Paul Rudnick Quotes

My compulsive thoughts aren't even thoughts, they're absolute certainties and obeying them isn't a choice.

Oh my God. I love rich people. And royalty are the best because they're rich people who can't be fires.

Whenever I stumble over my own feet, or blurt out a thought that makes no sense at all, or leave the house wearing one pattern too many, I always think, It's okay, I'm from New Jersey. I love New Jersey, because it's not just an all-purpose punch line, but probably a handy legal defense, as in, Yes, I shot my wife because I thought she was Bigfoot, but I'm from New Jersey.

Dysmorphia is when someone looks in the mirror, and sees something else. While I studied my own whatever I was, I decided that maybe everyone has at least a touch of dysmorphia; maybe it's impossible for anyone to ever truly know what they look like.

There was a cable-TV program that documented how Peeps are made, and it showed unlimited hordes of Peeps bouncing merrily down a conveyor belt, right toward the camera. I came.

If God didn't want you to have it, He would never have let you see it.

And so I continue in borderline poverty, save for my one indulgence, no, my single absolute necessity: I take cabs. Yes, on occasion, when I wish to see what people with unpleasant skin conditions are wearing, I do take the subway. I have never, I am proud to say, taken the bus, because people who take the bus have given up.

I just saw Titanic, which is a $200 million film about a real-life disaster at sea, but according to Hollywood Logic, none of the actual passengers was interesting enough, so the writer-director had to invent a Romeo and Juliet-style fictional couple to heat up the catastrophe. This seems a tiny bit like giving Anne Frank a wacky best friend, to perk up that attic.

Have you ever been to a picnic? And someone blows up a balloon, and everyone starts tossing it around, and it's always just about to touch the ground, but someone always gets there just in time to tap it back up? That balloon, that's God, the very best in all of us, the kindness, the heavy petting, Funny Girl! ... Evil bores me. It's just one note. It doesn't sing! Oh, of course life sucks! It always will. So why not make the most of it?

There is only one blasphemy, and that is the refusal to experience joy.

State your name."
"Venice Huber."
"Occupation?"
"Well, it's hard to say. I don't model, land of the seventeen bimbos. I don't act - after all, isn't an actress just a model who won't shut up? Let's say, oh - homemaker. Could you die?

"Venice Huber."
"Occupation?"
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Most gay bashers will be wearing what gay people had on four years earlier - only in polyester with a Penney's label.

Venice was luscious. She had real curves and real cleavage. She had a stunning face, set off by a broad, lascivious grin. She had an indefinable hairstyle, a swag of thick blond dazzle that seemed always in motion, falling in her eyes, getting caught in her mouth. Venice spoke in a husky growl, with a deep, filthy laugh.
Venice was no stranger to flirtation; she was practically no stranger to anyone. She smoldered, even at breakfast. Venice - at times literally - enjoyed a love affair with Manhattan.

Nightlife is not for sissies, except of course for career sissies; an evening out requires at least a full day of minute preparation ... People move to New York to invent themselves, and nightclubs provide a runway for the results. It's easy to spend twenty hours per day slaving in a Pennsylvania coal mine or threshing some Nebraska oat crop; going out in New York is work.

Sometimes I think that we should send all of the Killer Mediums to Afghanistan because al-Qaeda wouldn't stand a chance.

I can't quite put my finger on it, but there's something quite different about you, from the last time we were together, what could it be ... ."
Was this my ultra-dose of Intoxicated taking effect?
"I know!" said the prince happily. "You're a national disgrace!"
"And do you know what else is interesting," I replied. "In America, Prince is a dog's name.

I'm here," I continued, "to guide you into the light of truth, decency and perhaps pants.

I love [my parents], but what if I could really talk to them? I mean, what if they had some answers? Or would that just be too weird?

Writing is 90 percent procrastination: reading magazines, eating cereal out of the box, watching infomercials. It's a matter of doing everything you can to avoid writing, until it is about four in the morning and you reach the point where you have to write.

Fine, I'll admit it, I've read all of the books in the trilogy, which have sold more copies than there are people in the world because a lot of girls have hoarded multiple copies of each book and hidden the backup copies under their beds or in their lockers or in hollow trees, in case there's a nuclear holocaust.

Rocher was on the floor, crawling on her stomach toward Jate's feet. "I love you ... ," she kept repeating, in a demonic whisper. "I have to show you ... my butt.

Wait, we can not break bread with you. You have taken the land which is rightfully ours. Years from now my people will be forced to live in mobile homes on reservations. Your people will wear cardigans, and drink highballs. We will sell our bracelets by the road sides, and you will play golf, and eat hot h'ors d'ourves. My people will have pain and degradation. Your people will have stick shifts. The gods of my tribe have spoken. They said do not trust the pilgrims, especially Sarah Miller. And for all of these reasons I have decided to scalp you and burn your village to the ground.

Guy cradled his tux, stroking it, running his fingers incestuously over the satin stripe on the trousers. There is a satisfaction that only superb clothing can offer, the joy of man raising himself from the mud, vindicating evolution. Life cannot lack purpose if a tuxedo exists - this is the obvious reply to the Samuel Beckett canon.

Most convicted felons are just people who were not taken to museums or Broadway musicals as children.