Airplane Funny Quotes

Once I pulled a job, I was so stupid. I picked a guy's pocket on an airplane and made a run for it.

I can't go to Amsterdam. One of my doctors thinks it's a bad idea." He was quiet for a second. "God," he said. "I should've just paid for it myself. Should've just taken you straight from the Funky Bones to Amsterdam." "But then I would've had a probably fatal episode of deoxygenation in Amsterdam, and my body would have been shipped home in the cargo hold of an airplane," I said. "Well, yeah," he said. "But before that, my grand romantic gesture would have totally gotten me laid." I laughed pretty hard, hard enought that I felt where the chest tube had been. "You laugh because it's true," he said. I laughed again. "It's true, isn't it!" "Probably not," I said, and then after a moment added, "although you never know.

12. “Do you believe in God?” asked the girl once again. “Yes, I do, I guess. Perhaps more so when I am in trouble. Especially when I am flying in an airplane.

Do you believe in God?” asked the girl once again. “Yes, I do, I guess. Perhaps more so when I am in trouble. Especially when I am flying in an airplane.

Airplanes may kill you, but they ain't likely to hurt you.

Standing amid the tan, excited post-Christmas crowd at the Southwest Florida Regional Airport, Rabbit Angstrom has a funny sudden feeling that what he has come to meet, what's floating in unseen about to land, is not his son Nelson and daughter-in-law Pru and their two children but something more ominous and intimately his: his own death, shaped vaguely like an airplane.

I have lived my life in the shelter of too many northern alliances. I have made alliance with the gentle cow, the health department, the local policeman. In the shelter of such alliances I have got out of bed in the morning with moderate assurance that I shall still be alive at bedtime. But south of the moon my allies vanish, and I have an emptiness in my stomach. I fear the cobras in the garden. I lack a treaty with the lioness. I dread the crocodiles of Lake Victoria, the tsetse fly in the Tanganyika bush, the little airplane with the funny engine, and the mosquito in the soft evening air. But most of all, I am afraid of the African street.

New Rule: America must stop bragging it's the greatest country on earth, and start acting like it. I know this is uncomfortable for the "faith over facts" crowd, but the greatness of a country can, to a large degree, be measured. Here are some numbers. Infant mortality rate: America ranks forty-eighth in the world. Overall health: seventy-second. Freedom of the press: forty-fourth. Literacy: fifty-fifth. Do you realize there are twelve-year old kids in this country who can't spell the name of the teacher they're having sex with? America has done many great things. Making the New World democratic. The Marshall Plan. Curing polio. Beating Hitler. The deep-fried Twinkie. But what have we done for us lately? We're not the freest country. That would be Holland, where you can smoke hash in church and Janet Jackson's nipple is on their flag. And sadly, we're no longer a country that can get things done. Not big things. Like building a tunnel under Boston, or running a war with competence. We had six years to fix the voting machines; couldn't get that done. The FBI is just now getting e-mail. Prop 87 out here in California is about lessening our dependence on oil by using alternative fuels, and Bill Clinton comes on at the end of the ad and says, "If Brazil can do it, America can, too!" Since when did America have to buck itself up by saying we could catch up to Brazil? We invented the airplane and the lightbulb, they invented the bikini wax, and now they're ahead? In most of the industrialized world, nearly everyone has health care and hardly anyone doubts evolution--and yes, having to live amid so many superstitious dimwits is also something that affects quality of life. It's why America isn't gonna be the country that gets the inevitable patents in stem cell cures, because Jesus thinks it's too close to cloning. Oh, and did I mention we owe China a trillion dollars? We owe everybody money. America is a debtor nation to Mexico. We're not a bridge to the twenty-first century, we're on a bus to Atlantic City with a roll of quarters. And this is why it bugs me that so many people talk like it's 1955 and we're still number one in everything. We're not, and I take no glee in saying that, because I love my country, and I wish we were, but when you're number fifty-five in this category, and ninety-two in that one, you look a little silly waving the big foam "number one" finger. As long as we believe being "the greatest country in the world" is a birthright, we'll keep coasting on the achievements of earlier generations, and we'll keep losing the moral high ground. Because we may not be the biggest, or the healthiest, or the best educated, but we always did have one thing no other place did: We knew soccer was bullshit. And also we had the Bill of Rights. A great nation doesn't torture people or make them disappear without a trial. Bush keeps saying the terrorist "hate us for our freedom,"" and he's working damn hard to see that pretty soon that won't be a problem.

The Oracle waved him over to the leather seats. Zane rubbed his leg dramatically as they moved toward them. “You know, it’s funny, but I never seem to get any comp time or pay no matter what happens to me out in the field. I’d like to speak to HR before I leave.” The Oracle shook his head. “Comp pay? Aren’t you the man who owns two personal airplanes? And besides, I am HR, so you can just talk to me.

Prop 87 out here in California is about lessening our dependence on oil by using alternative fuels, and Bill Clinton comes on at the end of the ad and says, “If Brazil can do it, America can, too!” Since when did America have to buck itself up by saying we could catch up to Brazil? We invented the airplane and the lightbulb, they invented the bikini wax, and now they’re ahead?

cell phone. Hmmm...it should be about 11:00 in New York. I punch in my sister’s phone number. She answers after two rings. “Chloe! How’s London?” she asks enthusiastically, without even saying hello. “Oh my goodness Abby, you won’t believe what happened to me,” I say. I tell Abby about my embarrassing run in with Blue Mohawk and his friends. She laughs hysterically, clearly thinking the whole incident was as comical as they did. “It’s so not funny,” I groan. “What if they live here? What if I see them again? They probably think I’m an idiot. The girl who gets all mumbley and runs away! Who does that anyway?” “Well don’t worry about it. I’ll be out in a few weeks to visit. We can do some damage control then,” she laughs. “Thanks Abby. I’ll talk to you later,” I say and we both disconnect. Damage control...I’m hoping there won’t be any need for damage control seeing as I honestly don’t plan on running into Ole Blue and his buddies anytime soon. I bet none of them live here anyway so I’m probably worrying over nothing. It suddenly occurs to me just how much time I spent on an airplane and I feel absolutely disgusting. A nice, warm shower sounds like heaven right about now. I reluctantly pull myself up off the couch and I walk towards my bedroom, grabbing my suitcase along the way. I wheel it up next to my bed, open it and grab my bag of toiletries.

I have been living with the long term effects of hypoxia since my parents took me on an airplane for the first time and we flew to the Canary Islands to see the Tiede volcano in 1977. I traveled there on a jet airplane that was cruising at 35,000 feet in a high radiation cabin that was only pressurized to 8,000 feet for four hours. I was hypoxic, but I did not know it as I was only seven years old. We went up to see the Teide volcano on a bus tour. Its summit was 12,188 feet. I was more hypoxic than on the airplane, but I did not know it. That’s the funny thing about hypoxia, it hides out of sight in most people. But it can kill you!

For a while it was funny,” Stevie says, “but then personally I really started to get angry, because I live a very quiet life. I’m either working or I’m home and all of a sudden I’m picking up these papers and I’m the Siren of the North.” Seemingly attempting to set the record straight, she adds, “Don Henley [of the Eagles] are friends. We’re not into a heavy romantic relationship. How can we be? We’re always on the road. And Paul Kantner [of Jefferson Airplane/Starship fame]—I never went out with him. He called me a couple of times, but basically I wasn’t interested. I don’t even like rock ‘n’ roll stars,” she groans. “I especially don’t like men rock ‘n’ roll stars, mainly because they’re just too egoed-out. And I don’t need it. I don’t need to go out with rock ‘n’ roll stars for their money. I’ve got my own money. I’ve gone through it and I didn’t like it and I won’t do it again. It’s like that lady onstage—I can’t hold a candle to her if that’s what they want.

Glory, isn’t it”—she caught her breath, waved her hand in front of her face, decoratively—“exciting!” Alexa asked what. “The bombing.” “Bombing?” “Oh, you haven’t heard. They’re bombing New York. They showed it on teevee, where it landed. These steps!” She collapsed beside Alexa with a great huff. The smell that had seemed so appetizing outside Big San Juan’s had lost its savor. “But they couldn’t show”—she waved her hand and it was still, Alexa had to admit, a lovely and a graceful hand—“the actual airplane itself. Because of the fog, you know.” “Who’s bombing New York?” “The radicals, I suppose. It’s some kind of protest. Against something.” Lottie Hanson watched her breasts lift and fall. The importance of the news she bore made her feel pleased with herself. She waited for the next question all aglow. But Alexa had begun calculating with no more input than she had already. The notion had seemed, from Lottie’s first words, inevitable. The city cried out to be bombed. The amazing thing was that no one had ever thought to do it before. When she did at last ask Lottie a question, it came from an unexpected direction. “Are you afraid?” “No, not a bit. It’s funny, because usually, you know, I’m just a bundle of nerves. Are you afraid?” “No. Just the opposite. I feel…” She had to stop and think what it was that she did feel.

Then in March 1993, everything changed. My one-year-old son, Charlie, had his first seizure. There’s absolutely nothing funny about being the parent of a child with uncontrolled epilepsy. Nothing. After a year of daily seizures, drugs, and a brain surgery, I learned that the cure for Charlie’s epilepsy, the ketogenic diet—a high fat, no sugar, limited protein diet—had been hiding in plain sight for, by then, over seventy years. And despite the diet’s being well documented in medical texts, none of the half-dozen pediatric neurologists we had taken Charlie to see had mentioned a word about it. I found out on my own at a medical library. It was life altering—not just for Charlie and my family, but for tens of thousands like us. Turns out there are powerful forces at work within our health care system that don’t necessarily prioritize good health. For decades, physicians have barely been taught diet therapy or even nutrition in medical school. The pharmaceutical, medical device, and sugar industries make hundreds of billions every year on anti-epileptic drugs and processed foods—but not a nickel if we change what we eat. The cardiology community and American Heart Association demonize fat based on flawed science. Hospitals profit from tests and procedures, but again no money from diet therapy. There is a world epilepsy population of over sixty million people. Most of those people begin having their seizures as children, and only a minuscule percentage ever find out about ketogenic diet therapies. When I realized that 99 percent of what had happened to Charlie and my family was unnecessary, and that there were millions of families worldwide in the same situation, I needed to try to do something. Nancy and I began the Charlie Foundation (charliefoundation.org) in 1994 in order to facilitate research and get the word directly to those who would benefit. Among the high points were countless articles, a couple appearances of Charlie’s story on Dateline NBC, and a movie I produced and directed about another family whose child’s epilepsy had been cured by the ketogenic diet starring Meryl Streep titled First Do No Harm (1997). Today, of course, the diet permeates social media. When we started, there was one hospital in the world offering ketogenic diet therapy. Today, there are 250. Equally important, word about the efficacy of the ketogenic diet for epilepsy spread within the scientific community. In 1995, we hosted the first of many scientific global symposia focused on the diet. As research into its mechanisms and applications has spiked, incredibly the professional communities have found the same metabolic pathway that is triggered by the ketogenic diet to reduce seizures has also been found to benefit Alzheimer’s disease, ALS, severe psychiatric disorders, traumatic brain injury, and even some cancers. I

Corey once figured out that during his time as campaign manager, he sat next to Donald Trump on the 757 for a total of 1,000 hours. That’s over forty-six days spent in an airplane. Sitting next to your boss. And in that period you get to know someone. It was during that time that Corey saw the side of Mr. Trump few would get to see. The funny, magnanimous, gracious, loyal person who wanted only to change America for the better. As tough as the boss could be—and he could be tough—a bond developed between those of us on those flights that was akin to family; in particular, a bond between the boss, Hope, Corey, and Keith.

Lester Dent died thinking his name and works belonged to a pulp past destined to be forgotten. Just a year before his passing, he scoffed at the mention of his old Doc Savage novels, saying, “They would be so outdated today that they would undoubtedly be funny. Hell, when I wrote them, an airplane that could fly 200 miles per hour was science fiction. They would be of no interest any more.” Five years after his death, Bantam Books released three Doc novels to test a market in which pulp reprints of Edgar Rice Burroughs’ Tarzan of the Apes were selling briskly. Thanks in part to James Bama’s powerful monochromatic covers, Doc Savage sales surged and surged until millions of copies were sold, making “Kenneth Robeson” one of the best-selling authors of the 1960s—a posthumous vindication which, for all his imaginative powers, Lester Dent himself never envisioned.

Phi cang Saigon Tansonnhut"   "He puzzled at the meaning and smiled inwardly. The sign probably said, “Welcome and Affectionate Salutations to All Who Enter the Glorious Tan Son Nhut Air Base, Home of Seventh Air Force, Only Minutes from Beautiful Saigon.” Or maybe not; he couldn’t know. Maybe it read, “Welcome to the Dung Heap of Despair—Abandon Cheer, All Ye Who Enter.