Schroedinger's Greebo:

Greebo had spent an irritating two minutes in that box. Technically, a cat locked in a box may be alive or it may be dead. You never know until you look. In fact, the mere act of opening the box will determine the state of the cat, although in this case there were three determinate states the cat could be in: these being Alive, Dead, and Bloody Furious.

Shawn dived sideways as Greebo went off like a Claymore mine.

‘Don’t worry about him,’ said Magrat dreamily, as the elf flailed at the maddened cat. ‘He’s just a big softy.’

HAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!!!

Sorry, I just can't stop quoting this book.

The kings of Lancre had never thrown anything away. At least, they’d never thrown anything away if it was possible to kill someone with it.

There was armour for men. There was armour for horses. There was armour for fighting dogs. There was even armour for ravens, although King Gurnt the Stupid’s plan for an aerial attack force had never really got off the ground.

Hehe.

Reading has been slow going for me since the antibiotic they put me on keeps knocking me out cold.  I thought this was pretty funny.  This is my first Agatha Christie book and I am loving this guy Poirot.

‘You are holding up well, Mal,’ said Polly.

‘Maybe those acorns did the trick? You haven’t mentioned coffee at all—’

Maladict stopped, and turned slowly. To Polly’s horror, his face was suddenly shiny with sweat.

‘You had to bring it up, didn’t you?’ he said hoarsely. ‘Oh, please, no! I was holding on so tight! I was doing so well!’

He fell forward, but managed to get on to his hands and knees. Then he raised his head, and his eyes were glowing red.

‘Fetch . . . Igorina,’ he muttered, gasping. ‘I know she’s ready for this . . .’ . . . whopwhopwhop . . .

Wazzer was praying furiously. Maladict tried to stand up again, fell back on to his knees, and raised his arms imploringly to the sky.

‘Get out of here while you can,’ he mumbled, as his teeth visibly lengthened. ‘I’ll—’

There was a shadow, a sense of movement, and the vampire slumped forward, stunned by an eight-ounce sack of coffee beans that had dropped out of a clear sky.

Polly arrived at the farmhouse carrying Maladict on her shoulder. She made him as comfortable as possible on some ancient straw, and the squad consulted.

‘Do you think we ought to try to take the sack out of his mouth?’ said Shufti nervously.

‘I tried, but he fights,’ said Polly.

‘But he’s unconscious!’

‘He still won’t let go of it! He’s sucking it. I’d swear he was out cold, but he just sort of reached out and grabbed it and bit! It dropped out of a clear sky!’

I sympathise with Maladict. If it weren't for coffee, many horrible things would happen.

—George Washington