Bloom's Funny Quotes

When I die, I want them to bury me facedown and ass up so that the whole world can kiss my ass!

I got to dress up in funny clothes and run around New Zealand with a bow and arrow for 18 months, how bad could that be?

Though Alec had never seen the occupants of the first floor loft, they seemed to be engaged in a tempestuous romance. Once there had been a bunch of someone's belongings strewn all over the landing with a note attached to a jacket lapel addressed to "A lying liar who lies." Right now there was a bouquet of flowers taped to the door with a card tucked among the blooms that read I'M SORRY. That was the thing about New York: you always knew more about your neighbors' business than you wanted to.

Somewhere in the crowd was at least one potential friend who'd understand the fundamental value of goofing off. Because if not, how boring would that be?

For me, the times I always regret are missed opportunities to say farewell to good people, to wish them long life and say to them in all sincerity, "You build and do not destroy; you sow goodwill and reap it; smiles bloom in the wake of your passing, and I will keep your kindness in trust and share it as occasion arises, so that your life will be a quenching draught of calm in a land of drought and stress." Too often I never get to say that when it should be said. Instead, I leave them with the equivalent of a "Later, dude!" only to discover there would be no later for us.

It means you got your glow on." He smiled, hovering right alongside me. "It means you're on your way.

I don’t mind you pouring lemonade or whatever on us, but as soon as you hit a woman, I get mad. And that’s one show you don’t want the curtains to go up on.

We weren't really friends yet, just knowers of each other's secret stuff.

It was that time of life: Talents were rising to the surface, weaknesses were beginning to show through, we were finding out what kinds of people we would be. Some would turn out beautiful, some funny, some shy. Some would be smart, others smarter. THe chubby ones would likely always be chubby. THe beloved, I sensed, would be beloved for life. And I worried that loneliness might work that way, too. Maybe loneliness was imprinted in my genes, lying dormant for years but now coming into full bloom.

Like the garlic mustard in my garden and the roses on my fence, love has a funny way of blooming after years of being buried.

You're going to, Clay? She whispered before he could leave. You're really going to read to me? Sure. The smile that lit Jackie's face was the first Clayton had seen from her in more than a year. It did funny things in the region of his chest. He moved toward the door but ran into the doorpost because he was staring behind him watching her. Eddie who was headed that way laughed when she witnessed it. Are you in a hurry Eddie asked noticing that he looked a little dazed. She smiled He said his voice bemused. I saw her smile. Eddie's gaze became very tender. If Jackie could see him now she'd know in an instant how much he still loved her.

Oh my. Molly put her hand to her no-doubt agape mouth. Oh my, oh my, oh my. After her divorce, she hadn’t thought this day would ever come again, but here it was, a second proposal. Life is funny, she thought, and she felt herself step back from the reality of her situation for a moment, lest its emotions overwhelm her and make her swoon like a damsel in those Middle English chivalric romances she taught in 10th-grade English. Yes, life was indeed funny. It had no syllabus, which was why Molly, always a diligent student, felt so unprepared for it. Life played tricks on you too, surprised you, with the biggest surprise that life, even at the nearly half-century mark, could still hold surprises. Like so: There is a man in my kitchen, a man I’m in love with, and he wants to spend the rest of his life with me. How strange and how very unconventional by its conventional, everyday setting.

I don’t want to freeze my eggs. I don’t want to visit a sperm bank. I don’t want to be a single parent, if I have any choice in the matter. I want a nuclear family. I want to put down roots, to let my seeds germinate, to watch them bloom and flourish. Not one day, if and when I ever fall in love again, but now. While I still have my youth, damn it.

Stop scratching,' Rhys said without looking at him as they strode through a blooming apple orchard. No wings to be seen today. Cassian lowered his hands from his chest. 'I can't help it if this place makes my skin crawl.' Rhys snorted, gesturing to one of the blooming trees above them, petals falling thick as snow. 'The feared general, felled by seasonal allergies. Cassian gave an unnecessarily loud sniffle, earning a full chuckle from Rhys.

I care about you even more than before, more than I thought possible. You’re unlike anyone I’ve ever met. You’re funny, kind, unbelievably clever, beautiful, and brave. You, Quincy Carmichael, aren’t simply long-term material. You’re the forever I’ve been waiting for.

I strongly believe it based on trust, we confide in each other. In my opinion when a girl feels loved, she blooms like a flower. He helps me overcome my fears, he is funny, we both accentuate each other life by just being kind and never ending the day without saying we love each other

Honey, were you trying to be a 1950s beatnik from Funny Face or something?” He guesses, correctly. “It is one thing to channel your inner Audrey Hepburn, but it is quite another to wear a mock turtleneck and capris to a Hollywood event. This is the big time, sweetheart; you best check your costume at the door.

Make me breakfast in the morning?" "So long as you don't leave my sight until then." He grinned. I laughed. Sure, I was crazy about him, but spending the night with him? "Oh really?" "We'll rent a bunch of movies and fill up on popcorn. Maybe snuggle. If you're lucky." "I'm feeling very lucky right now.

I hope at 50 I'll be dancing like Gianluca Vacchi Party, whiskey, Bellini, Martini, Bloody Maries Bad & Boujee, Tutti Fruity booty, type that really moves me Kundalini rising, energy fill me completely I hope at 50 I'll be writing books like JK Rowling Pen and paper take me places, countries far and foreign Find a cafe up in Edinburgh, write in Scotland Let the stories in my head come out, bloom and blossom I hope at 50
I'll be wealthy like Carlos Slim Buying yachts and mansions and my mother shiny things Encrusted diamond dial on a new Patek Philippe Chill in Maldives but do charity in Ardabil I hope at 50
I'll be funny like Stephen Colbert Cracking witty jokes, making everyone laugh in tears Laughter it goes round and round like a carousel Chronic comic sonic sounds of haha everywhere I hope at 50
I'll be stoic like Robert De Niro Zeno school of thought put an end to my evil ego I hope at 50
I'll be fit as The Rock, Dwayne Johnson Hard rock abs to be paired with an even harder mindset I hope at 50,
I'll be wise like Denzel Washington
Wisdom, knowledge and the faith of God under my skin I hope at 50,
I'll find real love like George Clooney
Amal Alamuddin clone is the type that really moves me

I'd painted nearly every surface in the main room. And not with just broad swaths of colour, but with decorations- little images. Some were basic: colours of icicles drooping down the sides of the threshold. They melted into the first shoots of spring, then burst into full blooms of summer, before brightening and deepening into fall leaves. I'd painted a ring of flowers round the card table by the window, leaves and crackling flames around the dining table. But in between the intricate decorations, I'd painted them. Bits and pieces of Mor, and Cassian, and Azriel, and Amren... and Rhys. Mor went up to the large hearth, where I'd painted the mantel in black shimmering with veins of gold and red. Up close, it was a solid pretty bit of paint. But from the couch... 'Illyrian wings,' she said. 'Ugh, they'll never stop gloating about it.' But she went to the window, which I'd framed in tumbling strands of gold and brass and bronze. Mor fingered her hair, cocking her head. 'Nice,' she said, surveying the room again. Her eyes fell on the open threshold to the bedroom hallway, and she grimaced. 'Why,' she said, 'are Amren's eyes there?' Indeed, right above the door, in the centre of the archway, I'd painted a pair of glowing silver eyes. 'Because she's always watching.' Mor snorted. 'That simply won't do. Paint my eyes next to hers. So the males of this family will know we're both watching them the next time they come up here to get drunk for a week straight.' 'They do that?' They used to.' Before Amarantha. 'Every autumn, the three of them would lock themselves in this house for five days and drink and drink and hunt and hunt, and they'd come back to Velaris looking halfway to death but grinning like fools. It warms my heart to know that from now on, they'll have to do it with me and Amren staring at them.

That was the whole trouble with police work. You come plunging in. a jagged Stone Age knife, to probe the delicate tissues of people's relationships, and of course you destroy far more than you discover. And even what you discover will never be the same as it was before you came; the nubbly scars of your passage will remain. At the very least. you have asked questions that expose to the destroying air fibers that can only exist and fulfill their function in coddling darkness. Cousin Amy, now, mousing about in back passages or trilling with feverish shyness at sherry parties—was she really made all the way through of dust and fluff and unused ends of cotton and rusty needles and unmatching buttons and all the detritus at the bottom of God's sewing basket? Or did He put a machine in there to tick away and keep her will stern and her back straight as she picks out of a vase of brown-at-the-edges dahlias the few blooms that have another day's life in them? Or another machine, one of His chemistry sets, that slowly mixes itself into an apparently uncaused explosion, poof!, and there the survivors are sitting covered with plaster dust among the rubble of their lives. It's always been the explosion by the time the police come stamping in with ignorant heels on the last unbroken bit of Bristol glass; with luck they can trace the explosion back to harmless little Amy, but as to what set her off—what were the ingredients of the chemistry set and what joggled them together—it was like trying to reconstruct a civilization from three broken pots and a seven-inch lump of baked clay which might, if you looked at its swellings and hollows the right way, have been the Great Earth Mother. What's more. people who've always lived together think that they are still the same—oh, older of course and a bit more snappish, but underneath still the same laughing lad of thirty years gone by. "My Jim couldn't have done that." they say. "I know him. Course he's been a bit depressed lately, funny like. but he sometimes goes that way for a bit and then it passes off. But setting fire to the lingerie department at the Army and Navy, Inspector—such a thought wouldn't enter into my Jim's head. I know him." Tears diminishing into hiccuping snivels as doubt spreads like a coffee stain across the threadbare warp of decades. A different Jim? Different as a Martian, growing inside the ever-shedding skin? A whole lot of different Jims. a new one every seven years? "Course not. I'm the same. aren't I, same as I always was—that holiday we took hiking in the Peak District in August thirty-eight—the same inside?" Pibble sighed and shook himself. You couldn't build a court case out of delicate tissues. Facts were the one foundation.

she had dark chestnut hair, a heart-shaped face, large wide eyes, full lips…and appeared about as miserable as he’d ever seen a young woman, a state he suspected had something to do with the older woman at her side. His gaze slid over the matron. Well-rounded with dark hair, she was pretty despite the bloom of youth being gone—or she would be if she weren’t wearing a pursed, dissatisfied expression as she surveyed the activity in the ballroom. Adrian glanced back to the girl. “First season?” he queried, his curiosity piqued. “Yes.” Reg looked amused. “Why is no one dancing with her?” A beauty such as this should have had a full card. “No one dares ask her—and you will not either, if you value your feet.” Adrian’s eyebrows rose, his gaze turning reluctantly from the young woman to the man at his side. “She is blind as a bat and dangerous to boot,” Reg announced, nodding when Adrian looked disbelieving. “Truly, she cannot dance a step without stomping on your toes and falling about. She cannot even walk without bumping into things.” He paused, cocking one eyebrow in response to Adrian’s expression. “I know you do not believe it. I did not either…much to my own folly.” Reginald turned to glare at the girl and continued: “I was warned, but ignored it and took her in to dinner….” He glanced back at Adrian. “I was wearing dark brown trousers that night, unfortunately. She mistook my lap for a table, and set her tea on me. Or rather, she tried to. It overset and…” Reg paused, shifting uncomfortably at the memory. “Damn me if she did not burn my piffle.” Adrian stared at his cousin and then burst into laughter. Reginald looked startled, then smiled wryly. “Yes, laugh. But if I never sire another child—legitimate or not—I shall blame it solely on Lady Clarissa Crambray.” Shaking his head, Adrian laughed even harder, and it felt so good. It had been many years since he’d found anything the least bit funny. But the image of the delicate little flower along the wall mistaking Reg’s lap for a table and oversetting a cup of tea on him was priceless. “What did you do?” he got out at last. Reg shook his head and raised his hands helplessly. “What could I do? I pretended it had not happened, stayed where I was, and tried not to cry with the pain. ‘A gentleman never deigns to notice, or draw attention in any way to, a lady’s public faux pas,’” he quoted dryly, then glanced back at the girl with a sigh. “Truth to tell, I do not think she even realized what she’d done. Rumor has it she can see fine with spectacles, but she is too vain to wear them.” Still smiling, Adrian followed Reg’s gaze to the girl. Carefully taking in her wretched expression, he shook his head. “No. Not vain,” he announced, watching as the older woman beside Lady Clarissa murmured something, stood, and moved away. “Well,” Reg began, but paused when, ignoring him, Adrian moved toward the girl. Shaking his head, he muttered, “I warned you.” -Adrian & Reg

Martha would come over every week and check on Mia and work with her on relaxation and breathing exercises to prepare for the natural labor. Jenny was on board with the natural thing too, so of course she and Mia dragged Tyler and me to the Bradley Birthing Method classes. It was hysterical; we had to get in all kinds of weird poses with the girls while they mimicked being in labor. We would massage their backs while they were perched on all fours, moaning. One of the hardest things I’ve ever done is contain my laughter during those classes. Mia was the freakin’ teacher’s pet because she was taking it so seriously. Right around the third class, they showed us a video of a live birth. I had nightmares for a week after that. Tyler and I agreed that we had to find a way to get out of going to the classes. We hadn’t mutually agreed on a plan, so during the fifth class, Tyler took it upon himself and used his own bodily gifts to get us into a heap of trouble. Tyler is lactose intolerant, and he has to take these little white tablets every time he eats cheese. The morning of the class, he stopped by the studio with a half-eaten pizza. I didn’t even think twice about it until that night in class during our visualization exercises when this god-awful, horrendous odor overtook our senses. At first everyone kept quiet and just looked around for the source. There wasn’t a sound to accompany the lethal attack, so everyone went into investigation mode, staring each other down. Mia began to gag. I heard Jenny cry a little behind us. Finally when I turned toward Tyler, I noticed he had the most triumphant glimmer in his eyes. I completely lost my shit. I was rolling around, laughing hysterically. Mia grabbed the hood of my sweatshirt and pulled me to my feet. “Outside, now!” She was scowling as she dragged me along. When we passed Tyler, she pointed to him angrily. “You too, joker.” Mia and Jenny pressed us up against the brick wall outside and then gave us the death stare, both of them with their arms crossed over their blooming bellies. They whispered something to each other and then turned and walked off, arm in arm. We followed. “Come on, you guys, it was funny.” Jenny stopped dead in her tracks and turned. She jabbed her index finger into my chest and said, “Yes, it is funny. When you’re five! Not when you’re in a room full of pregnant women. Do you know how sensitive our noses are?” I shrugged. “It wasn’t me.” “Oh, I know he’s a child,” she said but wouldn’t even look at Tyler. “And you are too, Will, for encouraging it.” Mia was glaring at me with a disappointed look, and then she shook her head and turned to continue down the street. Jenny caught up and walked away with her. “God, they’re so sensitive,” I whispered to Tyler. “Yeah, I kinda feel bad.” Without turning around, Mia yelled to us, “You guys don’t have to come anymore. Jenny and I can be each other’s partners.” I turned to Tyler and mouthed, “It worked!” I had a huge smile on my face. Tyler and I high-fived. “Why don’t you guys go celebrate? I know that’s what you wanted,” Jenny yelled back as they made a sharp turn down the sidewalk and down the stairs to the subway. “Nothing gets past them,” Tyler said

But now that I’m here, Taiwan feels like home. Isn’t it funny? The two of us here, so far away, brought together by the island?” I understood what she meant. The names of people and places had meaning and memories; she could mention a street, a site, and it would bloom before my eyes: the direction of the afternoon shadows, the odor of charcoal and exhaust and benjo sludge, the commotion of horns and voices. The sound of Taiwanese jumbled with Mandarin. There, however, our paths would never have crossed. America—or was it exile?—had erased our differences.

The most important mystery of ancient Egypt was presided over by a priesthood. That mystery concerned the annual inundation of the Nile flood plain. It was this flooding which made Egyptian agriculture, and therefore civilisation, possible. It was the centre of their society in both practical and ritual terms for many centuries; it made ancient Egypt the most stable society the world has ever seen. The Egyptian calendar itself was calculated with reference to the river, and was divided into three seasons, all of them linked to the Nile and the agricultural cycle it determined: Akhet, or the inundation, Peret, the growing season, and Shemu, the harvest. The size of the flood determined the size of the harvest: too little water and there would be famine; too much and there would be catastrophe; just the right amount and the whole country would bloom and prosper. Every detail of Egyptian life was linked to the flood: even the tax system was based on the level of the water, since it was that level which determined how prosperous the farmers were going to be in the subsequent season. The priests performed complicated rituals to divine the nature of that year’s flood and the resulting harvest. The religious elite had at their disposal a rich, emotionally satisfying mythological system; a subtle, complicated language of symbols that drew on that mythology; and a position of unchallenged power at the centre of their extraordinarily stable society, one which remained in an essentially static condition for thousands of years. But the priests were cheating, because they had something else too: they had a nilometer. This was a secret device made to measure and predict the level of flood water. It consisted of a large, permanent measuring station sited on the river, with lines and markers designed to predict the level of the annual flood. The calibrations used the water level to forecast levels of harvest from Hunger up through Suffering through to Happiness, Security and Abundance, to, in a year with too much water, Disaster. Nilometers were a – perhaps the – priestly secret. They were situated in temples where only priests were allowed access; Herodotus, who wrote the first outsider’s account of Egyptian life the fifth century BC, was told of their existence, but wasn’t allowed to see one. As late as 1810, thousands of years after the nilometers had entered use, foreigners were still forbidden access to them. Added to the accurate records of flood patters dating back centuries, the nilometer was an essential tool for control of Egypt. It had to be kept secret by the ruling class and institutions, because it was a central component of their authority. The world is full of priesthoods. The nilometer offers a good paradigm for many kinds of expertise, many varieties of religious and professional mystery. Many of the words for deliberately obfuscating nonsense come from priestly ritual: mumbo jumbo from the Mandinka word maamajomboo, a masked shamanic ceremonial dancer; hocus pocus from hoc est corpus meum in the Latin Mass. On the one hand, the elaborate language and ritual, designed to bamboozle and mystify and intimidate and add value; on the other the calculations that the pros make in private. Practitioners of almost every métier, from plumbers to chefs to nurses to teachers to police, have a gap between the way they talk to each other and they way they talk to their customers or audience. Grayson Perry is very funny on this phenomenon at work in the art world, as he described it in an interview with Brian Eno. ‘As for the language of the art world – “International Art English” – I think obfuscation was part of its purpose, to protect what in fact was probably a fairly simple philosophical point, to keep some sort of mystery around it. There was a fear that if it was made understandable, it wouldn’t seem important.

The perfect punchline can only exist if it’s coming from the right persona, and I believe that is the single most important thing a comedian needs to know. Woody Allen managed to sum this up in one sentence: “A comedian is a funny person doing material, and not a person doing funny material”.

How funny is it that we are constantly told to follow our dreams but are punished to a torturous degree if our dreams don't come true like the way we want them to. It takes a lot to bloom again after it. But being able to bloom again is what matters. The crux lies in the answer to the question that 'Do we really bloom again?' Perhaps yes, but perhaps never in the same way.

Cherry Hill, like most local wineries, is on a peninsula that juts into the vast expanse of Lake Michigan’s northernmost curve. The vineyards sprawl across gently rolling hills on either side of the long gravel road that brings us to the winery itself, all sleek glass, balsa wood, and corrugated metal. The parking lot is jammed, the gardens that encircle it bursting with colorful blooms, all tinted pinkish by the setting sun. Out beyond the flowers and hedges, whitewashed tables dot a grassy stretch, customers milling from the bocce court on one end to a duck pond at the other, delicately stemmed glasses in hand. Globe lights hang over the seating area, just waiting for the falling night to give them the cue to light up.

I think it would be difficult to get drunk in China. I tried to drink some beer with chop sticks and it took me a whole day to finish one can.

As the middle child of the Laurel Canyon Adams Family, Whit was surprisingly chill on the subject of ampire-vays.

We're born to die, but don't know why or what it's all about And, the more we try to learn, the less we know. Life's a very funny proposition, you can bet, And no one's ever solved the problem properly, as yet; Young for a day, then old and gray, Like the rose that buds and blooms, and fades and falls away. Losing health, to gain our wealth, as through this dream we tour; Ev'rything's a guess and nothing's absolutely sure. Battles exciting, and fates we're fighting, until the curtain fall; Life's a very funny proposition, after all.

used to write copy. My boss told me: If you gotta say it’s upscale, it ain’t. My boss said, It’s like that guy who tells you he’s funny.

Sometimes a hoe just gotta be a hoe

Man is a complex being: he makes deserts bloom - and lakes die. Gil Scott-Heron

Above his head, the drip had spread, dark and blooming across the plaster. A spider watched him from a gauzy web above the washstand. Light from his shrinking candle reflected in the grime on the window. He was pretty sure there was something crawling in his mattress. His stomach growled its displeasure, and somewhere a pig slept on his nightshirt. But for some reason, he was pleased.

Seeing Cory was now firmly latched on to some huge Arab guy—his very favourite kind—I knew he was five minutes away from leaving, so I beat him to it. I weaved my way through the crowd, only having to peel two slimy hands from my arse along the way, and came up behind Cory. His dancing partner seemed to think his luck had changed for the better when I put my hands on Cory’s hips. “I’m going home,” I yelled over the music. “Be good, and call me tomorrow.” He let his head drop back onto my shoulder and laughed, grinding his dick against Mr Huge’s crotch. “Wanna join us?” the guy asked. “I can service both of you.” Service. Once upon a time, I’d have found that funny, maybe even considered his offer. But not anymore. “No thanks,” I said. “Service him twice instead.” Cory laughed. “Love you, Linden.

Indigo,” Morganti said. “Isn’t it funny that we have a separate word for dark blue?

Cassian grinned and said to Azriel, 'We're going to be uncles.' Feyre groaned. 'Mother help this child.' Azriel's own grin bloomed at that, but Feyre's gaze slid to Nesta. Nesta said quietly to her sister, 'Congratulations.' For she'd said nothing, had only been able to stand and watch them all, their joy and closeness, as if she were looking in through a window. But Feyre offered her a tentative smile. 'Thank you. You'll be an aunt, you know.' 'Gods help this child indeed,' Cassian muttered, and Nesta glared at him.

You know the funny thing about truth is that it’s like raw chicken. You can hide it. You can freeze it. You can bury it, but eventually, that shit starts to smell. Bad. One day the power will go out, and that frozen, nasty ass chicken will stink up the house. Your girl will come home and want to know what the hell is with that stench. And you’ll be standing there like an idiot, twiddling your thumbs, saying you just didn’t get around to putting it in the trashcan when you should’ve, five years ago.

Natural selection may be selfish (in a metaphorical sense), but if so, it's selfish about genes, not individuals. The story goes that J. B. S. Haldane was asked if he would give his life to save his brother and he said he wouldn't, but he would happily do so for two brothers or eight cousins. Only a biologist would say something like that, but Haldane was nicely expressing how evolution works.

Inside was a miniature incandescent, one of the genetically engineered flowers that attracted light the way magnets attract metal. Already it was drawing some of the light from the room toward it, taking on a sort of ghostly glow, though it generated none of the light itself. Incandescents were funny; they’d become much cheaper since they were first bred decades ago, because they only lasted a few hours before dying. But they were truly beautiful if you caught them in the one night they bloomed.

Why do you want to work in a bakery?' 'Free donuts, dude.' 'And do you have any experience working in the food industry' 'No, but, like, my mom cooks every day, so I've seen it, you know? Like I've been around it' 'How did you find out about this position?' 'God told me about it. I can control sound with my mind. Would that be helpful?' 'Thank you for your time.

A minute after Bethanee had disappeared into the back, John emerged. Gorgeous, damp-haired John in his form-fitting denims. The Marlboro Man minus the nicotine-stained fingers and, admittedly, the thirty-inch waist.

I love you,” he says, though once he’s done it I can see he isn’t happy with it. He shakes his head and clicks his fingers, then puts his hand on his chest as he makes the declaration. “I love you.” “The second one,” I tell him, mainly because the second one gave me goose bumps. “Definitely.” “Or I could do it on one knee? Maybe add a bit of poetry? My love is a rare rose that blooms at the sight of you …” he offers, but of course we’re both trying not to laugh now. Something as terrifying as love, and somehow I’m relaxed enough to laugh. “But that’s not really me, right? If I was going to go with the honest version, it’d be more like this: my love is like a giant rampaging mutant from another dimension, intent on actually ingesting you in case you had any ideas about running away.

I’ve always wondered,” I said suddenly. “How do you get Dick from Richard, anyway?” “Oh, it’s easy. Just buy me dinner.

I swore, men’s forearms were like cleavage, except no guy ever got slut shamed for whipping out those meat sticks in public. No.

I am disappointed that you have replaced some good, old-fashioned and humorous cartoons with distasteful ones. For example, "The Far Side" by Gary Larson is not funny, just lacking in good taste. "Calvin and Hobbes" by Watterson could be more acceptable if made less offensive (at times). "Doonesbury" and "Bloom County," I suppose, reflect our times. Far better for our newspaper to be working to change what is so unacceptable to us all in these times. Many other cartoons are funny, likable and reflective of the real and good in our country. -- Mary Kohler, Yonkers (letter published in the Herald Statesman, Yonkers NY, 11/12/86) Quoted in /The Bloom County Library/

Did a rooster get hard when he walked into the hen house?

So in the famous words of many a porn star, I said screw it. I was going in, and I was going in hard.

If I was sandpaper and Damon was rough cut lumber, maybe all we needed was to rub ourselves together until we smoothed each other out.