Quotes from Carl Hiaasen

Charles Regis Perrone was a biologist by default. Medical school had been his first goal--specifically, a leisurely career in radiology. The promise of wealth had attracted him to health care, but as a devoted hypochondriac he was repelled by the idea of interacting with actual sick people.

Wouldn't it be a treat, Chaz thought, to have just one goddamn day when nobody fucked with my head?

I bet he's MSNBC. They'll try to bust him out. Happens all the time. Don't you pay attention to the news?" The chief didn't need to ask which network she'd been watching. He said, "We've got no evidence Beltrán is a gang member. And it's MS-13, not MSNBC.

Honey's outlook on men was sinking to a point of abject revulsion. The day was new, yet she'd already been ridiculed by a soulless twit and kidnapped by a reeking pervert.

One more crash," he'd warned my dad, "and you're fired." The guy acting like

It occurred to Yancy that, in the time they'd known each other, he hadn't once seen her look at her cell phone. She never texted, tweeted, Facebooked, Instagrammed, or posted a single picture when they were together. He found this behavior alluring.

It's hopeless, Honey told herself. The cocky telephone hustler would go home to Texas unchanged, as vapid and self-absorbed as ever. That a dolt so charmless could attract both a wife and a girlfriend was as dispiriting as it was inexplicable.

Maureen closed her eyes. Listen to me, Earl. It's yourself you ought to be thinking about. Life goes by so darn fast, every wasted moment is a crime. One blue eye opened and fixed on him. And every crime is a wasted moment.

Now, re-reading Macauley by firelight, Sammy Tigertail struggled to envision the noble and fiercely insulated culture so admiringly documented in those pages. He wondered what the journalist-preacher would say about the twenty-first century clans that eagerly beckoned outsiders to tribal gambling halls, tourist traps and drive-through cigarette kiosks. For not the first time the young man contemplated the crushing likelihood that the warrior he aspired to become had no place to go.

It was inevitable that the poacher and the counterfeiter would bond, sharing as they did a blanket contempt for government, taxes, homosexuals, immigrants, minorities, gun laws, assertive women and honest work.

Only because you're injured," she said, and kissed him again. He pulled her close. "How's this going to work with all these stitches? Do I have to keep standing?" "Well," whispered Rosa, "I suppose you could kneel." Yancy lifted her sundress. "You're the doctor.

also want you to go to an internist. Courtney says the mental degeneration has occurred so rapidly that it could be pathological. A tumor or something.

The twenty-first century would be the age of the cartel, the unforgettable era of the new monopolists, when men who were strong and farsighted and, yes, ruthless would control the globe.

That's no midget," the water skier said. "That's a real person.

Elle m'appelle encore ton ex-père? -Ça lui arrive , répondit Fry. D'autres fois c'est juste ton vaurien de narcotrafiquants de père.

Merry's hair was flying everywhere so she pulled it into a ponytail. It occurred to Yancy that, in the time they'd known each other, he hadn't once seen her look at her cell phone. She never texted, tweeted, Facebooked, Instagrammed, or posted a single picture when they were together. He found this behavior alluring.

all the way back to the marina the three of them sat on the luggage to keep the dead midget inside.

His arctic nod suggested that he'd rather be waxing his nut sack than trailing Fay Alex around.

Tonight's feature starred the commander-in-chief himself. Angie had been summoned to Casa Bellicosa to unfasten a screech owl from the presidential pompadour, which the low-swooping raptor had mistaken for a road-kill fox.

Abbey hopped off my handlebars

This is what happens when you put a moron in the intelligence unit: he gets even dumber.

I believe it's never too late to change. I'm eighty-one years old, but I still think I can be a better person tomorrow than I am today. And that's what I'll believe until I run out of tomorrows.

Boyd Shreave tore the page from Eugenie Fonda's memoir and, with a contemptuous flourish, wiped his ass with it.

Eugenie Fonda sat on the balcony of her sixth-floor room, fanning her freshly painted toes and watching the sun melt like sorbet into the Gulf of Mexico. Her third Bacardi was sweating cool droplets that snaked down her bare tummy.