Best 15707 quotes in «humor quotes» category

He was a dastardly fellow,” the beer mug continued happily. “Truly repugnant. And smelled! Oh, lad, the stench could knock over an ox!

He was a humorist, and everyone knew the funny writers were the most serious sort under their skins.

He was a large, fleshy man, weighing at least two hundred pounds, and he quickly became a faithful representation of a quivering jelly mountain of fat.

He was always eating things of hers. Clothing, books, family heirlooms.

He was a musician of the best nature, with guitar string fingertips and soft flute lips that could tighten in a trumpet's purse. Every movement was perfect, every breath filled with purpose. Whether close or open, his eyes seeped ambition and his body burned with chaotic passion. I was his instrument and he played me so well. His fingers fashioned a tune of ecstasy while his lips felt the reed shudders of my skin. He stole my breath and made it his own, using my lips to create his climactic song. A symphony of electricity and orgasmic bliss, he played me so well his fingers never did miss. Half-circles and hooks with my parted lips as his speaker, I never knew another musician so ruthlessly eager. To finish his song, to hit every note, elongating the melody of every sound from the depths of my throat. He was ambitious, pushing my limits, tearing my reservations and destroying my thresholds, all I could do was phase in and out, my ears ringing from the ballad I was made to produce.

He was a strange mix of Heinrich Himmler and Barney the Dinosaur.

He wanted a home. He wanted a family. He wanted to have friends. But none of those things were realistic. At least not until he came to Mineral Wells. Right now Carter was just trying to hold on to the happiness he'd found since meeting Mr. Vernon the previous night. "To belong, okay??" Carter snapped. He felt tears in his eyes, but he wasn't sure. Quickly, he wiped at them. "You don't know what it's like to be alone.

He wanted to break up with me in the cafeteria? Fat chance. I leaned toward him and touched his arm in a girlfriend sort of way. “If you planned to stage a public breakup with me, you can forget it.” Amusement showed in his hazel eyes. “Think you can stop me?

He was afraid to pick up the baby. If he touched it, it might bond with him or something. Or he might leave fingerprints all over it.

He was an Atlantean...older than dirt and dirt's great-grandfather.

He was a peculiar sight. Tears rolling down his face, shouting to drown the sound of the singing rabbit; he said he needed help, pointed to a chicken, handed over some money, grabbed his parcel and bolted out the door in panic. Boys, thought the butcher. Drugs, thought the woman. Justin Case, thought Dorothea.

He was a dying man looking down on the surgeons trying to save him.

He was a man who was charged with the work he did in life because he was not one to ask questions - not so much on account of any natural quality of discretion as because he simply could never think of any questions to ask. ... On the strength of which he had guaranteed himself regular employment for as long as he cared to live.

He was cut from the scene like a case of the runs from a can-can routine.

He wanted one drink, and understood precisely why he wasn't going to have one. One drink ended up arriving in a dozen glasses.

He wanted to tell her she'd have more room if she'd just get rid of her books, but he supposed that in her case, it would be like telling a mother she'd have more room if she threw out her children.

He was a beautiful pagan god with the voice of a serial killer, but that didn’t make him any less god like. It just meant rather than dying in some dank basement or isolated cabin, I’d die bound on an altar as part of some gruesome sacrificial rite. Exsanguinating while he stood over my naked body with my blood dripping from an obsidian blade...Angelina Martin

He was a good storyteller, but he told the kind of stories that made children run away from the village and adults look for a length of rope and some soap.

He was a six and a half foot scowl. (on Rachmaninov)

He was a tyrant who had enslaved and murdered the elves and betrayed his own people. [...] Emperor Qalduun had existed over a thousand years ago and had been forgotten by no one except for the humans, who liked to pretend none of it had even happened. It was hardly shocking that none of Elbryn’s human caretakers would have spoken to him about Qalduun. Humans were notorious for covering up history rather than learning from it.

He wasn't aware of it but when he smiled he looked like an amiable bear. When he didn't smile he didn't look amiable

He was obviously on the wrong side of crazy.

...He was irritable with Orr, who had found two crab apples somewhere and walked with them in his cheeks until Yossarian spied them there and made him take them out. Then Orr found two horse chestnuts somewhere and slipped those in until Yossarian detected them and snapped at him again to take the crab apples out of his mouth. Orr grinned and replied that they were not crab apples but horse chestnuts and that they were not in his mouth but in his hands, but Yossarian was not able to understand a single word he said because of the horse chestnuts in his mouth and made him take them out anyway.

He was, out of all sight (as I remember him), the nicest boy that ever spun a top or broke a window.

He was just drifting off to sleep when it occurred to him that perhaps the dog was not so ordinary after all. Perhaps he was someone the ogre had changed, and Ivo was going to spend the night hugging a headmaster or a tax inspector

He was no stranger to middle fingers anyways; in Texas he had worked for a graphic design company, and the art world is overflowing with such fingers. At times almost exclusively.

He wasn't my type -- my type was more the skinny hipster boys in girl jeans and thick glasses, a.k.a. the first ones to go during the outbreak -- but the sight still had me staring.

He was so drunk that he would have stubbornly denied that he was.

He was more p***ed off by us playing a game of who could think up the worst nickname for him." "Let me guess, you won?" "It was Boy Scout, actually. I mean, come on. Even I couldn't top Chubby Chubby Choo Choo.

He wasn't touching that one with an eight-inch…pole.

He was outfitted for the occasion with his broadsword, long knife, several throwing knives tucked in his boots, the dragon pistol, and a pocket pistol in his waistcoat. "You are a walking armory," Father Jacob observed. "Because you are a walking target," said Sir Ander.

He was smiling, but Sam wasn’t convinced. “So, you’re just going in there without a plan?” Lance bobbed his head. “I work the best under pressure.

He was good-looking. Enough to make me feel uncomfortable. Tall and dark, etc.

He was not at the moment in very good odour at Bow Street. Such epithets as Blockhead and Blunderer had been used in connection with his last case. 'Jeremiah Stubbs, miss,’ said the Runner. ‘I am here in the execution of my dooty.

He was now Fergus Escondido-Smith: poet, mystic, and sage extraordinaire.

He was one of those people with lots of intelligence but no brains

He was trying to conjure up a succubus." It should be impossible to leer when all you've got is a beak, but the parrot managed it. "That's a female demon what comes in the night and makes mad passionate wossn-" "I've heard of them," said Rincewind. "Bloody dangerous things." The parrot put its head on one side. "It never worked. All he ever got was a neuralger." "What's that?" "It's a demon that comes and has a headache at you.

He was stretched out like he was her own personal playground and she wanted to ride on his equipment for a bit longer.

He was stupid. If I killed everyone who was stupid, I wouldn't have time to sleep.

He was thirty-six years old, and six foot three. He spoke English to people and French to cats, and Latin to the birds. He had once nearly killed himself trying to read and ride a horse at the same time.

He was unmistakably sipping iced tea with the hatters and the hares.

He watched in awe as she stacked up an enormous armload of music. "There," she finished, slapping Frank Zappa's Greatest Hits on top of the pile. "That should do for a start." "You are a music lover," said the wide-eyed cashier. "No, I'm a kleptomaniac." And she dashed out the door. He was so utterly shocked that it took him a moment to run after her. With a meaningful nod in the direction of the astounded Cahills, she barreled down the cobblestone street with her load. "Fermati!" shouted the cashier, scrambling in breathless pursuit. Nellie let a few CDs drop and watched with satisfaction over her shoulder as the clerk stopped to pick them up. The trick would be to keep the chase going just long enough for Amy and Dan to search Disco Volante. Yikes, she reflected suddenly, I'm starting to think like a Cahill.... And if she was nuts enough to hang around this family, it was only going to get worse.

He who cannot be considered a sensible man or being, is therefore with no doubt a fool.

He waved a hand. 'Never mind. It doesn't matter. Perhaps I did look guilty there for a while. In any event, it was interesting being the prime suspect for a moment or two.' 'If only we'd confided in one another,' I said. 'But we've never been very good at that, have we?' 'It could be worse. At least you've never tried to drown me in my bathtub.' I let out a sound that was some cross between a laugh and a sigh. 'Do be serious, Milo.

He went on like this all day, his lips bristling with bright iron brads under his grizzled beard, talking, spitting out nails, hammering them in, grasping, misquoting and singing all at the same time, lively as a leprechaun. "... the spectre of war is haunting Europe!"-bang bang bang-"You have nothing but your chains to lose, Mr. Small, and all the world to gain!" "Chains?" asked I. Small, looking about him. "What do you mean, chains? What chains? Where chains?" He touched his watch-chain to satisfy himself that it was not yet lost. Then, somewhat sadly, he said "You're bleddywell right. I got nothing but my chain to lose. And what's that worth? Three pounds?

He went through the bills with the jaundiced eye of a China trader, asking himself not whether he had been stolen from, but where the theft had occurred. If he couldn’t find it, that would suggest his factor back home in Shanghai was either cleverer or more honest than he had thought, and Crane didn’t think he was particularly honest.

He who laughs last ... just didn't get the joke.

He who is jealous is better off not dating someone who is bisexual.

He who loves lies suffers from no disease than lies! He who believes in and acts upon lies suffers from no disease than ignorance!

He who laughs loudest has a high probability of being extremely inebriated.