Best 10 quotes of Wynne Mclaughlin on MyQuotes

Cope laughed. “I wouldn’t worry yourself, my friend. Eobasileus has been extinct for thirty-seven million years.” At this, the preacher could no longer contain himself. “Nonsense! Utter nonsense!” “Nonsense?” asked Cope. “The archbishop James Ussher, using the Holy Bible itself, worked back generation by generation, mathematically, and calculated that the Earth was created on Sunday, October 23, 4004 BC at precisely eight a.m.” “Did he, now? Eight a.m., precisely?” “Precisely,” the preacher insisted. Copy and Sternberg exchanged amused looks. “Well,” Cope replied, “since the rotation of the Earth assures us that it’s always eight a.m. somewhere in the world, I suppose I should applaud him for guessing the correct time, at least.” The cowboy couldn’t help but interject. “Pardon me, Preacher, but if I recall correctly, didn’t the Bible say something about the Lord resting on the seventh day?” The preacher looked confused. “What?” “I’m certain of it.” The cowboy quickly snatched the Bible from the preacher’s hands and opened it to the first page of Genesis. “Sure. Here it is. He got started on a Monday, making light and darkness. By the time he got around to creating the Earth it was well into the third day. I make that to be Wednesday, not Sunday.” Nonplussed and blushing, the preacher snatched his Bible back. The cowboy shrugged. “Looks to me like your archbishop pulled a fast one, Preacher. Or maybe he just wasn’t all that good at calculating.

I can't shake the feeling that all these conspiracy theorists are in on it.

If anaphylactic shock is wrong, I don't wanna bee bite.

It's all about perspective. The sinking of the Titanic was a miracle to the lobsters in the ship's kitchen. (Oct 4, 2011)

It’s my belief that all of the greatest tales ever told have been told in saloons. It was in such smoky, heathen-filled den of iniquity that I first heard the tale of the Bone Feud. As with all great tales, it was at its core one hundred percent true. In fact, much of it has long been a matter of historical record. But tales grow in the telling, and I therefore must apologize in advance for any inaccuracies, and beg your indulgence for any romanticized embellishments. I have decided to present the story here, just as it was told to me. I find it entirely too rich and too entertaining to alter, simply to curry favor with pedants and historians.

I want the real story, the one that won’t make it into the history books or the scientific journals.” “And you think I’m the man to tell it, do you?” “If you were actually there, you are most definitely the person to tell it. You’re absolutely right. There have been plenty of stories. The trouble is, every account is different. Most of them are second or third hand. I don’t know . . . I guess I figured, maybe since you weren’t in such a rush to tell your version, it might be the closest to the truth.” Garvey chuckled heartily. “Well, I can’t argue with that logic, son. Despite my choice of reading materials . . .” he nodded towards the adventure novel he’d set down, a recent translation of the French novel by Jules Verne, A Journey to the Center of the Earth, “I’ve never been one for unnecessary embellishment. You want the God’s honest truth? In this particular case, there’s no need. It’s a hell of a goddamn story.” I was already flipping open a notebook and licking the tip of a sharpened pencil to take notes. I may have been salivating.

I wrote a book on cats. In retrospect, I should have used paper, cause chapter six got hit by a car.

Maybe history wouldn't have to repeat itself if we listened once in awhile.

My Halloween costume is Godot. I'm not showing up at the party, just texting the host every 10 minutes that I'm on my way.

What is this animal?” “A horse.” The chief smiled slightly, and then shouted something to his men in Sioux. They laughed heartily. “The white eye should stay out of the sun,” said the chief. Marsh couldn’t help but become a little defensive. “Wait. You’ve seen a horse’s bones, haven’t you?” The chief nodded. “Look at it closely.” Marsh held the tiny skull up alongside the head of Red Cloud’s mount, comparing the two. The chief reached down and took the skull gingerly, and peered at it intently, turning it in his enormous but surprisingly dexterous hands. “A small horse?” “Precisely,” said Marsh, indicated the size with his hands. “Very small.” The other Sioux laughed, but Red Cloud was fascinated. “Where are these small horses? Show me one.” “I’m sorry, I can’t. They are all dead. They died many, many years ago. Many snows. We search for their bones.” “Why?” “To . . . to honor them. To learn from them.” “They speak to you?” Marsh smiled. “Oh yes.” “What do they say?” “They tell us of their world. A world that has long since vanished.” The chief looked down at the skull, then at Marsh. He shouted again to his men, in Sioux, and they lowered their rifles. He dismounted and turned to face Marsh. “I am Red Cloud.” “My name is Professor Marsh.” “Marsh.” Red Cloud tested the name out loud, and then nodded in approval. “I will hear what these small horses have to teach.