I'm feeling full of tiny princes, bustling to get out into the world and start plotting against one another.

— Christopher Moore

I'm poor, and my cat is huge.

— Christopher Moore

In another Christmas story, Dale Pearson, evil developer, self-absorbed woman hater, and seemingly unredeemable curmudgeon, might be visited in the night by a series of ghosts who, by showing him bleak visions of Christmas future, past, and present, would bring about in him a change to generosity, kindness, and a general warmth toward his fellow man. But this is not that kind of Christmas story, so here, in not too many pages, someone is going to dispatch the miserable son of a bitch with a shovel. That's the spirit of Christmas yet to come in these parts. Ho, ho, ho.

— Christopher Moore

In business, as in politics, the public is ever so tolerant of those who slime.

— Christopher Moore

Is she special? (asks the gay waiter)" I think she's going to break my heart" On arrival of the girl" The flannel is fine honey, but I haven't seen anyone that over accessorized since batman!

— Christopher Moore

I tried cutting myself to express my heartbreak over Tommy (Lord Flood) rejecting me, but OMFG it hurts like flaming fuck.

— Christopher Moore

It's kinda hard to get yourself into a good three-toweled when you got the dick of death.

— Christopher Moore

It’s sarcasm, Josh.”“Sarcasm?”“It’s from the Greek, sarcasms. To bite the lips. It means that you aren’t really saying what you mean, but people will get your point. I invented it, Bartholomew named it.”“Well, if the village idiot named it, I’m sure it’s a good thing.”“There you go, you got it.”“Got what?”“Sarcasm.”“No, I meant it.”“Sure you did.”“Is that sarcasm?”“Irony, I think.”“What’s the difference?”“I haven’t the slightest idea.”“So you’re being ironic now, right?”“No, I really don’t know.”“Maybe you should ask the idiot.”“Now you’ve got it.”“What?”“Sarcasm.

— Christopher Moore

It's wildly irritating to have invented something as revolutionary as sarcasm, only to have it abused by amateurs.

— Christopher Moore

It was the sound of a thousand hungry children crying, ten thousand widows tearing their hair over their husband's graves, a chorus of angels singing the last dirge on the day of God's death.

— Christopher Moore