Best 15707 quotes in «humor quotes» category

HECKLER: Say something funny! COMEDIAN: I don't do requests.

He could be doing quantum physics in his head or undressing her in his mind—she’d never know the difference.

He could not consent to allow himself to be insulted, still less to allow himself to be treated as a rag, and, above all, to allow a thoroughly vicious man to treat him so. No quarrelling, however, no quarrelling! Possibly if some one wanted, if some one, for instance, actually insisted on turning Mr. Golyadkin into a rag, he might have done so, might have done so without opposition or punishment (Mr. Golyadkin was himself conscious of this at times), and he would have been a rag and not Golyadkin - yes, a nasty, filthy rag; but that rag would not have been a simple rag, it would have been a rag possessed of dignity, it would have been a rag possessed of feelings and sentiments, even though dignity was defenceless and feelings could not assert themselves, and lay hidden deep down in the filthy folds of the rag, still the feelings there...

He could totally be your boyfriend," [Angel] went on with annoying persistance. "You guys could get married. I could be like a junior bridesmaid. Total could be your flower dog." "I'm only a kid!" I shrieked. "I can't get married!" "You could in New Hampshire." My mouth dropped open. How does she know this stuff? "Forget it! No one's getting married!" I hissed. "Not in New Hampshire or anywhere else! Not in a box, not with a fox! Now go to sleep, before I kill you!

He cut short my request for something to eat, snapping out, "I don't believe you want to work." Now this was irrelevant. I hadn't said anything about work. The topic of conversation I had introduced was "food." In fact, I didn't want to work. I wanted to take the westbound overland that night.

…he’d assumed their relationship would go on forever. It was going on now, but in another way, like the rearrangement of the stars, which were all still in the sky, just burning in unexpected places.

He could do this. He'd survived boot camp. He'd survived combat and the harsh weather of Afghanistan. He could survive broccoli. Probably.

He curled his claw into a fist. "I'd like to shove a stake up that bastard's ass." Adam's lip curled. "Remind me not to piss you off." The demon raised his brow. "Trust that shit, mancy.

He'd better make you happy or I'll break his face.

He'd done his walls with paint from Holy Basil. God, I yearned for their colors. I hadn't been able to afford them myself but I knew their color chart like the back of my hand. His hall was done in Gangrene, his stairs in Agony and his living room--unless I was very much mistaken--in Dead Whale. Colors I personally very much approved of.

He clenched his small fist, bellowed his rage to the heavens, and resolved to never again recognize the authority of any man on earth.

He'd heard about people who ascended too quickly and developed nitrogen bubbles in their blood. Leo wanted to avoid carbonated blood.

He could filter the dangerous ones from the talkers in a few minutes of conversation, like a terrorist Turing test.

He crouched at the care window and looked in. "What a lovely family you have. What a charming family. They're all lovely. Except for that one." His finger jabbed the glass. "That one's a bit ugly." The American stepped towards him. "What? What did you say?" "Oh, don't worry. I'm sure his personality makes up for his face.

Hector was sent to his office to wait, while Rat-face was restored to such limited consciousness as his heredity and his fate permitted him to enjoy.

He’d always felt he had a right to exist as a wizard in the same way that you couldn’t do proper maths without the number 0, which wasn’t a number at all but, if it went away, would leave a lot of larger numbers looking bloody stupid.

He did his best to explain this to Inspector Sloan afterwards. 'A funny feeling, sir.' 'Yes?' Funny feelings were not encouraged at Berebury Police Station.

He cracked his crooked smile that made all women swoon except the ones who wanted to slap him. Faye was a fence-sitter on the subject.

He'd bet his right nut her skin would taste as good as it smelled.

He'd chain-smoked so heavily over the years in the vicinity of that travel bag that he wouldn't be surprised if the leather had developed a tumor.

He devoted a considerable amount of his acute intelligence to the cause of doing as little as possible.

He'd gone to church for forty years and was only getting worse. It seemed like this should tell God something.

He did not have the sort of looks suited for stakeouts or tailing people. As much as he might try to lose himself in a crowd, he was as inconspicuous as a centipede in a coup of yogurt.

He’d gone too far. He didn’t usually talk to women so frankly. Not with them both fully clothed anyway.

He didn't give a shit if Shakespeare didn't have glitter back in his day.

He didn't look anything like the blokes on that gay porn channel Rory had clicked on by mistake when he'd been trying to find out how to make a daisy chain for Leo.

He dropped the joint in the dirt and ran inside. It wasn't his first, and wouldn't be his last. The joint, that is. Not the kid. He was pretty sure, at this point, that he would never have sexual relations with his wife again.

He didn't know Rachel very well, but assumed her behavior would be similar to most women he encountered. As soon as he stepped foot inside she would attack, not allowing him to get in a word. At least that was what he imagined.

He doesn't seem very impressed," Cimorene commented in some amusement. "Why should he be?" Kazul said. "Well, you're a dragon," Cimorene answered, a little taken aback. "What difference does that make to a cat?

He’d reached that perilous stage of being drunk enough to think himself a good dancer… but was dangerously close in tipping over to the point where he’d act like an arse

He’d spent so much time in the penalty box for fighting last season, he’d been tempted to hang a picture and maybe set up a lava lamp, it had felt so much like home

Heeft god de man dan té volmaakt gemaakt dat men er zo nodig een stuk moet van afsnijden? Over 'besnijdenis' in "Gesels van een imaginaire god

He ended up smashing several fax machines for the failure they represented to him, but of course had to pay for them because of what they represented to the Best Buy stores in which they'd been smashed.

He didn't believe in luck but he believed in bananas.

He didn’t know what was hotter, her Star Wars reference or the breathiness with which she spoke it.

He didn't remember ever being less weird than he was right now. In fact, as far as he could tell he had always been more or less exactly as weird as this. if not more so.

He didn't think his mother's brother used drugs and yet the number of spoons and trap house Feng Shui seemed to keep the option open.

He dislikes even to touch these things, for they are the runes of an idiotic but nevertheless potent and evil magic; the magic of the think-machine gods, whose cult has one dogma - we cannot make a mistake.

He dodged remarkably fast for a melancholy introvert.

He didn’t care if I hated him, only that I did as I was told.

...he didn’t know when he was going to get the chance to play WoW again. And it was damn important to do his bit to save all life on Azeroth while he could.

...he found that after prolonged contact with Claire and her opinions, he had much less trust in physicians that heretofore - and he hadn't had much to begin with.

He exhaled in disgust. “High school is boredom punctuated by humiliation.

He fetched a large and unpleasant-looking rag from under his pillow and blew his nose loud and long. "E flat," said he, when he had finished. "Funny, I never seem to blow twice on the same note. You’d think that the nose, under equal pressure, and all that, would behave predictably, but it doesn’t. See this?" He held out the rag. "Piece of an old bedsheet; never blow your nose on paper, Bridgetower. Save old bedsheets for when you have a cold. They’re the only comfort in a really bad cold, and the only way of reckoning its virulence. I consider this to be a two-sheet cold.

He found my g-spot,alright, he found it, then made it sing Zippity-Doo-Dah.

He gave Sophie the smile which had no doubt charmed the Witch of the Waste and possibly Lettie too, firing it along the fork, across the cream, straight into Sophie’s eyes, dazzlingly. “If you can bully Calcifer, the King should give you no trouble at all.” Sophie stared through the dazzle and said nothing. This, she thought, was where she slithered out. She was leaving. It was too bad about Calcifer’s contract. She had had enough of Howl. First green slime, then glaring at her for something Calcifer had done quite freely, and now this! Tomorrow she would slip off to Upper Folding and tell Lettie all about it.

He gave up. No hint of ember behind his eyes nor life in his breath. He snipped the last, overstretched strand of hope, and nicked the strand of life by mistake. He did it with his hands.

He glared at Mr. Diddley’s yellow-toothed smile, and thought how he’d like to shove a toothbrush in his mouth and teach him how to use it.

He got a tan over break. I used to tell him he was so pale he looked like a marshmallow. He hated that I compared him to food. I told him that's what he got for calling me caramel. It shut him up.

He gives her his Art History lecture. ‘Then you get Mo-net and Ma-net, that’s a little tricky, Mo-net was the one did all the water lilies and shit, his colors were blues and greens, Ma-net was the one did Bareass on the Grass and shit, his colors were browns and greens. Then you get Bonnard, he did all the interiors and shit, amazing light, and then you get Van Guk, he’s the one with the ear and shit, and Say-zanne, he’s the one with the apples and shit, you get Kandinsky, a bad mother, all them pick-up-sticks pictures, you get my man Mondrian, he’s the one with the rectangles and shit, his colors were red yellow and blue, you get Moholy-Nagy, he did all the plastic thingummies and shit, you get Mar-cel Du-champ, he’s the devil in human form….’ She’s asleep.