Bokelskere.no

Ho stod der, naken, og Edmund lo, og spurde om ho nokosinne hadde høyrt om intimbarbering. Det hadde ho ikke. Tullar du, sa han, vantru, og Elvira forstod på måten han lo på han kanskje aldri hadde sett korleis kvinner faktisk kunne sjå ut, trass at dei faktisk var i Kolve/Eitre [...]

Til slutt ble jeg helt desperat og grep tak i den magre svarte bakdelen - katten kjempet imot og satte tennene i armen min - og sammen klarte vi å pakke den inn i et kjøkkenhåndkle slik at bare hodet stakk ut, med øyne på stilk og ørene flate langs hodeskallen. Vi ga den mumielignende hvesende bunten til Charles.

"D-det står en mann utenfor." Rendar knuget hjelmen mot brystet.
"En mann?" Urd hevet et øyenbryn. Var det mulig å bli mindre konkret? Foreldrene hans måtte være søsken.

When seen full on, the feathers atop his head looked like brush-cut hair, and that gave him a brutish, almost conservative look. If owls were the professors of the avian kingdom, then kookaburras, I thought, might well be the gym teachers.

The book was slim and palm-size, divided into short chapters: "Banking," "Shopping," "Border Crossing." The one titled "Romance" included the following: "Would you like a drink?" "You're a fantastic dancer." "You look like some cousin of mine." The latter would work only if you were Asian, but even then it's a little creepy, the implication being "the cousin I have always wanted to undress and ejaculate on."

The thing about Hawaii, at least the part that is geared toward tourists, is that it's exactly what it promises to be. Step off the plane, and someone places a lei around your neck, as if it were something you had earned - an Olympic medal for sitting on your ass.

In the months prior to giving birth, she read every book on child-rearing she could find. In retrospect, Sun Tzu's Art of War would have been a better choice, or perhaps a field study of rabid primates.
Naturally, this isn't how she'd expected to feel about motherhood, but watching her baby daughter morph into a teenager has been an alarming experience, like cresting the first hill of a rollercoaster just as she realized her seatbelt was broken.

She has a husband who's a certifiable dickhead, but this isn't her disability per se.

"Ça va?" Dr. Granat asked, and I raised my hand, international dental sign language for "There is something vital I need to communicate." He removed his screwdriver from my mouth, and I pointed to the screen. "Ils ont mangé des souris en brochette," I told him, meaning, "They have eaten some mice on skewers."
He looked up at the little TV. "Ah, oui?"

Maybe, being American, I want bigger names for things. I also expect a bit more gravity. "I've run some tests," I'd like to hear, "and discovered that what you have is called a bilateral ganglial abasement, or, in layman's terms, a cartoidal rupture of the venal septrumus. Dogs get these all the time, and most often they die. That's why I'd like us to proceed with the utmost caution."
For my fifty dollars, I want to leave the doctor's office in tears, but instead I walk out feeling like a hypochondriac, which is one of the few things I'm actually not.