night I pray I whisper into a megaphone, not only so God is sure to hear, but also my neighbors, because I pray to God He’ll deliver pestilence and plague to the residents next door. I even tell God the exact address, as if He can’t read my heart. But it’s not for His benefit, it’s for my neighbors’.

I trust politicians to do what’s right. For themselves.


And in the flush of the first few days of joy I confidently tell myself (not expecting what I'll do in three weeks only) 'no more dissipation, it's time for me to quietly watch the world and even enjoy it, first in woods like these, then just calmly walk and talk among people of the world, no booze, no drugs, no binges, no bouts with beatniks and drunks and junkies and everybody, no more I ask myself the question O why is God torturing me, that's it, be a loner, travel, talk to waiters, walk around, no more self-imposed agony...it's time to think and watch and keep concentrated on the fact that after all this whole surface of the world as we know it now will be covered with the silt of a billion years in time...Yay, for this, more aloneness

I've been trying to start a garage band for over a decade now, but father won't move his car.

Some women will spread a lie faster and wider than they’d spread their legs. These women are worse than whores. These women are politicians.

Poison Ivy tastes like an itch when you have it on your tongue, and I’d say that love tastes the same, only itchier.

Of all the things God created, from sunrises and rainbows, to black holes and humor, cats are the most fascinating to me.


One day I’ll have my appointment with death, and every day I call out to God to see if I can reschedule for a later date.


I’m trying to overcome my OCD by replacing my neurosis with three other letters.

I want to write a song about retaliation called, "Oh Yeah, and I Faked Every Orgasm...While You Were Out of Town.

You can tell a lot about a person's character by how they do life's menial tasks. For example, I saw my neighbor washing dishes, and I could immediately tell that he was an adulterer by the way my wife's naked body glistened through his kitchen window.

Is this your boyfriend?" the first nun asked. Clair Olivia looked me up and down. “No. This is my gay friend who decided he was straight and single-handedly wrecked havoc at an all-boys school in Massachusetts this fall. He’s gay again and home for Christmas, so yay!

I suffer from tennis elbow. It’s an old masturbating injury from when I was training to go into politics.

I bought an oxygen tank, because with the global population at over seven billion people and rising, what if the world were to suddenly run out of air? And while the people will be suffocating, I’ll be the only guy prepared to pillage and loot.


Not only do I not believe in not believing in God, I’m also a big supporter of crutches, canes, walkers, and anything that helps support man through difficult times.


What more proof do you need to illustrate how America is the land of the free than the fact that the US has the highest incarceration rate in the world?


I'd like to see a flag made not out of stars and stripes, but rather fingers and knuckles, so that it could really wave in the wind. It would be the most welcoming flag in all the world.

The bad news is the butcher’s dead. The good news is there’ll be no need for a funeral, and I’ve got enough meat to last for weeks.

If I could fly, life would be amazing. But paraplegic people say the same thing about walking, and I freaking hate walking. Somebody might ask me, “Hey, do you want to go for a walk?” and I’ll reply, “Nope. But I do want to have a seat on a chair with wheels and roll along with you.” So maybe flight isn’t so cool after all. Possibly birds get pissed off they have to fly everywhere. 


If you’re tired of taking one step forward and two steps back, just turn around. That way you’ll be going forward in reverse.


The only reason I don’t know more about love is because there just isn’t more to know. In fact, I’ve reduced love to a mathematical formula: Hdgk(X)=H2k(X,Q)∩Hk,k(X). Actually, that’s not right. That’s the statement piece of the Hodge conjecture, but I’m sure you already knew that.


If you could buy time, I would sell it. Yesterday would be expensive, and tomorrow would be cheap.

What's with all the cheering over the apocalypse, anyway? Oh, yay, we get to kill poor helpless humans." "The excitement over the apocalypse had nothing to do with humans." "Could have fooled me." "Humans are incidental." "Killing and destroying an entire species is incidental?" I can't help but sound like I'm accusing him (Raffe), even though I know he wasn't part of the plan to wipe us out. Or at least, I think he wasn't personally involved, but I don't really know that, do I? "Your people have been doing it to all kinds of species." "That's not the same." "Why not?

Feathers blowing in the wind is no more a bird than a pile of crumpled up receipts from champagne, chocolate, and flower purchases is a true indication that a man loves a woman.


I’m famous for my Shepherd’s Pie. Here’s my recipe: lamb, potatoes, cheese, peas, paprika, and a wool-covered apron for the chef/shepherd/wolf-like politician to wear while serving the sheeple up.


Cats like to cuddle more than any other living creature, including zombies, which are only half dead.

Out of love I made you a cake. Also out of milk, eggs, flour, sugar, and vanilla.

I know great art when someone doesn’t wash their hands after making it. And not only did Duchamp not wash his hands, but he didn’t even flush!

Mouths are longer than they are wide, to ensure words don’t come out sideways. Even the word “sideways” comes out straight.

All my best writing was written before 1982, and then a significant event happened to me: I was born.

I am quite possibly the world's bravest coward. I have never backed down from backing down from a fight.

I remember one time some guy put caviar in my omelet, and I had to complain saying, “Excuse me, you idiot, but there are eggs in my omelet.” He didn’t know how to respond, probably because he felt so foolish.


All men are created Equal. Some just have more Splenda.

America’s been ruined by one word: Bankers. No, two words: Bankers and lawyers. Make that three words. Add politicians to that list. Oh, and don’t forget the lobbyists.

I prefer physical books to eBooks, because an eBook can’t be the solution to a wobbly chair like a real book can.

Music can elevate man to new heights. Especially elevator music.

People always see me writing and ask me if they can read my writing. The answer is yes, after I publish it and they pay for it.

Just because you don’t have an arrest record doesn’t mean you’re not a criminal. As proof, note some of the cleanest rap sheets in America belong to politicians.

I stumbled up the hill back toward the Hab. As I crested the rise, I saw something that made me very happy and something that made me very sad: The Hab was intact (yay!) and the MAV was gone (boo!).

When I’m introduced to a woman for the first time, I always say the same thing. I say, “Hi, I’m Jarod, and I think you’ll love my kids. You’d better, because you’re going to give birth to them.” This usually works, because after I say this I can immediately go back to being an introvert, as I’m left standing there all alone. 


When I say something, I mean what I say, despite what a dictionary says I mean. Meanings of words are slaves that I put to work constructing my pyramids of thought.

If coffee meant vagina, I’d ask you if you wanted cream in your coffee. But it doesn’t mean that, so I’ll just sit here and continue sipping my mug full of steaming vagina.

My friend had sex with half of all the women in the city. I think he had sex with the lower half of all the women.

A mafia don could snap his fingers and somebody would snap my neck. But when I snap my fingers, people start dancing. Or at least my clones would.

If the status quo came carbonated in a can, I’d shake things up.

I saw a baby make a boom-boom in his diaper, and I thought, I’d never have suspected him of being a terrorist.

People ask me all the time, “Jarod, how come you are so much more romantic than anybody else?” And I say, “Simple. I have brains, heart, courage, and most importantly, I have ruby red slippers.

His rapier was at his belt, glittering as he swung. He reached down, ripped the sword clear. I jumped over a slashing frond of plasm, spun round with the water bottle in my hand. I hurled it across to Lockwood. George threw his rapier to me. Watch this now. Sword and bottle, sailing through the air, twin trajectories, arching beautifully through the mass of swirling tendrils towards Lockwood and me. Lockwood held out his hand. I held out mine. Remember I said there was that moment of sweet precision when we gelled perfectly as a team? Yeah, well. This wasn't it. The rapier shot past, missing me by miles. It skidded halfway across the floor. The bottle struck Lockwood plumb in the centre of his forehead, knocking him through the window. There was a moment's pause. 'Is he dead?' the skulls voice said 'Yay! Oh. No, he's hanging onto the shutters. Shame. Still, this is defiantly the funniest thing I've ever seen. You three really are incompetence on a stick

The moon is an orbital albino, and it gets tons of sunlight, so I propose Operation Sunscreen, where astronauts coat the surface of the moon with a protective layer of sunscreen. If you care about albinos and the environment, you’ll see this is a good idea. And hey, it’s a better use of taxpayer funds than bailing out private banks.


I didn’t set out to discover Truth. I was simply hungry and digging deep in the back of the fridge and boom! there it was. And I’ve got to tell you, the Truth was tasty. 


I wasn’t very far away from figuring out the secret to love, no more than two miles or so, when my camel broke down and I got shot at by a pack of cigarettes.

Who leads the world in consumption? America! Who has more lawyers per capita? America! Who has the highest incarceration rate? America! What is the greatest country on earth? America!

Faith: a device of the mind, fed by the soul, that functions like crutches to a man in a wheelchair.

If silence is the admission of guilt, then she must be really guilty, because last night I asked her a question and instead of answering, she went to sleep for eight hours.

I like to see cats tumble around, but I wish they wouldn’t meow so much when I shove them in the dryer.

I don’t collect awards, I collect empty trophy cases. Once my collection is large enough, I’m going to start collecting broken dreams.

Most writers might as well write in invisible ink, because if what they’re writing is forgettable, it might as well be invisible too.

-I have this friend—you don’t know him—but—
 -Is his name Molloway?
 -No.
 -Oh. I don’t know anybody named Molloway, so that’s why I was asking.

I am possibly the world's greatest magician, because I don't just vanish off stage, I vanish from your memory. I'll bet you're probably thinking, "I don't remember seeing you," or "I've never seen you." And that just goes to show you how good I am.

Ben, there are more important things going on,” I answered. “DESIGNATED DRIVER!” “What?” “You’re my designated driver! Yes! You are so designated! I love that you answered! That’s so awesome! I have to be home by six! And I designate you to get me there! YESSSSSSS!” “Can’t you just spend the night there?” I asked. “NOOOO! Booooo. Booo on Quentin. Hey, everybody! Boooo Quentin!” And then I was booed. “Everybody’s drunk. Ben drunk. Lacey drunk. Radar drunk. Nobody drive. Home by six. Promised Mom. Boo, Sleepy Quentin! Yay, Designated Driver! YESSSS!

I think we should change the amount of time in each day. Sunday thru Friday should be reduced from 24 hours down to ten minutes, and Saturday would become a 167-hour day. That way, when people ask me what I did all week I could truthfully respond, "I slept all week. But I got a hell of a lot done on Saturday.

Money is seen as a great evil. But I've never seen a pile of cash stab someone.

Education will only take you so far. To go even further, I’d recommend getting a piggyback ride from a midget half your body weight.

I can’t extrapolate a theory of what people would do based on the limited data set of what one person—myself—would do. That’s why I need clones, so I can more accurately gauge what large crowds of people would do in a given situation.

I'm sorry!" I blurted out. "I told you, I suck at this. It's like any time I try to do a spell, it goes all big and scary and explodey,and-" Dad rubbed his forehead. "No,Sophie, it's all right. That's what I'd hoped you would do." "You hoped I'd commit mirrorcide?" He laughed, but it sounded a little breathless. "No,I'd hoped to see just how powerful you really are." His eyes were bright, and there was something that might have been pride in them. "You exceeded my expectations." "Well,yay," I said. "So glad my skill at blowing crap up impresses you, Dad." "Your sarcasm is-" "I know,I know, 'an unattractive quality in a young lady.'" But Dad grinned and suddenly looked much younger and less like a guy who ironed his ties. "Actually, I was going to say it's something you must've gotten from me. Grace always hated sarcastic comments." "Oh,I know," I replied without thinking. "I spent most of the seventh grade grounded because of it." He snorted. "She once put me out by the side of the road in Scotland because I made a completely harmless joke about her map-reaking skills." "Really?" "Mm-hmm.Had to walk nearly five bloody kilometers before she stopped to let me back in." "Dude.Mom is hard-core." For a moment we smiled at each other. Then Dad cleared his throat and looked away. "Anyway,your powers are definitely impressive, but what you lack is control." "Yeah, I kind of picked up on that.

I think my heart is defective," Jillian says. I have to force myself to smile Jan looks at me. I get the joke, but for some reason it just isn't funny right now. "I can fix that," Jeremy says, taking Jillian's headband from her. He pulls out the battery and looks at the wires that run from it. He twists one of them a little with his fingers and reinserts the battery. "You are so nerdy," Jillian says. I look over at her. It's not what she said, but how she said it. It almost sounded like a compliment. "Yay," Jillian says, when he flips the switch and both hearts stay lit. Jillian takes the headband from him and slips it on. She wobbles her head making them clack together. "Jeremy," she says, grinning at him. "You fixed my broken heart.

It’s a lie. There isn’t safety in numbers. But there is safety in letters. There are only 26 letters, and yet they are more powerful than an army of infinite men. Show me a man or an army that can kill an idea, and I’ll show you an example of the absurd.

mad maddie: I GOT ACCEPTED TO SANTA CRUZ!!!! SnowAngel: omg!!! zoegirl: maddie!!!! yay!!!!! mad maddie: i know! it's incredible! SnowAngel: *squeals and hugs sweet maddie* SnowAngel: tell us every single detail!!! mad maddie: well, i got home from school and saw this big thick envelope on the kitchen counter, with "Santa Cruz Admissions Office" as the return address. i got really fidgety and just started screaming, right there in the house. no one was there but me, so i could be as loud as i wanted. zoegirl: omg!!! mad maddie: i took a deep breath and tried to calm down, but my hands were shaking. i opened the envelope and pulled out a folder that said, "Welcome to Santa Cruz!" inside was a letter that said, "Dear Madigan. You're in!" mad maddie: isn't that cool? i LOVE that, that instead of being all prissy and formal, they're like, "you're in! yahootie!" SnowAngel: oh maddie, i am sooooo happy for u! mad maddie: i ran out to my car all jumping and hopping around and drove to ian's, cuz i knew neither of u would be home yet. i showed him my letter and he hugged me really hard and lifted me into the air. it was AWESOME. zoegirl: i'm so proud of u, maddie! SnowAngel: me 2!

So yeah, you were part of the job. Don't get me wrong, Mercer, I like you. You're smart, fluent in sarcasm, and, Bad Dog incident aside, pretty kick-ass at magic. And it's not like you're hard to look at." "Be still my beating heart." "But to answer your question, no part of the Archer Cross you knew at Hecate exists. That day in the cellar, I kissed you back because it was my job to stay close to you. If that's where you wanted to take things, then that's where I was going to go. I kissed you because I had to. Not exactly the hardest assignment I've ever had, but an assignment nonetheless." I stood there absorbing his words like blows, my heart aching. But it wasn't what he said that made me feel like I'd been punched in the chest. It's that I knew he was lying. That speech came out way too quickly and way too smooth, almost like he'd been practicing it in his head. The same way I'd been practing what I'd say to him if I ever saw him again. I couldn't even begin to handle that right now, so instead I just said, "Okay,then. Yay for honesty. Now that we're done with the confessional part of the evening, why don't you tell me why we're here." There was another pause, then he started walking again. I followed, leaves crunching under my feet. "Like I said, Hacte Hall has always made The Eye nervous." "Why? Are they allergic to plaid?" I thought he might laugh, but instead, he said, "Think about it,Mercer.One place where Prodigium round up their most powerful members? Don't tell me that's not suspicious." That had never occurred to me. I'd always just thought of all us at Hecate as giant screwups, but in a way, Archer was right. We'd all been sentenced to Hex Hall because of spells that were powerful and dangerous. I thought of Cal saying I created "too big." Wasn't that what just about everyone at Hecate had done? Still, the idea that the place I'd called home for nearly a year was actually some evil farm for powerful Prodigium was unsettling to say the least.

So let me get this straight. She’s doing..something. With some stuff. That’s somewhere.” “That pretty much covers it, yeah, “Archer replied. “Yay for vague,” I muttered, shrugging off my blazer. I tossed it on the nearest shelf and grimaced as a puff of dust and grime rose in the air. “Ugh, gross. Would it kill the Casnoffs to do the occasional cleaning spell? I swear to God, everything in here is covered with a least an inch of…” My words trailed off as a thought occurred to me. From Archer’s sudden grin, he’d apparently had the same idea. “Bet if you’ve been using an artifact at least three times a week, it’s pretty dust-free,” he said. “So we look for the least disgusting shelf. Easy enough.” Or at least that’s what I thought. For about twenty minutes, Archer and I walked around each and every case, looking at every slot. I saw a few items I recognized from cellar duty (a red piece of fabric, some vampire fangs in a jar), and some things I was pretty sure I’d only ever seen in nightmares. What I didn’t see was a clean shelf.

There are probably a few things worse than climbing into a hole that is actually underneath a creepy basement, but at that moment, it was hard to think of any of them. I was only a few steps down the ladder before I was plunged into darkness. The dim light in the cellar wasn’t strong enough to penetrate the gloom. I was also pretty sure that the tunnel was narrower now, and as I took another step down, both my shoulders brushed the walls. The metallic taste of fear flooded my mouth as my suddenly sweaty hands slid on the iron rungs. “Mercer?” Archer called from above me. “You okay?” I rested my forehead on the back of my hands, and tried to keep the panic out of my voice as I replied, “Yeah, fine. Why do you ask?” “Because you’re gasping.” Oh. Now that he mentioned it, my breath was heaving in and out of my lungs pretty quickly. I made an effort to slow it down as he asked, “Is it the dark, or-“ He grunted a little and shifted. Dirt rained down on me, and I shut my eyes. “Both,” I choked out. “Apparently I’m claustrophobic now. That’s, uh, new. Probably a side effect of fleeing a burning building through an underground tunnel.” I took another shaky breath. “Yay for psychological trauma.” “Come back up,” Archer said automatically, and I kind of loved him for that. “No,” I said, willing my feet to keep moving. “We’re trying to save the world here, Cross. No time for panic attacks.

Ode to the Beloved’s Hips" Bells are they—shaped on the eighth day—silvered percussion in the morning—are the morning. Swing switch sway. Hold the day away a little longer, a little slower, a little easy. Call to me— I wanna rock, I-I wanna rock, I-I wanna rock right now—so to them I come—struck-dumb chime-blind, tolling with a throat full of Hosanna. How many hours bowed against this Infinity of Blessed Trinity? Communion of Pelvis, Sacrum, Femur. My mouth—terrible angel, ever-lasting novena, ecstatic devourer. O, the places I have laid them, knelt and scooped the amber—fast honey—from their openness— Ah Muzen Cab’s hidden Temple of Tulúm—licked smooth the sticky of her hip—heat-thrummed ossa coxae. Lambent slave to ilium and ischium—I never tire to shake this wild hive, split with thumb the sweet- dripped comb—hot hexagonal hole—dark diamond— to its nectar-dervished queen. Meanad tongue— come-drunk hum-tranced honey-puller—for her hips, I am—strummed-song and succubus. They are the sign: hip. And the cosign: a great book— the body’s Bible opened up to its Good News Gospel. Alleluias, Ave Marías, madre mías, ay yay yays, Ay Dios míos, and hip-hip-hooray. Cult of Coccyx. Culto de cadera. Oracle of Orgasm. Rorschach’s riddle: What do I see? Hips: Innominate bone. Wish bone. Orpheus bone. Transubstantiation bone—hips of bread, wine-whet thighs. Say the word and healed I shall be: Bone butterfly. Bone wings. Bone Ferris wheel. Bone basin bone throne bone lamp. Apparition in the bone grotto—6th mystery— slick rosary bead—Déme la gracia of a decade in this garden of carmine flower. Exile me to the enormous orchard of Alcinous—spiced fruit, laden-tree—Imparadise me. Because, God, I am guilty. I am sin-frenzied and full of teeth for pear upon apple upon fig. More than all that are your hips. They are a city. They are Kingdom— Troy, the hollowed horse, an army of desire— thirty soldiers in the belly, two in the mouth. Beloved, your hips are the war. At night your legs, love, are boulevards leading me beggared and hungry to your candy house, your baroque mansion. Even when I am late and the tables have been cleared, in the kitchen of your hips, let me eat cake. O, constellation of pelvic glide—every curve, a luster, a star. More infinite still, your hips are kosmic, are universe—galactic carousel of burning comets and Big Big Bangs. Millennium Falcon, let me be your Solo. O, hot planet, let me circumambulate. O, spiral galaxy, I am coming for your dark matter. Along las calles de tus muslos I wander— follow the parade of pulse like a drum line— descend into your Plaza del Toros— hands throbbing Miura bulls, dark Isleros. Your arched hips—ay, mi torera. Down the long corridor, your wet walls lead me like a traje de luces—all glitter, glowed. I am the animal born to rush your rich red muletas—each breath, each sigh, each groan, a hooked horn of want. My mouth at your inner thigh—here I must enter you—mi pobre Manolete—press and part you like a wound— make the crowd pounding in the grandstand of your iliac crest rise up in you and cheer.