Best 636 quotes in «satire quotes» category

Now, Richard Pryor was unique. Many misunderstood his humor. He lit up the hallway, but they didn't understand his use of profanity. He didn't use it just to be using it; he used it in the context of his satire.

Praise to the undeserving is severe satire.

Satire about any and all professionals with a special vocabulary has been a staple of fiction and popular ridicule since the 18th century.

Satire does not look pretty upon a tombstone.

Satire recoils whenever charged too high; round your own fame the fatal splinters fly.

Satire is traditionally the weapon of the powerless against the powerful. I only aim at the powerful. When satire is aimed at the powerless, it is not only cruel -- it's vulgar.

The audiences like to think that satire is doing something. But, in fact, it is mostly to leave themselves satisfied. Satisfied rather than angry, which is what they should be.

The biggest problem I had with starring in Scrubs were the black doctors. I just had to keep telling myself this show was satire.

Occasionally, the horrors of life in North Korea do show up in our American satire.

Satire always benefits when evil and stupidity collide.

Satire has a great big glaring target. If successful, it blasts a great big hole in the center. Directness there must be and singleness of aim: it is all aim, all trajectory.

Satire is not a social dynamite. But it is a social indicator: it shows that new men are knocking at the door.

Satire or sense, alas! Can Sporus feel? Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?

Satire should, like a polished razor keen, Wound with a touch that's scarcely felt or seen.

Satire among the Romans, but not among the Greeks, was a bitter invective poem.

Satire is dependent on strong beliefs, and on strong beliefs wounded.

Satire is traditionally the weapon of the powerless against the powerful.

Satire of satire tends to be self-canceling, and deliberate shock tactics soon lose their ability to shock, especially when they're too deliberate.

You must not think that a satiric style allows of scandalous and brutish words; the better sort abhor scurrility.

The modern form of things had begun to appeal to me, also (as material for satire) politics, and the lives of the great and little, high up in the social scale.

A deep breath is a technique with which we minimize the number of instances where we say what we do not mean … or what we really think.

Verse satire indeed is entirely our own.

A delightfully droll look at how the other half lives from a pet pooch's point of view.

A fig for those by law protected! Liberty's a glorious feast! Courts for cowards were erected, Churches built to please the priest!

A first edition of Peter Pan appeared gift-wrapped on my bed - Lucy admitted that Asher had drafted her to help deliver that present.

After having so nobly disentangled themselves from the shackles of Parental Authority, by a Clandestine Marriage, they were determined never to forfeit the good opinion they had gained in the World, in so doing, by accepting any proposals of reconciliation that might be offered them by their Fathers – to their farther trial of their noble independence however they never were exposed.

After a certain point, all natural bodily changes are for the worst.

After Jesus showed up, the Old Testament basically became a way for Bible publishers to keep their word count up. Of course, just because Jesus replaces the Old Testament doesn't mean that you should necessarily skip it. That would be like skipping Batman and Robin just because the story starts over in Batman Begins. The important thing to realize is that both the old and new stories are about an all-powerful being trying to rid the world of evildoers, only in the new one The Batman can eat pork.

Added to the crazy legends was a collection of essays called: “Gazpacho for My Mother: Tales of Tritesza and Sorrow,” in which Fergus declared and adored the hair-raising fits of anguish, sadness and self-absorption he experienced as a Hispanic person of mostly non-Hispanic origin.

After we deal and heal...NOT A A SHRED OF EVIDENCE EXISTS THAT LIFE IS SERIOUS .....Jan Marshall

Ah, dear Reader, is there a married man living who hasn’t purged his drawers and closets of premarital memorabilia, only to have one more incriminating relic from yester-life rear its lovely head? Kristy contends that old flames never die, not completely. They smolder for years in hidden places. They flare up again just when you think you’re over them. They can burn you if you don’t deal with them. Such is the price I’ve had to pay for not rooting out the evidence of my life B.C. (Before Contentment). Or, perhaps, for having planted it too well. But that, you see, is no longer an issue. Shall I tell you the crux of this argument? A man with a past can be forgiven. A man without one cannot be trusted. If there were no pictures in my drawer for Kirsty to uncover, I would have had to produce some.

Ah! good Sir! no Whores before Dinner, I beseech you." [Love's Last Shift]

Ah, I believe Schacht. Only too willingly; that’s to say, I think what he says is absolutely true, for the world is incomprehensibly crass, tyrannical, moody, and cruel to sickly and sensitive people. Well, Schacht will stay here for the time being. We laughed at him a bit, when he arrived, that can’t be helped either, Schacht is young and after all can’t be allowed to think there are special degrees, advantages, methods, and considerations for him. He has now had his first disappointment, and I’m convinced that he’ll have twenty disappointments, one after the other. Life with its savage laws is in any case for certain people a succession of discouragements and terrifying bad impressions. People like Schacht are born to feel and suffer a continuous sense of aversion. He would like to admit and welcome things, but he just can’t. Hardness and lack of compassion strike him with tenfold force, he just feels them more acutely. Poor Schacht. He’s a child and he should be able to revel in melodies and bed himself in kind, soft, carefree things. For him there should be secret splashings and birdsong. Pale and delicate evening clouds should waft him away in the kingdom of Ah, What’s Happening to Me? His hands are made for light gestures, not for work. Before him breezes should blow, and behind him sweet, friendly voices should be whispering. His eyes should be allowed to remain blissfully closed, and Schacht should be allowed to go quietly to sleep again, after being wakened in the morning in the warm, sensuous cushions. For him there is, at root, no proper activity, for every activity is for him, the way he is, improper, unnatural, and unsuitable. Compared with Schacht I’m the trueblue rawboned laborer. Ah, he’ll be crushed, and one day he’ll die in a hospital. or he’ll perish, ruined in body and soul, inside one of our modern prisons.

A história de todas as grandes civilizações galácticas tende a passar por três fases distintas e identificáveis: a da Sobrevivência, a da Interrogação e a da Sofisticação, também conhecidas pelas fases Como, Porquê e Onde. Por exemplo, a primeira fase é caracterizada pela pergunta "Como vamos comer?", a segunda pela pergunta "Por que comemos?" e a terceira pela pergunta "Onde vamos almoçar?".

Robert Ingersoll's character was as nearly perfect as it is possible for the character of mortal man to be... none sweeter or nobler had ever blessed the world. The example of his life was of more value to posterity than all the sermons that were ever written on the doctrine of original sin... The genius for humor and wit and satire of a Voltaire, a wide amplitude of imagination, and a greatness of heart and brain that placed him upon an equal footing with the greatest thinkers of antiquity. He stands, at the close of his career, the first great reformer of the age. {Thomas' words at the funeral of the great Robert Ingersoll}

All lies, freckled vows, crying-weeping on your toes Expected jelly beans gusto, got yourself a life imperfecto Too good a gal, too arrogant a gal Too independent, too in need of Chanel Took a careless ride, leaped for a perilous dive Now look who thrived, who gave you a vibe. - Chicken In Chicken Out

A good joke doesn’t necessarily need appreciation from others. One can freely laugh at one’s own deserving jokes.

A Harvey Nicks chick with throwaway morals and a trustfund appetite.

Akthent on thee latht thyllable.

A lot of people come up here and they thank Jesus for this award. I want you to know that no one had less to do with this award than Jesus. He didn't help me a bit. If it was up to him, Cesar Millan would be up here with that damn dog. So all I can say is, 'suck it, Jesus! This award is my God now'!

A leprechaun did not just kill off my car in a hailstorm.

A maid’s yard, house, wardrobe, fridge, etc. sometimes also serve as her master’s dustbin or dumpsite.

A man cannot really be called (sexually) confident if he has never bought his woman a vibrator.

An arrogant man whose arrogance we see from his own behaviour is more tolerable than a humble man whose humility we hear of from his own mouth.

A more popular book on the market was called, “Verdad for Our Family,” in which Fergus’s older brothers Angus and Wallace Smith explained in detail how their youngest sibling had warped facts, stolen ideas, memories, and identities from others, told outright lies about family members and misrepresented living and deceased people to advance himself. The whole town of Garlick bought a copy of that book, and Angus and Wallace soon found themselves on the Texas bestsellers list and steadily gaining popular momentum.

An avalanche is just a snowflake that got pissed off.

And evolution wasn't even properly invented until the late 1800s. Is that enough time to get a Labrador retriever from a dire wolf? I think not.

And if an increasingly pluralistic America ever decides to commission a new motto, I’m open for business, because I’ve got a better one than E pluribus unum. Tu dormis, tu perdis . . . You snooze, you lose.

And this,' Astrid says, gesturing at a wiry gentleman wearing eyeglasses and a houndstooth suit in need of pressing, standing a little distance away from the rest of the group, looking slightly uncomfortable, 'is Dexter Palmer, and he's a—what?' 'I,' says Dexter Palmer. 'Um.' 'He's a novelist,' Astrid brays, and Harold looks at Dexter, at his right arm rubbing his threadbare left elbow. Harold sees the oaken trunk in the corner of Dexter's filthy downtown loft with an enormous padlock on it, sees the tens of thousands of pages of handwritten manuscript that fill it. He sees the stub of the tallow candle on Dexter's rickety wooden desk, purchased for a dollar-fifty at a rummage sale. He sees the short leg of the desk propped up with a seven-hundred page study of phrenology, printed during the age of miracles. He sees Dexter's eyes going bad by candlelight, a whole diopter lost with each late night. 'Zounds, I am working on my masterpiece,' Dexter Palmer yells hoarsely, disturbing the neighbors. He slings a cup half-full of tepid chamomile tea at the wall, where it shatters. 'Dexter's writing a novel,' Astrid says brightly. After a few minutes of introductory cross-talk, the group of five splits into separate conversations: Harold talks with his sister and Charmaine, while Marlon ends up with Dexter. To Harold, Marlon looks cornered—Harold can't hear what Dexter's saying, but whatever he's talking about, he's clearly going on about it at length and in fine detail. Maybe Marlon is getting to hear all about the novel. Every once in a while Marlon will look at Harold and theatrically roll his eyes and sigh, but Dexter, who's frantically gesticulating, wrapped up in whatever he's chattering about, doesn't notice.

An ignorant man who is regarded as knowledgeable by people who are more ignorant than him is still ignorant.