The Librarian looked out at the jolting scenery. He was sulking. This had a lot to do with the new bright collar around his neck with the word "PONGO" on it. Someone was going to suffer for this.
"Kneel and deliver!"
I MUST SAY THESE ARE VERY GOOD BISCUITS. HOW DO THEY GET THE BITS OF CHOCOLATE IN?
Nanny Ogg never did any housework herself, but she was the cause of housework in other people.
Verence would rather cut his own leg off than put a witch in prison, since it'd save trouble in the long run and probably be less painful.
I LIKE TO THINK I AM A PICKER-UP OF UNCONSIDERED TRIFLES. Death grinned hopefully.
Mustrum Ridcully did a lot for rare species. For one thing, he kept them rare.
Using a metaphor in front of a man as unimaginative as Ridcully was like a red flag to a bu-- was like putting something very annoying in front of someone who was annoyed by it.
The thing about iron is that you generally don't have to think fast in dealing with it.
Nanny Ogg looked under her bed in case there was a man there. Well, you never knew your luck.
The chieftain had been turned into a pumpkin although, in accordance with the rules of universal humour, he still had his hat on.
For Magrat, stepping into a man's bedroom was like an explorer stepping on to that part of the map marked Here Be Dragons.
"I wants your body, Mrs Ogg."
"I know she's in there," said Verence, holding his crown in his hands in the famous Ai-Senor-Mexican-Bandits-Have-Raided-Our-Village position.
In fact, the mere act of opening the box will determine the state of the cat, although in this case there were three determinate states the cat could be in: these being Alive, Dead, and Bloody Furious.
The shortest unit of time in the multiverse is the New York Second, defined as the period of time between the traffic lights turning green and the cab behind you honking.
"Serve 'em right for not inviting me to their weddings."
"Hah, I can just see a real playsmith putting donkeys in a play!"
"Do not meddle in the affairs of wizards, especially simian ones. They are not all that subtle."
"Go ahead, bake my quiche"
In the Beginning there was nothing, which exploded.
Remember, A Dragon is For Life, Not Just for Hogswatchnight
There have, in the course of decadent history, been many large wigs, often with build-in gewgaws to stop people having to look at boring hair all the time. There had been ones big enough to contain pet mice or clockwork ornaments. Mme Cupidor, mistress of Mad King Soup II, had one with a bird cage in it, but on special state occasions wore one containing a perpetual calendar, a floral clock and a take-away linguini shop.
The place looked as though it had been visited by Gengiz Cohen [footnote: hence the term "wholesale destruction"].
"This is a lovely party," said the Bursar to a chair, "I wish I was here."
No matter what she did with her hair it took about three minutes for it to tangle itself up again, like a garden hosepipe in a shed [Which, no matter how carefully coiled, will always uncoil overnight and tie the lawnmower to the bicycles].
He married that Palliard girl, remember? The one with the air-cooled teeth?
And the child had a permanently runny nose and ought to be provided with a handkerchief or, failing that, a cork.
It was here that the thaum, hitherto believed to be the smallest possible particle of magic, was succesfully demonstrated to be made up of /resons/ (Lit.: 'Thing-ies') or reality fragments. Currently research indicates that each reson is itself made up of a combination of at least five 'flavours', known as 'up', 'down', 'sideways', 'sex appeal' and 'peppermint'.
A heap of discarded garments by the bed suggested that Verence had mastered the art of hanging up clothes as practised by half the population of the world, and that he had equally had difficulty with the complex topological manoeuvres necessary to turn the socks the right way out.
Chain-mail isn't much defence against an arrow. It certainly isn't when the arrow is being aimed between your eyes.
It's not enough to be able to pick up a sword. You have to know which end to poke into the enemy.
The Monks of Cool, whose tiny and exclusive monastery is hidden in a really cool and laid-back valley in the lower Ramtops, have a passing-out test for a novice. He is taken into a room full of all types of clothing and asked: Yo, my son, which of these is the most stylish thing to wear? And the correct answer is: Hey, whatever I select.
The L-Space Web is a creation
of The L-Space Librarians
This mirror site is maintained by Colm Buckley