Best 24 quotes in «name calling quotes» category

Beware of anyone who calls you bad names merely for asking honest questions.

And she looked upon the mirror that was given as a gift. She hated everything about it, from the circular size of it, to the color, and the wooden frame that held it in place. But mostly, she hated looking at herself. Especially into this one that had a scratch on its glass surface, which would reflect back to her face. And as she looked, it would cut her as the words her father would often say, in telling her she was ugly.

Christina flashed a smile. "I shall ask a million questions of your purply-eyed so that Diana doesn't think about you and Julian or whether you might be at Mr. Rook's." I'm not sure he's a mister," Emma said, stifling a yawn. "I've never heard anyone call him anything but 'hey, Rook' or sometimes 'that bastard.

I embarked on a campaign of honey and kindness, which, if you've never tried it, is very hard to do with someone who thinks you are chickenhearted and has in the past called you a poxy sluggard. It is especially hard if every day you are plagued with fear about what might happen next.

I often wonder, in a catfight, when one doesn't want to fight, if the other cat calls it a pussy.

If you can't see past my name, you can't see me.

He leaned in for a sniff. 'Smells like a horse's arse! I've got Ian!' -'No sniffing allowed! We never discussed sniffing! I cry foul!' Ian was outraged. 'I'm not giving you a shilling!' -'Give him a shilling! It's not his fault you smell like a horse's arse!

Majority of people prefer a good name to a bad name, but to me, anyone can call me anything, as long as it is not written on my face.

It is not a good idea to call yourself a sardine in a family like Leo's, who will not let you forget it.

Never listen to destructive criticism - it's only meant to silence you.

Please keep calling me a snowflake. I like being different than the next person. Every snowflake is unique. They all come from the same place, but are able to establish their own identities, free and clear of any other snowflake. Snowflakes make this world beautiful.

Non-professionals can also misrepresent the personal characteristics, religious beliefs, and appearance, of these therapists, can name-call and otherwise mock them, and can attribute false agendas to them, such as assigning religious motives to secular therapists working with ritual abuse or mind control survivors. For example, there is little to prevent someone from claiming on his or her own website that a psychotherapist is a fundamentalist Christian zealot at war with Satan, when that therapist might be an atheist, Jew, Buddhist, etc., who places no stock in the existence of Satan. But such a claim, when spoken as if it is fact, accomplishes its intended purpose of maligning that therapist." - Common Forms of Misinformation and Tactics of Disinformation about Psychotherapy for Trauma Originating in Ritual Abuse and Mind Control (2012)

Strange how mean words can return to ones thoughts, years after they’ve been callously thrown at you. They replay in your mind, spiking a sense of remembered pain. Nasty name calling can be an ugly memory that stabs unexpectedly—not unlike a nightmare where you wake up crying. Sticks and stones, may break your bones—yet, cruel names can hurt you.

Sidekick? Fuck you, porky.

Someone else out there?” Luke squints in Hallelujah’s direction. He stands. He steps over his log bench and pushes past Rachel. Hallelujah can’t move, can’t breathe, and in four more steps, Luke has her by the arm. He’s marching her into the light. When he sees who it is, he drops her arm quickly, looking disgusted. “Hallie. You’ve gotta be kidding me.” Behind him, Brad’s on his feet. “Well, glory, Hallelujah!” he whoops. The girl next to him shushes him, and he lowers his voice. But he keeps talking, giving his words a preacher-at-a-revival ebb and flow. “I never thought, Hallelujah, I’d see the day, Hallelujah, where you’d have the guts to show up here, Hallelujah,praise Jesus—” “Give it a rest,” Luke says. “What, it’s only funny when you do it?” “Nah, she’s always funny,” Luke says, looking back at Hallelujah, dismissing her with a roll of his eyes. “You just aren’t. You never do that joke right.” He walks back to his seat. He glances at Rachel. “Turns out, there’s a seat for you right here, next to me.” He pats the unclaimed bit of log to his right.

Sticks and stones will break my bones but names will never hurt me.” This is a lie. What we say matters. The unkind things we communicate can soil the best of relationships; even with the deepest of regrets…what lingers is a stain of hurt that may fade but will never truly go away. The wounding words we say are like feathers released in a harsh wind, once said; we will never get them back. ~Jason Versey

The first time someone calls you a horse you punch him on the nose, the second time someone calls you a horse you call him a jerk but the third time someone calls you a horse, well then perhaps it's time to go shopping for a saddle.

The people who call you names are just trying to make themselves feel better. They've fucked up too. You're not the only one.

What was this power, this insidious threat, this invisible gun to her head that controlled her life . . . this terror of being called names? She had stayed a virgin so she wouldn't be called a tramp or a slut; had married so she wouldn't be called an old maid; faked orgasms so she wouldn't be called frigid; had children so she wouldn't be called barren; had not been a feminist because she didn't want to be called queer and a man hater; never nagged or raised her voice so she wouldn't be called a bitch . . . She had done all that and yet, still, this stranger had dragged her into the gutter with the names that men call women when they are angry.

You bloody old towser-faced boot-faced totem-pole on a crap reservation.

To liberals, shaming and labeling their opponents is necessary, they believe their opponents to be less of a person than they are.

What I actually want to call you is a hell of a lot more unprintable than your name

Why can't you call me Alex?" I ask, my head down while I stare at the food in front of me. "If I wanted to call you Alex, I wouldn't have bothered to name you Alejandro. Don't you like your given name?" My muscles tense. I was named after a father who is no longer alive, leaving me the responsibility of being the designated man of the house. Alejandro, Alejandro Jr., Junior . . . it's all the same to me. "Would it matter?" I mumble as I pick up a tortilla. I look up, trying to gauge her reaction. Her back is to me as she cleans dishes in the sink. "No." "Alex wants to pretend he's white," Carlos chimes in. "You can change your name, bro, but nobody'd mistake you for anythin' other than Mexicano." "Carlos, collate la boca," I warn. I don't want to be white. I just don't want to be associated with my father. "Por favor, you two," our mother pleads. "Enough fighting for one day." "Mojado," Carlos sings, egging me on by calling me a wetback. I've had enough of Carlos's mouth; he's gone too far. I stand, my chair scraping the floor. Carlos follows and steps in front of me, closing the space between us. He knows I could kick his ass. His overblown ego is gonna get him in trouble with the wrong person one of these days. "Carlos, sit down," mi'ama orders. "Dirty beaner," Carlos drawls at me in a fake deep accent. "Better yet, es un Ganguero." "Carlos!" mi'ama reprimands sharply as she comes forward, but I get in between them and grab my brother's collar. "Yeah, that's all anyone will ever think of me," I tell him. "But you keep talkin' trash and they'll think that of you, too." "Brother, they'll think that of me anyway. Whether I want them to or not." I release him. "You're wrong, Carlos. You can do better, be better." "Than you?" "Yeah, better than me and you know it," I say. "Now apologize to mi'ama for talkin' smack in front of her." One look in my eyes and Carlos knows I'm not kidding around. "Sorry, Ma," he says, then sits back down. I don't miss his glare, though, as his ego got knocked down a peg.

Yeah. I talked to their chief and she told me something pretty scary.” “What?” he asked. I took a deep breath, and tried not to stutter. “She told me that a storm is coming-” “It does look like it might rain.” Dean noted, cutting me off. I rolled my eyes, “Not a literal storm, dumbass,