Best 17 quotes of Daniel Younger on MyQuotes

A little difference is still different.

A little-known fact: Next to nothing is impossible. Actually, nothing itself is impossible. Nothing is the absence of all things. But that absence is, itself, a thing, and—well, the logic’s so screwy you could uncork a wine bottle with it. The point is, most of the stuff people say is impossible is not at all impossible. Starting a car that’s already started, that’s im- possible. Traveling to where you are is impossible. Sleeping through Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up” is impossible (and so is listening to it). And that’s the list. Taking a neon-blue dump? Well... You’d think, but really it’s just improbable. To sum up a wildly unmanageable concept: most things we call impossible are actually just things that require more effort than we’re willing to give. And even when it comes to impossible, it’s really only the Rick Astley that nobody will try if they’re given a few slices of pizza.

Also fun fact for you Americans: in Canada, the practice of Thanksgiving is celebrated with the slaying of a sacred moose. Once killed, the moose is slathered in maple syrup, apologized to excessively, then roasted over a bed of Maple Leafs ™ until crispy on the outside and succulent on the inside. The meat is then dispersed by carrier goose and beaver to all of our country’s people, and our dashing Prime Minister does a naked pagan dance around the flayed carcass, shouting “Hoser!” until his throat’s raw. We’re very serious about Thanksgiving in Canada, Eh?

Awkward conversations. They’re the heart of the drug trade. The driving force that keeps criminals out of jail is paranoia. You can think you know people, but the truth is, you never know who they’re talking to. The life of an outlaw: Around every corner lies a cop. In every basement waits a bust. Every friend is the guy who sells you out to keep his own ass out of jail. Sure, it was rare, but you just never knew. The result was a series of shorthand and euphemisms so obscure even the pros often weren’t sure what they were talking about. Sales became pickups. Pot, ganja, bud, or weed became lettuce, green, happy, herb, smoke... the list went on, and changed from dealer to dealer.

Here are the rules for five-star babysitting of the Craig’s List high order: 1) Be firm, but willing to compromise; a half-hour of G.I Joe or Pokemon after bedtime in exchange for a couple hours of peace and quiet is more priceless than Van Gogh. Compromise. If you give them something they want, they’ll end up tucked in before the boyfriend sends you a sext message. 2) If compromise isn’t an option, go for Valium—or at least Xanax. Most moms have it in the medicine cabinet. And if you mix it with milk, you’ll still be good for happy hour. 3) When all else fails, go for broke: cry. Crying, for a nineyear- old, is tantamount to getting whacked with a wooden spoon until cookies give you PTSD. But the biggest rule, the one that breaking will definitely earn you a pink slip; the one you’d have to be a supreme knucklehead or complete noob to break—the one thing in all of the sitting profession that is the golden rule is: do not lose the kid. That’s kind of the big one.

If there’s anything in life that’s an undisputed fact, it’s this: Buildings with strange symbols carved in their lintels are bad news. You rarely find symbols leading to unicorns and fields of candy—and even that’s bad news if you’re diabetic.

I’m only doing one more,” Ruby said, scrolling through her phone. “Nobody likes a day-drunk hussie.” “Hey, give yourself some credit. You’ll be a really cute day- drunk hussie.

It's worth noting here that dragons are magical creatures. It's also worth following that up with a big, fat, duh.

It would take a good amount of work, a considerable amount of patience, and an unfathomable amount of foot rubs, but in the end—at least for a while—they lived happily.

Nice driving, ya doomed fucks!

Reggie, you wrapped your sports car around a telephone pole after drinking a bar." "Yeah... But I was wearing my seatbelt.

She waited. She waited so excruciatingly long that she could physically feel the time pass; a binding in her chest, her breath shallow and raspy. Silence seemed to stuff itself in her ears like cotton balls.

Statistical fact: cops will never pull over a man in a sweet van if he’s carrying forty pounds of sinsemilla buds. Another fact: ninety percent of all statistics are made up.

The Baron was good with two things: sex, and death. And what was sex anyway—what was orgasm but what the French (those cunning linguists of the language of love) referred to as a Little Death? What was life but a ticking clock toward the grave, and how did life start but with an unfettered hump toward morning?

There are probably more of us. If we’re all zombies, then there’s got to be more. I say we go up to the cemetery and find out.” “Can we get soda on the way?” Nothing washes down brains better than a can of Coca Cola and a little shameless product placement. (Hey, the undead do have an image problem.) “Soda and cemeteries! Soda and cemeteries!” they chanted. “And braaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiins!” “Hey Bernie, you’re getting pretty good at that.” “Okay, you try.” “Braaa—” the zombie belched, ”—aiiinsss.” Earl heaved the coroner’s body out of the way. They headed off for the cemetery, each trying furiously to perfect their own, unique and personal call for brains like an undead choir, out of tune. “Braaaaiiiiins!” “Braaiiiiiiiinns!” “Braaaaaaaaaains!” “Bray-uns.” “That was just awful.” ...Away into the night.

There is a weird kind of anonymity a roller coaster provides: It’s populated, but everyone’s too preoccupied with whirling around the roof of a casino to eavesdrop. It runs a fixed amount of time, has minimal surveillance for lack of a way to descramble the audio, and it’s conveniently out of earshot for certain writer- types who might scribble down the plan.

This existenitalist stuff sure is crap