Best 15707 quotes in «humor quotes» category

Middle school is kind of like Middle-earth. It’s a magical journey filled with elves, dwarves, hobbits, queens, kings, and a few corrupt wizards. Word to the wise: pick your traveling companions well. Ones with the courage and moral fiber to persevere. Ones who wield their lip gloss like magic wands when confronted with danger. This way, when you pass through the congested hallways rife with pernicious diversion, you achieve your desired destination—or at least your next class. -CeCee, Lucy and CeCee's How to Survive (and Thrive) in Middle School

Mike stood in-line, waiting for the mealtime muck that passed for lunch at his school canteen. He knew he was getting close to the front now, as he tightly held his tray. Not just because he could see this as you might expect, but because he could smell Margery the school cook’s body odour. The children at the front were already holding their breath. You could see a line of pink faces close to him, to red, then purple closest to Margery. Only when they left at the end did they breathe for air and turn back to their normal colour again, like a deep sea diver after a long plunge. “Margery the Meal Murderer” was her name for most school kids.

Mimir took a few seconds. “Yes! There’s a...distortion here. An SEP field, maybe?” “What’s that?” asked Lara. “It’s sort of like an invisibility spell.” “I thought invisibility was impossible to achieve.” “It is. This is more of a don’t-notice-what’s-none-of-your-business spell.” “But this is our business.” “Ah, yes, good point.

Mindless violence against the undead?” said Zzzap. “Count me in.

Millions of sane people would each be sexually attracted to their own parent or child if they were not related to them.

Milo might be willing to spend his time in Paris out gallivanting, but I had a mystery to solve.

Milwaukee has more bars and more churches per capita than almost any other city in North America. I'm not sure if there's a relationship in that. Does too much prayer cause you to drink? Or vice versa?

Mi locura es sagrada, no la toquen.

Mind you,” said Ponder, “the universe does have a rhythm. Day and night, light and dark, life and death—” “Chicken soup and croutons,” said Ridcully. "Well, not evert metaphor bears close examination".

Miranda was nineteen. Her experience with men consisted of Winston and himself. Both of whom had heretofore been brotherly figures. The poor girl must be confused as hell. Winston had suddenly decided that she was Venus, Queen Elizabeth, and the Virgin Mary all rolled into one,and Turner had all but forced himself on her. Not exactly an average day in the life of a young country miss

Mirror mirror on the wall, show the real me or naught at all.

Misa: I can't even imagine a world without light! L: Well yes, that would be quite dark.

Miraculously, I keep it together, although I would love to just slap the stupid out of them.

Mira, I'm about to be naked," Blue said as he whipped off his belt and tossed it on the floor. "So watch out. Well, in my underwear." "I've seen you in your bathing suit," Mira said. "It's the same thing." "It is not the same thing," Blue said. "When it's accompanied by seventies porn music, it's an X-rated strip show." Blue yanked off his shirt. "Freddie, you're kind of slow on the uptake. Eine kleine porn music, please.

Miss Sumner, may I inquire as to why you're lounging on the floor?" Mrs. Watson asked. Miss Sumner uttered something which sounded very much like "it should be obvious" before she lifted her head. "You really must compliment your staff, Mrs. Watson. This floor is remarkably clean.

. . . mixing defensiveness with anger - a wonderful mix, by the way.

Miss Fitt, you know curiosity gets men killed." I grinned. "Then I daresay it's good I'm a woman.

Mission motto, sir," said Carrot cheerfully. "Morituri Nolumus Mori. Rincewind suggested it." "I imagine he did," said Lord Vetinari, observing the wizard coldly. "And would you care to give us a colloquial translation, Mr Rincewind?" "Er..." Rincewind hesitated, but there really was no escape. "Er... roughly speaking, it means, 'We who are about to die don't want to', sir.

Miss Leary, do you mean to insinuate that I should go encouraging homo-sex-uality amongst these corpses?

Miss Taverner took the whip and reins in her hands, and mounted into the driving-seat, scorning assistance. "Take your orders from Miss Taverner, Henry," said the Earl, getting up beside his ward. "Me Lord, you are never going to let a female drive us?" said Henry almost tearfully. "What about my pride?" "Swallow it, Henry," replied the Earl amicably.

Miss Austen’s novels … seem to me vulgar in tone, sterile in artistic invention, imprisoned in the wretched conventions of English society, without genius, wit, or knowledge of the world. Never was life so pinched and narrow. The one problem in the mind of the writer … is marriageableness.

Miss Dearheart gave him a very brief look, and shook her head. There was movement under the table, a small fleshy kind of noise and the drunk suddenly bent forward, colour draining from his face. Probably only he and Moist heard Miss Dearheart purr: ‘What is sticking in your foot is a Mitzy “Pretty Lucretia” four-inch heel, the most dangerous footwear in the world. Considered as pounds per square inch, it’s like being trodden on by a very pointy elephant. Now, I know what you’re thinking: you’re thinking, “Could she press it all the way through to the floor?” And, you know, I’m not sure about that myself. The sole of your boot might give me a bit of trouble, but nothing else will. But that’s not the worrying part. The worrying part is that I was forced practically at knifepoint to take ballet lessons as a child, which means I can kick like a mule; you are sitting in front of me; and I have another shoe . Good, I can see you have worked that out. I’m going to withdraw the heel now.’ There was a small ‘pop’ from under the table. With great care the man stood up, turned and, without a backward glance, lurched unsteadily away. ‘Can I bother you?’ said Moist. Miss Dearheart nodded, and he sat down, with his legs crossed. ‘He was only a drunk,’ he ventured. ‘Yes, men say that sort of thing,’ said Miss Dearheart.

Moderation is the key to old age and the doorway to boredom

Moeller, who has tasted a naked Cheeto, likens it to a piece of unsweetened puffed corn cereal

Moist had seen the Falls before and that's just what they were...falls. Pretty good falls by the standard of falls, but once you'd looked at them for a few minutes undoubtedly someone would say; 'Where can we get a coffee around here?

Mom lied. The crust is the shittiest part.

Mmm.” Sebastian moaned. “It’s so delicious.” He laughed then. “It’s not the Poisonous Desert; it’s the Oreo Desert.” He scooped up handfuls of dirt and stones and funneled it into his mouth. He licked his palms, his teeth grinding against rock. “Did the plant scramble his brains?” Firen asked, her lips twitching just a smidgen. “The plant’s poison makes you delusional,” Gabriella informed as Egnatious and Firen yanked Sebastian to his feet. “He’ll probably be a bit Looneyville for a while.

Mom and Dad exchange a nervous glance and have a telepathic conversation about it. I hear every word. Do we let her out? It's past curfew. True, but look at that—at least she asked! I know! I can hardly believe it! She could have sneaked out, but she asked! I know! We're good parents! "What time will you be back?" Dad asks.

Mom calls me Patch-a-roo and Patch-a-roo-ny. She usually croons these names to me or crows them as if she’s imitating the rooster. I know this is a little odd, but I’m a really special dog. Of course, sometimes she calls me Stink-a-roo.

Momma always said when Randy got an idea in his head it was more likely to come attached to a foot in his ass than a check in the bank.

Modern party-dance is simply writhing to suggestive music. It is ridiculous, silly to watch and excruciatingly embarrassing to perform. It is ridiculous, and yet absolutely everyone does it, so that it is the person who does not want to do the ridiculous thing who feels out of place and uncomfortable and self-conscious . . . in a word, ridiculous. Right out of Kafka: the person who does not want to do the ridiculous thing is the person who is ridiculous. [...] Modern party-dance is an evil thing.

Mom always said I was born to sit in the electric chair, but I'm proving her wrong. I'm going to die on my knees, begging for my life.

MOMB - noun - One who can deal with all of the INSANITY of being a MOM... Because she's the BOMB!

Modri war erst 257 Jahre alt und hatte noch alle Zeit der Welt. "Genieß Deine Jugend, solange sie anhält. Als ich in Deinem Alter war, hatte ich schon vier Kriege mit den Elfen und den Ogern hinter mir.

Mom has reorganized the kitchen so that the one room that was everyone's room is foreign to me. My visits are punctuated with me whipping around, angrily demanding, "Where are the forks, WHY DID YOU MOVE THE FORKS?" and she has to calmly open the drawer on the other side of the kitchen as if she moved it just to ruin my life. I just found out where she puts the bowls and their new location feels like such a personal attack that I can barely talk about it without raising my blood pressure.

Mom has the Touch. She knows what flowers go with what occasions, what hors d'oeuvres work with what people. She believes passionately in the power of food to heal, restore, and stimulate relationships, and she has built a following of loyal customers who really hope she's right. If she's wrong, says Sonia, no one wants to know.

Moments later as we crossed the road to the 50’s diner, I recited the restaurant rules in my head one more time. Rule one: Keep your hands clean. Rule two: Careful with the food trays. Rule three: Visit the soda fountain as often as you like, but don’t make yourself sick. Rule four: Enjoy the poodle skirt.

Mommy, I'm not going to have your American childhood, " she says. "I don't want to wake up at seven a.m. and make bracelets. I just don't. Accept it.

Mom’s approach to cuisine came from her art school days, inspiration hitting her on the spot. The ingredients she chose were paints you’d throw at a canvas, each chosen for its color and texture rather than its taste. If your fava beans didn’t click with the polenta? All you had to do was toss in a kilo of shrimp and the pink would bring out the dull off-white.

Mom talks about moving to Canada as though my father had requested she start wearing fun hats. "Why not try it?" she thought, instead of "This fucking lunatic wants me to go to a country made of ice and casual racism.

Mom stood over the still thrashing ghost with the bat and brought it down on its head again and again. "Leave him alone, leave my family alone!" she screamed. "We are not going to die in a stupid gas station in the middle of nowhere!

Monday. Given that it means "day of the moon," you'd think there'd be more butts involved.

Mom’s a hypochondriac, too, so the best part was that every week she would get the disease that the medical shows were dramatizing. I’ll never forget, they did an episode on sickle cell anemia, which as far as I know, is almost exclusively an African-American affliction.

Moms are so hard to understand! They'll never allow us to go on diet for fitness but forcefully make us fast in the name of God! ~Swapna Rajput~

Monch was on no simple retreat. The journey he had plotted for himself was much longer, and took him many buckets away from Appollon to Angarr's Sorrow, the land of fetid bogs in southeastern Sarthiss. This was a world far away from everything he knew... from everyone he knew. Granted, the list of people he knew was exceptionally short, especially since Monch was horrible with names and only slightly less horrible with faces. Regardless, he did not wish to accidentally advertise his inexperience to anyone he might possibly know, which is why he travelled so far afield. There were ruins in the swamps, ruins hidden under years of neglect and heavy with decay. Things lurked in those ruins, inhuman beasts with forbidden hungers. He intended to use the dangers of the swamps as the whetstone that would hone his abilities to a razor-keen edge. Monch would test his blade against and come back all the stronger... ...or dead. No... that wasn't right. Given the fact that he was immortal, death really wasn't an option. So then, he would come back stronger... ...or something something horrible. Monch decided to fill in those particular details later on, when he had time to ponder his autobiography at length. He would tidy up that particular idiom later.

Moochoo lurched forward and pressed fingers deep into his shoulder socket, a sort of “pat on the shoulder, from Coach” sensation running through the anxious youth’s head. But then came the unexpected yank – an unreasonably hard one, at that! That arm was gonna need a 1099 form come April 15th – it was truly an independent!

Monty Jones: Dad, is there a word to describe answers that are completely correct but entirely useless under the circumstances? Professor Jones: Yes, yes there is.

Monthly, out of common courtesy, he went to inquire after the invalid Charles, who refused either to die or get better.

Money isn't everything...but it ranks right up there with oxygen.

Monseigneur, I have killed you! You are dead! You are dead!" You display an unseemly joy," he remarked. "I had no notion you were so bloodthirsty.