When you’ve survived flying helicopters in Vietnam, taken on the U.S. government, fought the mob in Las Vegas, been shot and stabbed as I have; farting in a crowded elevator falls short of being a disaster.

Home is where the heart is, home is where the fart is.
Come let us fart in the home.
There is no art in a fart.
Still a fart may not be artless.
Let us fart and artless fart in the home.

Of all the various kinds of sexual intercourse, this has the least to recommend it. As an amusement, it is too fleeting; as an occupation, it is too wearing; as a public exhibition, there is no money in it. It is unsuited to the drawing room, and in the most cultured society it has long been banished from the social board. It has at last, in our day of progress and improvement, been degraded to brotherhood with flatulence. Among the best bred, these two arts are now indulged in only private--though by consent of the whole company, when only males are present, it is still permissible, in good society, to remove the embargo on the fundamental sigh.

(The shelter is) a very needed and well-done facility that's going to get a lot of use in the future.

It's awfully hard to give a hot-shooting team like that a double-digit lead and come back. But our kids gave it a great effort and we crept back in it a number of times.

For my four years here, it's the first time we came out the first half and played good football.