A Confederacy of Dunces

"Hot dogs, ladies?" Ignatius asked pleasantly.

Plunge the fork into my vital organs, if you wish. I will not wear that cap. Death before dishonor and disease."

"Do you think that I am insane? Do you suppose that some stupid psychiatrist could even attempt to fathom the workings of my psyche?"

I simply await the day that they drag me to some air-conditioned dungeon and leave me there beneath the fluorescent lights and soundproofed ceiling to pay the price for scorning all that they hold dear within their little latex hearts.

"No, I was not `playing' with the cat. I only picked it up to fondle it a bit. It was a rather appealing calico. I offered it a hot dog. However, the cat refused to eat it. It was an animal with some taste and decency."

You must have therapy soon or you will become a screaming queen.

accept. Ask Miss O'Hara about him."

When a true genius appears in the world, you may know him by this sign, that the dunces are all in confederacy against him.

I am going to pray to St. Martin de Porres, the patron saint of mulattoes, for our cause in the factory. Because he is also invoked against rats, he will perhaps aid us in the office, too.