Best 3518 quotes in «humour quotes» category

Dr. Cox: Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to present, Man Not Caring. [points to self]

Dr. Jules Hilbert: Hell Harold, you could just eat nothing but pancakes if you wanted. Harold Crick: What is wrong with you? Hey, I don't want to eat nothing but pancakes, I want to live! I mean, who in their right mind in a choice between pancakes and living chooses pancakes? Dr. Jules Hilbert: Harold, if you pause to think, you'd realize that that answer is inextricably contingent upon the type of life being led... and, of course, the quality of the pancakes.

During the Bosnian war in the late 1990s, I spent several days traveling around the country with Susan Sontag and her son, my dear friend David Rieff. On one occasion, we made a special detour to the town of Zenica, where there was reported to be a serious infiltration of outside Muslim extremists: a charge that was often used to slander the Bosnian government of the time. We found very little evidence of that, but the community itself was much riven as between Muslim, Croat, and Serb. No faction was strong enough to predominate, each was strong enough to veto the other's candidate for the chairmanship of the city council. Eventually, and in a way that was characteristically Bosnian, all three parties called on one of the town's few Jews and asked him to assume the job. We called on him, and found that he was also the resident intellectual, with a natural gift for synthesizing matters. After we left him, Susan began to chortle in the car. 'What do you think?' she asked. 'Do you think that the only dentist and the only shrink in Zenica are Jewish also?' It would be dense to have pretended not to see her joke.

During the Stone Age––” “Age of Magic,” Masika snapped. “It was less than 3000 years ago, not 8000 years ago.” Despite everything, Farida cracked a little smile. “The Age of Magic is the Age of Magic Stones, so it’s the Stone Age.

Duke to Michel: I’m fairly certain that even if you’d struggle in a quiz against a pigeon, you are capable enough of opening doors.

Each day of the week, Kalist indulges himself in a different, secret ritual. On Mondays, he wears cologne. On Tuesdays, he eats meat for lunch. On Wednesdays, he places a bet after work. On Thursdays, he smokes one cigarette (but claims he’s not a smoker). On Fridays, he treats himself to his favourite pastime: horse practice – he grew up with horses and likes to try and emulate their distinctive whinnies, snorts, neighs, snuffles, sighs, grunts, fluttering nostrils, the occasional aggressive outburst and the especially beautiful nicker of a mare to her foal. And, on Saturdays, lest we forget, Maxwell D. Kalist drinks wine from a chalice.

Dying's a fearful popular activity these days so we often double 'em up.

D’yer see it? This finger, laddie, could send ye to meet yer Maker!” Sgt. Deisenburger stared at the black and purple nail a few inches from his face. As an offensive weapon it rated quite highly, especially if it was ever used in the preparation of food.

Eating was easy. Thinking was hard.

Eating was still a sore point with Smriti.She failed to understand,when interesting options like mango juice or chocolates were available,why was she forced by her stupid mother to eat boring regular meals? After much contemplation,Nikhil came up with a suggestion'Don't give her food till she herself asks for it'. His idea'starve-to know-the-worth-of -food'made sense to Abhilasha,though it took her a great deal of resolve before she could actually try it out. So on a sunday,the'lady with an iron will'took over from'the soft and kind hearted mother'.she did not give her anything to eat and waited for the golden moment,expecting a hungry Smriti to beg for food. But the much awaited moment never came.Smriti was not at all bothered about her meal and kept playing happily. The day turned into evening and still there was no trace of hunger in her. "Aren't you feeling hungry?' now a worried mother had no option but to eat the humble pie and ask the daughter. "No Maa. My friend Pinky had brought wafers and chocolates. Those were so yummy that I ate them all......" And that was the end of her'starve-to -know-the-worth-of-food-mission.

— Écrivez tout de suite. — Tout de suite ! Tout de suite ! Comme si je n’avais pas d’affaires plus importantes à régler ! Et puis regarde, il n’y a plus d’encre là-dedans dit Oblomov, tournant sa plume sèche dans l’encrier vide. Alors, comment veux-tu que j’écrive ? […] Il semble bien qu’il n’y ait même pas de papier ! se dit-il, fouillant dans le tiroir et tâtant des objets posés sur la table. Non décidément, il n’y en a pas. Ah, c’est parfait, parfait !

Eat ten of your five a day and live twice as long

Eins var algengt hjá okkur ef spurt var um líðan einhvers manns: iss hann er feitur; en það þýddi að honum liði vel, eða einsog sagt mundi vera í Danmörku, að hann væri hamingjusamur. Ef einhverjum leið illa, þá var sagt sem svo: æ það hálfsér á honum; og væri sá nær dauða en lífi sem um var rætt, þá var sagt: æ það er í er í honum einhver lurða. Ef einhver var um það bil að verða ellidauður, þá var sagt: æjá hann er hættur að bleyta smjörið. Um þann sem lá banaleguna var sagt: já hann er nú að berja nestið auminginn. Um dauðvona ungling var sagt að það liti ekki út fyrir að hann ætti að kemba hærurnar.

Elsie eyed him puzzledly, and then offered, "Would you like to see my plate?

Emerging from the next chalet in the row was a young woman, probably mid-twenties he guessed, about medium height and build, with dark brown bobbed hair. She was clutching an arm full of books and a cup of coffee. That he had taken all this in, in a single glance, was remarkable. As he had simultaneously taken the fact, she was absolutely naked… “Good morning Miss!” “Miss? I never call anyone Miss! She could be married! A radical feminist! And I have just insulted her! I should have said Mizz, or Mam’, Oh God!” The thoughts raced through Addy’s panic-stricken mind. “There has been a spot of trouble at the clubhouse.” Professional, act professional. “I am making a few enquiries, I’d like to come back and ask you a few questions when …” Professional, you’re a professional, Man up! “… When you have … got yourself sorted out.” Phew!!

Ender began to eat, slowly and carefully, pretending not to notice he was the center of attention.

England once there lived a big And wonderfully clever pig. To everybody it was plain That Piggy had a massive brain. He worked out sums inside his head, There was no book he hadn't read. He knew what made an airplane fly, He knew how engines worked and why. He knew all this, but in the end One question drove him round the bend: He simply couldn't puzzle out What LIFE was really all about. What was the reason for his birth? Why was he placed upon this earth? His giant brain went round and round. Alas, no answer could be found. Till suddenly one wondrous night. All in a flash he saw the light. He jumped up like a ballet dancer And yelled, "By gum, I've got the answer!" "They want my bacon slice by slice "To sell at a tremendous price! "They want my tender juicy chops "To put in all the butcher's shops! "They want my pork to make a roast "And that's the part'll cost the most! "They want my sausages in strings! "They even want my chitterlings! "The butcher's shop! The carving knife! "That is the reason for my life!" Such thoughts as these are not designed To give a pig great piece of mind. Next morning, in comes Farmer Bland, A pail of pigswill in his hand, And piggy with a mighty roar, Bashes the farmer to the floor… Now comes the rather grizzly bit So let's not make too much of it, Except that you must understand That Piggy did eat Farmer Bland, He ate him up from head to toe, Chewing the pieces nice and slow. It took an hour to reach the feet, Because there was so much to eat, And when he finished, Pig, of course, Felt absolutely no remorse. Slowly he scratched his brainy head And with a little smile he said, "I had a fairly powerful hunch "That he might have me for his lunch. "And so, because I feared the worst, "I thought I'd better eat him first.

Enjolras caught glimpses of a luminous uprising under the dark skirts of the future.

Eng Seng was asked how many people were singing on Christmas eve. He replied that it was dark and even though there was light in the sky, he could not see people singing. He said the bible said there were angels singing and he supposed the angels were singing on Christmas eve! ...He was asked who organised the singing. He replied that, like what was stated in the bible, he followed a star and he supposed the others too followed the star. No one organised the singing. On spotting a dead moth on the floor, Eng Seng remarked to the officer partly in Hokkien: "By the way, er, you suay (bad luck) already. Moths die on the floor. You suay, I also suay, got to see you on New Year's Day." The officer asked if he believed in those things and he replied, "Yeah, moths live outside. Why come in to die!" No amount of questioning from the officer could elucidate any intelligent response from my brother! The officer was frustrated...brought him to see his superior. The minute the door to the superior's office was opened, Eng Seng exclaimed: "Wa tua liap liao! (So big shot already!)" The superior officer asked: "Do I know you?" He replied "Tua liap liao, how you know me small fly?" After a few more senseless comments, the superior officer told the officer to take him away. He was allowed home.

Ennen Valtio-niminen yritys tarjosi vakaan mutta kapean leivän. Nyt valtion firmat ovat palmioita, destioita ja postikin mikä lie itella. Kun posti lakkautetaan, Jarmo saa potkut. Se on tragedia. Mutta kun Itella reagoi markkinaympäristön muutokseen niin se onkin paljon nätimpi homma, ja mahdoton ymmärtää.

Ennesby, get the Serial Peacemaker to the beach for dustoff." "Dustoff? You're going to run away from three guys?" "No, I'm going to kill or capture those three guys, and then run away from the Police.

En toen keek ook kleine Quint op van zijn PS. Hij vroeg aan de clowns: 'Weten jullie wanneer eetzuster Gera komt?' De cliniclowns wisten niet wanneer eetzuster Gera kwam. 'Oh,' zei Quint toen, alsof hij Poetin was, 'ga dan maar weg.

Era scappata in camera dopo aver immaginato di uccidere tutte le renne di Babbo Natale in almeno quindici modi diversi e di sciogliere Frosty the Snowman con un asciugacapelli sotto gli occhi scandalizzati della cittadinanza, dopo tre ore — TRE ORE!- di Carol natalizi in radio e dal vivo. Sì, perché gli altri ospiti non avevano potuto fare a meno di improvvisare una specie di karaoke a tema, fanatici in preda allo Spirito Natalizio. Dio.

Erica had asked me a million times. 'Madison, are you sure you’re just the child minder? He pays you a lot of money for doing hardly anything.' Pushing aside the blatant insinuation that I was his weekend whore, I’d always told her the absolute truth. He’d never so much as looked at me inappropriately, let alone anything more.

E' sbagliato pensare di risolvere grossi problemi con il solo ausilio delle patate fritte.

Eszébe jutott Frieflif sörének íze, és megnyalta a szája szélét, de ekkor elkapta Rulf rosszalló pillantását, és egyből eszébe jutott Friedlif sörének íze, amikor éppen visszafelé jött.

Eternal nothingness is okay if you are dressed for it.

Eunice had deposited St John upon the balcony of the first-floor apartment of former Liberal MP, The Rt. Hon. Leonard Cossins, the disgraced Lord Mayor of Mitchell-Baines who had been removed from office having been caught administering counterfeit buttercup syrup to the local yeomanry whilst on a hunting trip to Stoke-Poges.

Even choosing the perfect dinner wine loses its earth-shattering importance if your guests happen to be cannibals, and you, the unsuspecting entree.

Even so have I given the womb of the earth to those that be sown in it in their times.

Even those who want to go to heaven would rather kill than be killed.

Even the Hindu neighbours had no way of figuring out what the priest recited, though it was in their mother tongue, Marathi. He didn’t give a damn about the meaning of the words, the feeling behind them, the poetry of the language or the complex manoeuvres of the plot line. He had no thought for metaphysical implications nor time to translate them in terms of everyday life. He was telescoping words, sentences, paragraphs, hurtling through chapter after chapter. He was vomiting all over the place, choking on his own breathless mess. What came forth were huge boulders and sharp and clangorous bits and parts of iron pistons and bridges and girders.

Even the world’s greatest actor cannot fake an erection.

Everybody means by an open mind, a mind which contains their prejudices but not somebody else's.

Even while we hate, we still have that deep unusual  compassion for our rivals, and they hate it when they realize that we are feeling sorry for them.

Everyday has its unique blessings.

Every child needs a father. Even if he turns out to be Darth Vader.

Everyday I think about the perfect life with you; Everyday I wish you existed.

Every discussion with a girl is an argument, and when you think you are right suddenly you realize that your trapped.

Ever since, in the U.K. they banned smoking in public places, I've never enjoyed a drinks party ever again. And the reason, I only worked out just the other day, is when you go to a drinks party and you stand up and you hold a glass of red wine and you talk endlessly to people, you don't actually want to spend all the time talking. It's really, really tiring. Sometimes you just want to stand there silently, alone with your thoughts. Sometimes you just want to stand in the corner and stare out of the window. Now the problem is, when you can't smoke, if you stand and stare out of the window on your own, you're an antisocial, friendless idiot. If you stand and stare out of the window on your own with a cigarette, you're a fucking philosopher.

Everyone is a raconteur without realizing it. We speak to our friends, we speak to our doctors and therapists about the nothing-meaning nonsense that goes on in our lives, but the difference in telling a story and complaining about the ills of one’s life is in the delivery. We can talk about how someone slighted you at work, or we can talk about how that person looked when they promptly fell down the stairs a moment after disdaining you. There, you see, is the difference: people will often notice the main but not the nuance; they will notice the face of the person yelling at them and the pitch of their shouts, but will not notice the comfort that the ululations of agony and twisted limbs lying on the bottom stile can promise.

Every name is an alias, a mask behind which to plan crimes as we smile and speak the usual nonsense.

Everyone can make scrambled eggs, Remy. It's programmed into you at birth, the default setting. Like being able to swim and knowing not to mix pickles with oatmeal. You just know.

Every one of us is like the pieces of a puzzle. Each one unique and with our own special place where only we can fit, and without every one of us, the picture wouldn’t be complete.

Every professor of philosophy needs a nine-year-old daughter. Mine has a habit of saying, "Daddy, that is a very silly idea." She is always right.

Every single good person is a good person for their own sake, not for the sake of humanity, not even for the sake of another human being.

Every single person is a fool, insane, a failure, or a bad person to at least ten people.

Every single living thing is food to at least one living thing.

Every single person I've seen in the past few days asks me about the Leg. How is it? How's the Leg? The Leg is attached. Thanks for asking. There's The Leg right there. It's on display, always outside of the sheets and blanket, although the whole thing is still so wrapped up it looks like I borrowed The Leg from some ancient Egyptian mummy. How's The Leg? It seems a bit mummyish, thanks.

Everything comes out of smoke and mist and nothingness, a mystical happening…