Blond Dumb Quotes

He had no idea where the stereotype of dumb giggly blondes came from. Ever since he'd met Annabeth at the Grand Canyon last winter,when she'd marched toward him with that Give me Percy Jackson or I’ll kill you expression, Leo had thought of blondes as much too smart and much too dangerous.

Very slowly using two fingers, Annabeth drew her dagger. Instead of dropping it, she tossed it as far as she could into the water. Octavian made a squeaking sound. "What was that for? I didn't say toss it! That could've been evidence. Or spoils of war!" Annabeth tried for a dumb-blonde smile, like: Oh, silly me. Nobody who knew her would have been fooled. But Octavian seemed to buy it. He huffed in exasperation. "You other two..." He pointed his blade a Hazel and Piper. "Put your weapons on the dock. No funny bus--" All around the Romans, Charleston Harbor erupted like a Las Vegas fountain putting on a show. When the wall of seawater subsided, the three Romans were in the bay, spluttering and frantically trying to stay afloat in their armor. Percy stood on the dock, holding Annabeth's dagger. "You dropped this," he said, totally poker-faced.

I'm not offended by all the dumb blonde jokes because I know I'm not dumb - and I'm not blonde either.

Did you say ‘yes’ to going out on a date with him?” Sally asked Jacque. “All I got to say is if she said no, she might not want to go to sleep tonight ‘cause I’m going to dye her hair blonde to compliment her being a dumb ass,” Jen told them. “Uh, Jen, you’re a blonde,” Jacque pointed out. “No, not really, God just got it wrong and it was too late to change it once He noticed.

Very slowly, using only two fingers, Annabeth drew her dagger. Instead of dropping it, she tossed it as far as she could into the water. Octavian made a squeaking sound. “What was that for? I didn’t say toss it! That could’ve been evidence. Or spoils of war!” Annabeth tried for a dumb-blonde smile, like: Oh, silly me. Nobody who knew her would have been fooled. But Octavian seemed to buy it. He huffed in exasperation. “You other two…” He pointed his blade at Hazel and Piper. “Put your weapons on the dock. No funny bus—” All around the Romans, Charleston Harbor erupted like a Las Vegas fountain putting on a show. When the wall of seawater subsided, the three Romans were in the bay, spluttering and frantically trying to stay afloat in their armor. Percy stood on the dock, holding Annabeth’s dagger. “You dropped this,” he said, totally poker-faced. Annabeth threw her arms around him. “I love you!” “Guys,” Hazel interrupted. She had a little smile on her face. “We need to hurry.

I wish back then I’d known the Dolly Parton joke: “I’m not offended by all the dumb blonde jokes because I know I’m not dumb. And I also know that I’m not blonde.

Her problem wasn't she was a dumb blonde, it was she wasn't a blonde and she wasn't dumb.

We are important and our lives are important, magnificent really, and their details are worthy to be recorded. This is how writers must think, this is how we must sit down with pen in hand. We were here; we are human beings; this is how we lived. Let it be known, the earth passed before us. Our details are important. Otherwise, if they are not, we can drop a bomb and it doesn't matter. . . Recording the details of our lives is a stance against bombs with their mass ability to kill, against too much speed and efficiency. A writer must say yes to life, to all of life: the water glasses, the Kemp's half-and-half, the ketchup on the counter. It is not a writer's task to say, "It is dumb to live in a small town or to eat in a café when you can eat macrobiotic at home." Our task is to say a holy yes to the real things of our life as they exist – the real truth of who we are: several pounds overweight, the gray, cold street outside, the Christmas tinsel in the showcase, the Jewish writer in the orange booth across from her blond friend who has black children. We must become writers who accept things as they are, come to love the details, and step forward with a yes on our lips so there can be no more noes in the world, noes that invalidate life and stop these details from continuing.

If they want to flirt or initiate a friendship, they should carefully avoid giving the impression they are taking the initiative; men do not like tomboys, nor bluestockings, nor thinking women; too much audacity, culture, intelligence, or character frightens them. In most novels, as George Eliot observes, it is the dumb, blond heroine who outshines the virile brunette; and in The Mill on the Floss, Maggie tries in vain to reverse the roles; in the end she dies and it is blond Lucy who marries Stephen. In The Last of the Mohicans, vapid Alice wins the hero’s heart and not valiant Cora; in Little Women kindly Jo is only a childhood friend for Laurie; he vows his love to curly-haired and insipid Amy. To be feminine is to show oneself as weak, futile, passive, and docile. The girl is supposed not only to primp and dress herself up but also to repress her spontaneity and substitute for it the grace and charm she has been taught by her elder sisters. Any self-assertion will take away from her femininity and her seductiveness.

All I got to say is if she said no, shemight not want to go to sleep tonight'cause I'm going to dye her hair blonde to compliment her being a dumb ass," Jen told them. "Uh, Jen, you're a blonde," Jacque pointed out. "No, not really, God just got it wrong and it was too late to change it once He noticed.

It doesn't bother me when someone calls me a 'dumb blonde.' I'm neither dumb or blonde.

I go in on your arm and we separate. To make me look unavailable, since Vlad likes what he can’t have, I play dumb blonde and make myself sexy.” I glared as Adam barked with laughter at my words.“No going off of the plan, when he takes you in the back room—and he will, you work the information out of him without blowing your cover, or him.” I shot the glare to Ryder. “I have no intention of bobbing on Vlad’s knob. Or yours.” I tossed into remove the wide smirk my response had given him and it worked.

Not at all. It's why people come. They say it's about looking smart, or beautiful, or professional, but it's not. Gray-haired ladies try to recapture their former brunette. Brunettes want to go blond. Other women go for colors that don't arise in nature. Each group thinks it's completely different than the others, but I don't see it that way. I've watched them looking at themselves in the mirror, and they're not interested in conforming or rebelling, they just want to walk out of here feeling like themselves again.

I would laugh at all my provincial inmates, but I’m too busy lusting. I’m not usually interested in a guy with “take a number” on his forehead, but this guy doesn’t have a forehead — it’s buried in messy blond hair. And he’s not one of the twenty guys I’ve known my entire pubescent life. he smiles like the Fourth of July. What’s a dumb girl to do but get in line with everyone else not in his league? I guess journalism just became my most beloved class.

... were trying to tell the dumb blonde to close her mouth, but the woman clearly took her hair color very seriously.

I wanted to be the hero, not the virginal bait or the dumb blonde who dies first in every horror film cliché.

I liked to think I was a smart woman. My vagina, on the other hand, was the equivalent of a dumb blonde. And that blonde wanted what she wanted.

Q: What do you call a blonde with half a brain? A: Gifted!

Stupidity is not my forté however, there is immense entertainment value in playing the dumb blonde...

I wish back then I’d known the Dolly Parton joke: “I’m not offended by all the dumb blonde jokes because I know I’m not dumb. And I also know that I’m not blonde.” My real hair color is black.

From the first time I set eyes on Marilyn, I thought she was just wonderful. On the silver screen, her lovely skin and platinum hair were luminescent and fantastic. I loved the fantasy of it. In the fifties, when I grew up. Marilyn was an enormous star, but there was such a double standard. The fact that she was such a hot number meant that many middle-class women looked down on her as a slut. And since the publicity machine behind her sold her as a sex idol, she wasn’t valued as a comedic actor or given credit for her talent. I never felt that way about her, obviously. I felt that Marilyn was also playing a character, the proverbial dumb blonde with the little-girl voice and big-girl body, and that there was a lot of smarts behind the act. My character in Blondie was partly a visual homage to Marilyn, and partly a statement about the good old double standard.

ONE All the best things in my life have started with a Dolly Parton song. Including my friendship with Ellen Dryver. The song that sealed the deal was “Dumb Blonde” from her 1967 debut album, Hello, I’m Dolly. During the summer before first grade, my aunt Lucy bonded with Mrs. Dryver over their mutual devotion to Dolly. While they sipped sweet tea in the dining room, Ellen and I would sit on the couch watching cartoons, unsure of what to make of each other. But then one afternoon that song came on over Mrs. Dryver’s stereo. Ellen tapped her foot as I hummed along, and before Dolly had even hit the chorus, we were spinning in circles and singing at the top of our lungs. Thankfully, our love for each other and Dolly ended up running deeper than one song. I

Very slowly using two fingers, Annabeth drew her dagger. Instead of dropping it, she tossed it as far as she could into the water. Octavian made a squeaking sound. "What was that for? I didn't say toss it! That could've been evidence. Or spoils of war!" Annabeth tried for a dumb-blonde smile, like: Oh, silly me. Nobody who knew her would have been fooled. But Octavian seemed to buy it. He huffed in exasperation. "You other two..." He pointed his blade a Hazel and Piper. "Put your weapons on the dock. No funny bus--" All around the Romans, Charleston Harbor erupted like a Las Vegas fountain putting on a show. When the wall of seawater subsided, the three Romans were in the bay, spluttering and frantically trying to stay afloat in their armor. Percy stood on the dock, holding Annabeth's dagger. "You dropped this," he said, totally poker-faced. -Heroes of Olympus

No one could seem to think of me as both sexy and capable, or talented and hot. If I was sexy, they seemed to think I must be stupid. If I was hot, I couldn’t possibly be talented. I wish back then I’d known the Dolly Parton joke: “I’m not offended by all the dumb blonde jokes because I know I’m not dumb. And I also know that I’m not blonde.” My real hair color is black.

My big sister's taught me loads of things: • Sit at whatever table you want because cliques are dumb. • You might wish you had blond hair, but one day you won’t. • Make friends in real life, not through your phone. • If you’re scared of doing something, it makes sense to try it once. • When your legs start getting hairy, don’t use Dad's razors, they nick. • Mean kids are always the most insecure. • Sometimes things get hard—but they won’t always be that way.

You smell good. Who’s this ‘guy’ you’re meeting? Are you back on the market?” He wiggled both blond eyebrows at me. “Does that mean Doc Nyce is no longer petting your cat?” I frowned. “Petting my cat?” What did Bogart, our vegetarian cat, have to do with Doc? Jeff leaned in for another sniff. “I’m really good at petting cats, too.” Oh, dear Lord! My brain had finally dipped low enough into the gutter to catch Jeff’s meaning. I shoved him back a step. “Doc is still petting my …” No! Just walk away, doofus. I started to do just that, but then stopped and turned back. In case Tiffany was going to be hearing the play-by-play of my run-in with Jeff, I wanted to clarify things so the red-headed siren wouldn’t get any ideas about trying to steal Doc away from me. We’d done that song and dance before, and there would be no encores on that score. “Doc Nyce is still my boyfriend,” I announced. Sheesh, “boyfriend” was such a silly word for a woman my age. “I mean, we’re a definite couple in all the ways.” Jeff grinned. “Which ways are those?” “You know, the ‘couple’ ways.” When he just stared at me with a dumb grin, I added, “Boom, boom, out goes the lights.” His laughter rang out loud and clear, catching the attention of people on the opposite side of the street. “I’m not sure if you know this, Violet Parker, but that old song actually refers to landing a knock-out punch.” Thinking back on all the times I’d pinched, elbowed, and tackled Doc, including the black eye I’d accidentally given him, I shrugged. “Sex with Doc is amazingly physical. He’s a real heavy hitter under the sheets, delivering a solid one-two sock-’em every time.” I wasn’t sure what I was alluding to by this point, but I kept throwing out boxing slang to fill the void. “I’d give you the real dirty blow-by-blow, but we don’t sell ringside tickets for our wild sex matches.” His jaw gaped. “No kidding?” Before my big mouth unleashed another round of idiotic sex-boxing ambiguities, I said, “See you around, Jeff.

A ventriloquist was on stage at a bar in a small town. He was going through his usual run of dumb blonde jokes when a large blonde in the second row stood up and shouted, “I’ve heard just about enough of your denigrating blonde jokes! What makes you think you can stereotype blondes that way? What does a person’s physical attributes have to do with their worth as a human being?” The ventriloquist looked on in confused amazement. “It’s jerks like you who keep women like me from being respected,” she continued, “and from reaching my full potential as a person because you perpetuate discrimination against not only blondes but women at large. All in the name of a few pathetic jokes.” Flustered, the ventriloquist began to apologize. The blonde interrupted, “You stay out of this, mister. I’m talking to that little shithead on your knee.

[She] had occasionally glimpsed a series of interchangeable well-groomed blondes accompanying him to work events, then Grace had rocked up with her funny-coloured hair and her funny-coloured tights, and Vaughn had been smitten. Well, as smitten as Vaughn could be.

Q: How do you drown a blonde? A: Place a scratch and sniff sticker at the bottom of the pool.

Did you hear about the blonde who stayed up all night to see where the sun went? A: It finally dawned on her!

Q: How did the blonde dog get hurt? A: From chasing parked cars.

M factory? A:

How did the Blonde break her leg raking leaves? She fell out of the tree.

I was standing in the shower the other day, picking up my shampoo,” she said. “It’s called ‘Dumb Blonde.’ I thought, Thirty years ago you could not have sold this. I think we have lost consciousness of the way our culture demeans women.

Well, good,” he told her. “Because I think you're a spoiled little brat with delusions of being some kind of suburban princess,” he bit out. “And I think you need to realize there's more to life than pink frilly outfits and the perfect shade of lip gloss. If you didn't look like you do, you'd have no friends at all.”               She was still on her knees, head down, determined not to cry. She didn't have friends. His words cut like a knife, but they were all true. It was bad enough her mom wasn't here to watch her movie with her. She didn't need Dylan to make her feel like nothing. After finally getting all of the ruined popcorn back into the bowl, she stood and turned around quickly, avoiding his gaze. She dumped the contents of the bowl in the garbage and marched straight past him and into the living room. Over her shoulder she mustered the ability to shout without a hint of a crack in her voice. “Yeah, well I think you're a pretentious prick who thinks he's too good for everyone since he went to that dumb-ass college!”               Katie flopped down onto the couch, bundled herself up in blankets, and flipped through her DVR to find Legally Blonde. It could at least make her feel better even if her mother wasn't around. A single, solitary tear rolled down her right cheek as she heard Dylan walk behind her, headed for the stairs. She tried as hard as she could to block out the cry-fest she knew was coming until he got to his room where he couldn't hear her, but just when she heard his foot hit the first creaky step, she let out a sniffle and wiped a tear from her face. Katie heard Dylan stop. There were no more creaks on the stairs. Shit, she thought to herself. He heard her.                              

Surprised at Kaye’s belated display of maternal instincts, Sean relented, promising he’d get in touch with Lily. Besides, he knew his own mother would never forgive him if he refused such a simple request. As he made his way down the narrow streets to the pensione opposite the Pantheon, where Lily and her roommate were staying, Sean steadfastly refused to acknowledge any other reason for agreeing to take Lily out. It had been three years since they’d left for college, not once had she come home to visit. But Sean still couldn’t look at a blonde without comparing her to Lily. He’d mounted the four flights of narrow, winding stairs, the sound of his steps muffled by red, threadbare carpet. At number seventeen, he’d stopped and stood, giving his racing heart a chance to quiet before he knocked. Calm down, he’d instructed himself. It’s only Lily. His knock echoed loudly in the empty hall. Through the door he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Then it opened and there she was. She stood with her mouth agape. Her eyes, like beacons of light in the obscurity of the drab hallway, blinked at him with astonishment. “What are you doing here?” The question ended on a squeak. As if annoyed with the sound, she shut her mouth with an audible snap. Was it possible Kaye hadn’t bothered to tell Lily he’d be coming? “I heard you were spending a few days in Rome.” Sean realized he was staring like a dolt, but couldn’t help himself. It rattled him, seeing Lily again. A barrage of emotions and impressions mixed and churned inside him: how good she looked, different somehow, more self-confident than in high school, how maybe this time they might get along for more than 3.5 seconds. He became aware of a happy buzz of anticipation zinging through him. He was already picturing the two of them at a really nice trattoria. They’d be sitting at an intimate corner table. A waiter would come and take their order and Sean would impress her with his flawless Italian, his casual sophistication, his sprezzatura. By the time the waiter had served them their dessert and espresso, she’d be smiling at him across the soft candlelight. He’d reach out and take her hand. . . . Then Lily spoke again and Sean’s neat fantasy evaporated like a puff of smoke. “But how did you know I was here?” she’d asked, with what he’d conceitedly assumed was genuine confusion—that is, until a guy their age appeared. Standing just behind Lily, he had stared back at Sean through the aperture of the open door with a knowing smirk upon his face. And suddenly Sean understood. Lily wasn’t frowning from confusion. She was annoyed. Annoyed because he’d barged in on her and Lover Boy. Lily didn’t give a damn about him. At the realization, his jumbled thoughts at seeing her again, all those newborn hopes inside him, faded to black. His brain must have shorted after that. Suave, sophisticated guy that he was, Sean had blurted out, “Hey, this wasn’t my idea. I only came because Kaye begged me to—” Stupendously dumb. He knew better, had known since he was eight years old. If you wanted to push Lily Banyon into the red zone, all it took was a whispered, “Kaye.” The door to her hotel room had come at his face faster than a bullet train. He guessed he should be grateful she hadn’t been using a more lethal weapon, like the volleyball she’d smashed in his face during gym class back in eleventh grade. Even so, he’d been forced to jump back or have the number seventeen imprinted on his forehead. Their last skirmish, the one back in Rome, he’d definitely lost. He’d stood outside her room like a fool, Lover Boy’s laughter his only reply. Finally, the pensione’s night clerk had appeared, insisting he leave la bella americana in peace. He’d gone away, humiliated and oddly deflated.

February 14: Tempo features Marilyn in a swimsuit she wore in We’re Not Married. Here she stands with her arms resting on a heart (almost as large as she is) with a cupid’s arrow running downward and diagonally across the page. “Marilyn’s New Career” is the headline for an article reporting her refusal to do the dumb blonde role in How To Be Very, Very Popular.

The Grits Guide to Southern Humor “I am not offended by dumb blonde jokes because I know I’m not dumb…I also know I’m not blonde!” -Dolly Parton, Tennessee Grits

All women are lifelong members of the Secret Service...So, if you must lie, better make sure you cover your tracks because there is no such thing as a 'dumb blonde'...

I had occasion to talk to Erica Jong, one of the most famous sex-positive feminists—“one of the most interviewed people in the world,” as she’s put it—on the thirtieth anniversary of her novel Fear of Flying. “I was standing in the shower the other day, picking up my shampoo,” she said. “It’s called ‘Dumb Blonde.’ I thought, thirty years ago you could not have sold this. I think we have lost consciousness of the way our culture demeans women.” She was quick to tell me that she “wouldn’t pass a law against the product or call the PC police.” But, she said, “let’s not kid ourselves that this is liberation. The women who buy the idea that flaunting your breasts in sequins is power—I mean, I’m for all that stuff—but let’s not get so into the tits and ass that we don’t notice how far we haven’t come. Let’s not confuse that with real power. I don’t like to see women fooled.

How do you make Draco mad? Tell a dumb blonde joke!

Strangers think Jus and me are twins, because we’re both cursed with messy red hair and a truckload of freckles, not to mention we’re both thirteen. But his real twin is his sister Liberty, even though she looks nothing like him, being a blond and, well…a girl. Liberty sauntered in, joining Justice and me in the kitchen. She slouched against the counter and tossed her baseball from hand to hand. Baseball was to Liberty like oxygen was to the rest of us. “That dumb ol’ skeleton is all people have on their brains this morning.” “You’re just mad the police won’t let you on the baseball field,” Justice said. Liberty spit into the trash can. She was a southern belle. Minus the belle part. She also ran faster and slugged harder than anyone else in Windy Bottom. “It’s probably just some soldier left over from the Civil War.” Justice tied on an apron and grabbed a tub filled with dirty dishes. “Nuh-uh. Dad said there wasn’t hardly any war fought in this part of Georgia.” Liberty rolled her eyes. “That doesn’t mean there was nothing. Maybe he crawled home to die.” “Come on, Lib,” I said, tossing her an apron. “We all got kitchen duty—not just Justice and me.

Life, as we know it on earth, appears as a synthesis of two macromolecular systems. The proteins, because of their versatility and chemical reactivity, do all the work but are unable to replicate themselves in any simple way. The nucleic acids seem tailor-made for replication but can achieve rather little else compared with the more elaborate and better equipped proteins. RNA and DNA are the dumb blondes of the biomolecular world, fit mainly for reproduction (with a little help from proteins) but of little use for much of the really demanding work. The problem of the origin of life would be a great deal easier to approach if there were only one family of macromolecules, capable of doing both jobs, replication and catalysis, but life as we know it employs two families. This may well be due to the fact that no macromolecule exists which could conveniently carry out both functions, because of the limitations of organic chemistry; because, that is, of the nature of things.

Daisy is a real ingénue. She grew up wearing braids on a farm somewhere in the Midwest, or maybe in the South, before she hopped on a bus and ended up in New York. You can tell because she still pronounces words that start with w as through they start with an h, like hwat, hwho. Daisy has the look of farm ilk, all strawberry blond with strong teeth and a American freckles. It adds to her charm in a city used to irregular faces. Her plainness is always being photographed. I find she is reasonable as a person, almost old-fashioned. She has a lot of what people consider "moral fiber," which simply means a variety of ears instilled in you when you're young enough to be scared. In New York, people find her Authentic. She's fallen in love approximately forty times and always with someone who has nothing to offer. It's a gift of dumb luck. Men find her alluring because she has one of those open faces--all wide-eyes and large forehead. Daisy likes to admit, "Men are such fans of innocence." Crazy things are always happening to her, and she never knows how or why. (26)

Q: Why do blondes have little holes all over their faces? A: From eating with forks.

Marginalised masculinities describes a group of men who are marginalised and excluded from all the benefits of male privilege because of race or class. For example, although working-class men may embody a kind of toughness and stoicism that is prized, they do not benefit as greatly from that privilege as those in the middle and upper classes do. ... 'working-class men are the male equivalent of the "dumb blond" - endowed with physical virtues but problematized by intellectual shortcomings'.

Annabeth drew her dagger. Instead of dropping it, she tossed it as far as she could into the water. Octavian made a squeaking sound. ‘What was that for? I didn’t say toss it! That could’ve been evidence. Or spoils of war!’ Annabeth tried for a dumb-blonde smile, like: Oh, silly me. Nobody who knew her would have been fooled. But Octavian seemed to buy it. He huffed in exasperation. ‘You other two …’ He pointed his blade at Hazel and Piper. ‘Put your weapons on the dock. No funny bus–’ All around the Romans, Charleston Harbor erupted like a Las Vegas fountain putting on a show. When the wall of seawater subsided, the three Romans were in the bay, spluttering and frantically trying to stay afloat in their armour. Percy stood on the dock, holding Annabeth’s dagger. ‘You dropped this,’ he said, totally poker-faced. Annabeth threw her arms around him. ‘I love you!’ ‘Guys,’ Hazel interrupted. She had a little smile on her face. ‘We need to hurry.’ Down in the water, Octavian yelled, ‘Get me out of here! I’ll kill you!’ ‘Tempting,’ Percy called down. ‘What?’ Octavian shouted. He was holding on to one of his guards, who was having trouble keeping them both afloat. ‘Nothing!’ Percy shouted back. ‘Let’s go, guys.’ Hazel frowned. ‘We can’t let them drown, can we?’ ‘They won’t,’ Percy promised. ‘I’ve got the water circulating around their feet. As soon as we’re out of range, I’ll spit them ashore.’ Piper grinned. ‘Nice.

Levelers: “I’m not offended by all the dumb blonde jokes because I know I’m not dumb… and I also know that I’m not blonde.” —Dolly Parton

She’d been played all along. Once again, the dumb blonde. “Marco

Miss Shannon was, as Chief Inspector Kemp had stated, a blonde lovely. The bleached hair, carefully arranged, swept back from a soft vacant baby-like countenance. Miss Shannon might be as Inspector Kemp had affirmed, dumb—but she was eminently easy to look at, and a certain shrewdness in the large baby-blue eyes indicated that her dumbness only extended in intellectual directions and that where horse sense and a knowledge of finance were indicated, Christine Shannon was right on the spot.

That good-looking Mrs. Penmark, that dizzy blonde, didn’t know what it was all about. She was too dumb, when you came right down to it, to understand his contempt for her. She was one of them soft, easily-taken-in ones that went around feeling sorry for people. She was one of the ones that was eat up with kindness

The Easy Aces was billed as “radio’s laugh novelty,” and Jane Ace was Mrs. Malaprop of the air. Jane had a twangy midwestern voice, slightly softer in natural conversation, that reminded a listener of Bernardine Flynn’s Sade Gook (Vic and Sade). She was one of radio’s enduring female screwballs, Gracie Allen and Marie Wilson being the others. Under the guidance of her husband and writer, Goodman Ace, she defined the term “malapropism” to a generation that had never heard of it or its creator. Mrs. Malaprop was a character in an 18th century play by Richard Brinsley Sheridan. Her sentences were filled with wrong words that vaguely resembled proper speech and had a great comedic effect on audiences of that time. In the early 1930s, the Aces were effectively combining malapropisms with general “dumb blonde” humor.

Paolo is the learned one of us,” Falco explained. “His master is a scholar as well as a painter, so he is always getting his hands on literature from abroad.” He winked at Cass. “He is not nearly so dumb as his jokes--and his looks--would suggest.” “True,” Paolo said good-naturedly. “And I find I gravitate to the French.” He drained his mug and signaled the barkeep for a refill. “Last week I was reading an essay by Michel de Montaigne.” “Not more of this.” Nicolas, a stocky blond with the beginnings of a beard, rolled his eyes. “Why do you two always feel the need to impress the ladies with your knowledge of all things dull?

Marilyn Monroe (born Norma Jeane Mortenson; June 1, 1926 – August 5, 1962) was an American actress, model, and singer, who became a major sex symbol, starring in a number of commercially successful motion pictures during the 1950s and early 1960s. After spending much of her childhood in foster homes, Monroe began a career as a model, which led to a film contract in 1946 with Twentieth Century-Fox. Her early film appearances were minor, but her performances in The Asphalt Jungle and All About Eve (both 1950), drew attention. By 1952 she had her first leading role in Don't Bother to Knock and 1953 brought a lead in Niagara, a melodramatic film noir that dwelt on her seductiveness. Her "dumb blonde" persona was used to comic effect in subsequent films such as Gentlemen Prefer Blondes (1953), How to Marry a Millionaire (1953) and The Seven Year Itch (1955). Limited by typecasting, Monroe studied at the Actors Studio to broaden her range. Her dramatic performance in Bus Stop (1956) was hailed by critics and garnered a Golden Globe nomination. Her production company, Marilyn Monroe Productions, released The Prince and the Showgirl (1957), for which she received a BAFTA Award nomination and won a David di Donatello award. She received a Golden Globe Award for her performance in Some Like It Hot (1959). Monroe's last completed film was The Misfits, co-starring Clark Gable with screenplay by her then-husband, Arthur Miller. Marilyn was a passionate reader, owning four hundred books at the time of her death, and was often photographed with a book. The final years of Monroe's life were marked by illness, personal problems, and a reputation for unreliability and being difficult to work with. The circumstances of her death, from an overdose of barbiturates, have been the subject of conjecture. Though officially classified as a "probable suicide", the possibility of an accidental overdose, as well as of homicide, have not been ruled out. In 1999, Monroe was ranked as the sixth greatest female star of all time by the American Film Institute. In the decades following her death, she has often been cited as both a pop and a cultural icon as well as the quintessential American sex symbol. 수면제,액상수면제,낙태약,여성최음제,ghb물뽕,여성흥분제,남성발기부전치유제,비아,시알,88정,드래곤,바오메이,정력제,남성성기확대제,카마그라젤,비닉스,센돔,,꽃물,남성조루제,네노마정,러쉬파퍼,엑스터시,신의눈물,lsd,아이스,캔디,대마초,떨,마리화나,프로포폴,에토미데이트,해피벌륜 등많은제품판매하고있습니다 원하시는제품있으시면 추천상으로 더좋은제품으로 모시겠습니다 qwe114.c33.kr 카톡【ACD5】텔레【KKD55】 I believe that everything happens for a reason. People change so that you can learn to let go, things go wrong so that you appreciate them when they're right, you believe lies so you eventually learn to trust no one but yourself, and sometimes good things fall apart so better things can fall together

We were blonde, but we weren't dumb.

What do a beer bottle and a blonde have in common? They’re both empty from the neck up.