Best 24 quotes of Phillip Andrew Bennett Low on MyQuotes

And dozens of tiny hands reached up, and cast back dozens of tiny hoods. The robes fell away, revealing a motley of brightly-colored, dwarfish creatures, perched atop one another’s shoulders, brandishing outlandish tubes of a shiny substance none present had ever seen before. With preternatural speed and precision, they were trained upon the wild-eyed Romans, and after a few frantic pumping motions, streams of fluid arced through the air towards them. Wherever they landed, upon flesh or armor, steam burst forth, and the soldiers screamed in agony. Many of them were seasoned, having put down rebellions throughout the Empire, but all of their training and experience failed them in the face of elves wielding super soakers. Super soakers filled with battery acid.

And I thought, y’know, I mean…this is crazy. I mean, the only thing that determines what country you belong to is where you happened to be born? What is a country, anyway? It’s not, y’know, “purple mountain’s majesty” or “fruited plains,” whatever the hell that means. I mean, America isn’t a place, it’s an ideal. It could happen in the Sahara Desert and still be America. For that matter, I’m the child of immigrants. My father’s lived and worked in this country for the past three decades. And he’s somehow more or less American than some redneck who uses Osama bin Laden for toilet paper? How the hell do you measure something like that?

And then the other guy will look really sheepish, and mumble that, okay, maybe he tried to make a run for it, and maybe he took a drunken swing at the arresting officer, and maybe he made a couple of off-color remarks about law-enforcement professionals, and maybe he’s been hiding from the cops ever since an incident a few years back involving a bleeding hooker, nine pounds of cocaine, and a soiled image of Tipper Gore.

Every muscle in his body tensed for action, adrenalin pounding through his tiny veins, he crept down the stairs, keeping to the corners (where he knew they creaked less). He peered around the bottom of the stairwell into the living room, and there he saw a lean, bearded man, clad only in a loincloth and a crown of thorns. When he bent over the Xmas tree, Tony saw that blood flowed freely from his bare hands and feet. Before the cherubic prepubescent could stop himself, the words flew out of his mouth: “You’re not Santa!

Her eyes narrowed. “That is not the boy I raised.

I guess you could say I’ve got a monkey on my back. A monkey named Darwin.” He shrugged off the trench coat and there she was, clinging tightly to his shoulders. The hunch on his back wasn’t a hunch at all, but as fine a specimen of a female chimpanzee as I’m ever likely to see.

INDECISION NOW!' isn’t a battle cry that’s going to rouse anybody’s blood. But I sometimes wonder if it isn’t the sanest one.

In the Code of Canon Law, it states clearly: 'A person who is conscious of grave sin is not to celebrate Mass or receive the body of the Lord without previous sacramental confession.' I haven’t attended confession in well over a decade, and that’s less because of dogmatic conflict than it is because of moral cowardice. Deeper than that, maybe I don’t want to be forgiven. I want to be punished. Which may be just about the most selfish, egotistical thought I’ve ever had. I’m sick with self-love. Or self-loathing. After all, they’re both essentially the same thing.

I was staring at one of the most famous images of Santa Claus of all time — one by Thomas Nast, from Harper’s Weekly, 1881.

Jesus shook his head slowly from side to side, then thrust his left hand deep into Santa’s sack. Out came something resembling raw steak, slippery and pulsating, throbbing crimson fluid in every direction. Yanking up my shirt, he rapidly pressed his other hand against my right side. He closed his eyes, and I watched as the healthy liver in his hand became corrugated and cirrhotic. I then found myself, sealed once more within my prison of flesh, disgorging bile and ethanol from every orifice.

Oh, this is not the time for us to get into that meshugenah debate again! Look, the point is that Jesus of Nazareth, who is a very big deal to the Boss, regardless of whatever metaphysically bewildering relationship they may have, has gone missing, on the eve of the single most important event in the history of Creation. The sentence parses, don’t look at me like that. And, through a comical series of events far too elaborate to detail here, you and I are going to be held directly responsible unless we figure out a way to fix this, and I mean yesterday! And I’m not being poetic, we’re angels, we can totally do that.

Okay. I’m not a white male. At least, not predominantly so. And as I mentioned before, I’m in an environment right now where race is really important. See, Chinese men are not that physically intimidating. We’re not that tall. We’re not that built. We have exactly one thing going for us in a fight — that our opponent recognizes that there’s a possibility, no matter how remote, that we might know kung-fu.

See, I’m a great believer in the power of negative thought. And in an age of affirmation, of self-help and self-love, of the rebirth of wide-eyed idealism and the power of positive thinking — I’m happy to be a champion of skepticism and doubt. That night, I rediscovered my role, my reason, and my rage.

She sighed and stepped out of the room, pulling the door shut behind her. Turning around, she nearly tripped over some of the help. “Man, you little bastards are everywhere, aren’t you?” she mumbled to herself.

So a while back I spent a night in jail. Now, as for exactly what landed me there, I’d be so delighted to never have to go into any of the details regarding that. Besides, other people’s theories are so much more exotic and exciting than the reality. I've heard everything from 'attempted terrorism' to 'indecent public condescension.

So, I’m a playwright. In Minneapolis. Which means that I find myself operating in a pretty lefty crowd, most of the time. And most of my energy goes towards arguing with that, and musing about how I really fucking can’t stand Democrats. So I was startled to be reminded of a fact that I’d almost entirely forgotten: I really fucking can’t stand Republicans.

…so that’s why I’m pleased to announce my endorsement of Sarah Palin for President in 2016: because you know that whoever gets elected is going to fuck you over. So why not vote for somebody that you actually want to get fucked by?

The crucified figure had not been idle. A series of elaborate twists activated a cunning mechanism; the base of the cross blew apart, revealing a winding metal spring at the base. At the same time, there was a whir of machinery, a grinding sound of metal against metal, and a series of spindly steel tubes emerged from the head and arms of the cross; and as the jolly old elf grunted and arched his back, the giant laser-mounted pogo stick heaved into the air, leaving in its wake waves of devastation, and a merry, menacing cry of “Ho-ho-ho!

The good news was that we’d found Santa. The bad news was that he was floating in a giant tube of clear fluid, seemingly unconscious. The worse news was that he was completely naked, except for a festive red hat; his clothes and his magic sack were piled neatly in a darkened corner.

The jolly old elf’s nose was red, but not from cold — rather, from the brutality of a dozen boxes of Kleenex. Mucus flowed freely down his cheeks, and mixed with tears of agony. She folded her arms, pursed her lips, and declared: “You’re not going out this week.

The Libertarian Party convention wasn’t much better. You will never find a more stammering, awkward, inarticulate group of people than libertarians. I still remember the convention the previous year, entitled 'Women of Liberty.' All of the speakers were women, and all of the topics boiled down to 'Effectively Communicating Libertarian Ideas to Women' — in other words, 'How to talk to girls.' Looking around at the nearly entirely white male audience, it wasn’t hard to see why they chose this tack.

There he was, skipping lightly across the surface of the water. He caught my eye and gave me that shit-eating grin again. “Be of good cheer. It is I. Be not afraid.

There is nothing worse than certainty. Doubt makes us weak. That is why it’s so important. I’ve wasted too much of my life trying to be powerful.

The Revelation of Hashmal, which GOD gave unto him, to shew unto His servants things which shortly must come to pass; and Hashmal sent and signified it to his servant Simeon: Who bare record of the word of GOD, and of the testimony of Hashmal, and of all the things that he saw.