Best 15707 quotes in «humor quotes» category

And I may not omit here a special work of God's providence. There was a proud and very profane young man [aboard the Mayflower], one of the seamen, of a lusty, able body, which made him the more haughty; he would always be contemning the poor people in their [sea]sickness, and cursing them daily with grievous execrations, and did not let to tell them, that he hoped to help cast half of them overboard before they came to their journey's end, and to make merry with what they had; and if he were by any gently reproved, he would curse and swear most bitterly. But it pleased God before they came half seas over, to smite this young man with a grievous disease, of which he died in a desperate manner, and so was himself the first that was thrown overboard. Thus his curses light on his own head; and it was an astonishment to all his fellows, for they noted it to be the just hand of God upon him.

and i'm thinking, aren't i supposed to be the one who's freaking out here? tiny is going to be the first b-b-b- (i can't do it) boy-f-f-f (c'mon, will) boyf-boyf (here we go) boyfriend of mine that she's ever met.

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.

And I thought kitty liter was the unlawful practice of discarding small felines along the roadside.

And like most big families, they were loud and secretly thought they were funnier and a little more special than everyone else.

And I thought, y’know, I mean…this is crazy. I mean, the only thing that determines what country you belong to is where you happened to be born? What is a country, anyway? It’s not, y’know, “purple mountain’s majesty” or “fruited plains,” whatever the hell that means. I mean, America isn’t a place, it’s an ideal. It could happen in the Sahara Desert and still be America. For that matter, I’m the child of immigrants. My father’s lived and worked in this country for the past three decades. And he’s somehow more or less American than some redneck who uses Osama bin Laden for toilet paper? How the hell do you measure something like that?

And I walked across the gravel, towards the road and somewhere in the universe of my soul a fiery, life-giving star collapsed, and a very black hole began to form.

And just how did you arrive at that remarkable conclusion, Mr. Mayor?" "In a rather simple way. It merely required the use of that much-neglected commodity -- common sense. You see, there is a branch of human knowledge known as symbolic logic, which can be used to prune away all sorts of clogging deadwood that clutters up human language." "What about it?" said Fulham. "I applied it. Among other things, I applied it to this document here. I didn't really need to for myself because I knew what it was all about, but I think I can explain it more easily to five physical scientists by symbols rather than by words." Hardin removed a few sheets of paper from the pad under his arm and spread them out. "I didn't do this myself, by the way," he said. "Muller Holk of the Division of Logic has his name signed to the analyses, as you can see." Pirenne leaned over the table to get a better view and Hardin continued: "The message from Anacreon was a simple problem, naturally, for the men who wrote it were men of action rather than men of words. It boils down easily and straightforwardly to the unqualified statement, when in symbols is what you see, and which in words, roughly translated is, 'You give us what we want in a week, or we take it by force.'" There was silence as the five members of the Board ran down the line of symbols, and then Pirenne sat down and coughed uneasily. Hardin said, "No loophole, is there, Dr. Pirenne?" "Doesn't seem to be.

And it is silly how all the should've been, could've been and might've been hypothetical situations can bother you more than all the wrong that has already been!

And i was buck-naked. Which probably would have made for an interesting night, but the last time i'd checked i was neither a porn star or a prostitute.

And like a good neighbor, Alpha Centauri is there.” Touched by an Alien

...and it is generally understood that a party hardly ever goes the way it is planned or intended. This last, of course, excludes, those dismal slave parties, whipped and controlled and dominated, given by an ogreish professional hostess. These are not parties at all but acts and demonstrations, about as spontaneous as peristalsis and as interesting as it's end product.

And just as I thought that my happy ending was beginning, it had to end so soon even though it hadn't started yet.

And Mega has a crush on Chester." "I do not!" "Do too, Mega." "He's like, old!" "How old, Christian says." "Like at least thirty or something." Lor laughs. " Fucking ancient, ain't it, kid?" "Dude," I agree. I like Lor.

...and now over to our foriegn allegory correspondant, Barv Tweezman." ~The Shielding of Mortimer Townes

And one other thing: don't ask me about the weather. I don't much remember what the weather has been like during my life. True, I can remember how hot sun gave greater impetus to sex; how sudden snow delighted, and how cold, damp days set off those early symptoms that eventually led to a double hip replacement. But nothing significant in my life ever happened during, let alone because of, weather. So if you don't mind, meteorology will play no part in my story. Though you are free to deduce, when I am found playing grass-court tennis, that it was neither raining nor snowing at the time.

And once the ripples still and the water returns to its unwavering calm, even the pebble that broke its surface will be forgotten. And the world will go on.

And never farting pointed to guilt in the courthouse of my mind.

And now that they have us here, under their control, they've dropped whatever act they had on earth. We're seeing them as they really are.' He dipped his glove into the water and watched as the water turned golden. The air suddenly smelled of citrus. 'Look! It's orange juice!' 'Josh, focus!' 'You sound just like Mom or Isis or whatever her name is.

And people think she killed him?" said Miss Tick. She sighed. "They probably think she cooked him in the oven, or something." "They never actually said," said Tiffany. "But I think it was something like that, yes." "And did his horse turn up?" said Miss Tick. "No," said Tiffany. "And that was strange, because if it'd turned up anywhere along the hills, people would have noticed it..." Miss Tick folded her hands, sniffed, and smiled a smile with no humor in it. "Easily explained," she said. "Mrs. Snapperly must have had a really big oven, eh?" "No, it was really quite small," said Tiffany. "Only ten inches deep.

André had confirmed what I already knew. First, the motives for Helios Belanger's death were plentiful. Second, my husband was an absolute wretch.

And no chick fucking either, unless we both agree to it, of course." Turner pauses and scowls. "Though I can't imagine sharing you with anyone. Makes me fucking sick to my stomach.

And please punish Jenny. You could strike her dead. Amen.” Jenny blinked. “I’m no expert on this, but… are you supposed to pray for someone to be struck dead?

And now he had her in his arms, this amazing, prickly, suspicious, hardheaded woman that he was falling for in spite of himself because she was also sweet and kind and had the biggest heart of anyone he’d ever met. Falling hard. It was going to take a lot to convince her that he was a good idea, although he was pretty sure her body might’ve already made its decision. He had no idea what it would take to persuade the rest of her.

And now that I have been scammed once, I felt like it could not happen to me again.

And she'd be panting underneath him and they'd fuck and he'd make her come so hard that afterward they would be together for the rest of their lives. It was a foolproof plan. Oh, wait. No it wasn't. It was a sexual fantasy, and he was an idiot.

And sometimes," she added, in a slightly hushed tone, like she was letting me in on a secret, "if you don't feel great on the inside, just look great on the outside, and after a while you won't be able to tell the difference.

And so, untold millions screamed out in pain, and then were suddenly silenced. I hope you're happy.

Andrew Lloyd Webber's version of the Kool-Aid jingle is at once chilling and evocative. Donny Osmond is brilliant as James Jones.

And she swung the old oar at him with all her strength. It hit with a great thwack, splintering in two, and he went over the side, into the dark, cold waters of the lake, sinking like a stone. It took her two seconds. And then she let out a scream for help, tossing the broken oar away from her, and jumped into the water after him. It was very cold, numbingly so, and as it closed over her head she grabbed for him, wrapping her arms around his body, ready to sink to the bottom with him. Instead he kicked, pushing them up so that they broke the surface, his arm clamped around hers as she struggled. "Jesus, woman!" he snapped. "When did we have to become Romeo and Juliet?

And so it was that the Poet, through an excess of theological refinement, was unable to satisfy his coarse carnal passion.

And so we find ourselves at the scene of another murder," Milo said, coming back to the sitting area. He didn't seem much troubled by the fact, for he lit another cigarette and settled back into his chair. I couldn't help but think that he looked particularly content.

And so the cycle of innocence found, lost, found again, and finally lost is complete. Just as a peanut is neither a pea nor a nut… and a thighmaster is neither a thigh nor a master… so our hero learned that Netflix and Chill means neither Netflix nor Chill. And if you’re just learning this for the first time, welcome to the end of your innocence.

...and specimens like this confirmed there had been some kind of divine rule in the universe because no natural selection process was up to the task of creating something like him. This was some god’s, somewhere’s, handiwork.

And that, my friends, is how a revolution dies. -Haymitch Abernathy

And that was when I learned from my own experience that a laugh can be a terrifying weapon. With a laugh you can kill even murder itself.

And that was when I said 'Henry, the placement of the comma depends on whether 'I ate grandmother' or 'I ate, grandmother'.

And the list of traitors?" said Dylan, eying the scroll with an unsavory gleam in his eyes. What did he plan on doing, hunting down each and every one of them? Somehow that didn't feel to far from the truth.

And that was it. Right there. Right there, that was the moment . . . I suddenly realized that unless something changed soon I was going to live a life where my major relationship was with a bottle of wine and I'd finally die, fat and alone, and be found three weeks later half-eaten by Alsatians, or I was about to turn into Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction.

And that person must be trying to prove to IDIA…” I pause. “Something. That he’s stronger? Or that he doesn’t need them?” I rub my forehead. “It sounded much more cohesive and brilliant in the shower.

and the HE stands up. if frenchy's could bottle him up and sell him as porn, they'd probably own half of chicago within a year. he's what would happen after nine months if abercrombie fucked fitch. he's like a movie star, an olympic swimmer, and america's next top male model all at once. he's wearing a silver shirt and pink pants. everything about him sparkles. not my type at all. but...

And thanks to Christina McMullen, who has taught me that common sense and intelligence need not have any correlation whatsoever.

And that continued for quite a while until the adventurer admitted that it IS an accepted fact among monsters and giants of all stripes that Englishmen are delicious.

And the Lady's mate. Despite having only two legs and small fangs, there was much that was feline in that one, and he approved.

And then, anger gave way to pure and simple job satisfaction. I mean, when I looked at a dead zombie head on a spike, I thought, "Hey, I did that. Picasso would have been proud. Especially how I rearranged that eye

And then, in boating supplies, Margo located an air horn. She took it out of the box and held it up in the air, and I said, "No," and she said, "No what?" And I said, "No don't blow the air horn," except when I got to the b in blow, she squeezed on it and it let out an excruciatingly loud honk that felt in my head like the auditory equivalent of an aneurysm, and then she said, "I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you. What was that?" And I said, "Stop b-" and then she did it again.

And then, with all her might, she focused her attention on the back of Po's head and screamed his name, inside her mind. He pulled on his reins so hard that his horse screeched and staggered and almost sat down. her own horse nearly collided with his. And he looked so startled and flabbergasted---and irritated---that she couldn't help it: She exploded with laughter.

And then there's the perverse joy of subtly working in references to marathon training in daily life, say at the post office or while waiting outside my first-graders' classrooms at the end of the school day.

[a]nd the Pig Man came in from Waitomo and swore that if Louisa didn't marry him he'd damn well vote Labour at the next election. "And I don't care if the country does go to rack and ruin," he said.

And there it is! Bravo! I knew it was only a matter of time before Byron realized he had an audience. That man is simply incapable of keeping his shirt on when there are spectators. One Christmas Eve, he stripped his shirt off right in the middle of the choir's rendition of Oh Child of Bethlehem. Coincidentally, the next song was Come Let Us Adore Him and the imbecile actually launched into some interpretive dance.