Calculator Funny Quotes

It's not because I want to make out with her." Hold on." He grabbed a pencil and scrawled excitedly at the paper as if he'd just made a mathematical breakthrough and then looked back up at me. "I just did some calculations, and I've been able to determine that you're full of shit

You've read half the books in this house? This whole house?" "Well, approximately half." Sticky said. "To be more accurate, I suppose I've read more like" - his eyes went up as he calculated - "three sevenths? Yes, three sevenths." "Only three sevenths?" said Kate, pretending to look disappointed. "And here I was prepared to be impressed.

My calculations - allowing for a 12 percent margin of error, based on the radius of the corresponding confidence interval and the surgeon general's warning - concluded that they probably didn't stay behind for the tacos.

Jen put her hands on her hips and pinned Sally with the famous 'you're going to spit it out or I'm going to rip it out of you’ look. "You talked?" Jen asked sarcastically. "Sally," she cleared her throat then continued, "you have a mate. A guaranteed husband. A sure thing. Not to mention he's hot, funny, sweet, and he has a dimple. You talked?" She repeated. This time Jen's voice was skeptical. Before Sally could defend herself, however, her door opened slowly, calculatingly. "I know you weren't describing me Jennifer. So who is this male who has caught your eye so descriptively? Please do tell, so that I can rip him to pieces." Decebel's power filled the room and Sally took an involuntary step away from the very angry Alpha.

I'm taller than my father, and taller than two of the stones at Ban Drochaid." "I meant in feet," she clarified. Speaking of the mundane gave her a measure of calm. He eyed his boots a moment and appeared to be doing some rapid calculations.

If it's the thought that counts, then ignorance must use a calculator

She needed Andrew Simpson Smith, it was that simple. And he had spent his life training to help people like her. Gods. "Okay, Andrew. But let's leave today. I'm in a hurry." "Of course. Today." He stroked the place where his slight beard was beginning to grow. "These ruins where your friends are waiting? Where are they?" Tally glances up at the sun, still low enough to indicate the eastern horizon. After a moment's calculation, she pointed off to the northwest, back toward the city and beyond that, the Rusty Ruins. "About a week's walk that way." "A week?" "That means seven days." "Yes, I know the gods' calendar," he said huffily. "But a whole week?" "Yeah. That's not so far, is it?" The hunters had been tireless on their march the night before. He shook his head, an awed expression on his face. "But that is beyond the edge of the world.

he was disappointed that he’d never quite added up to as much as the results of his own calculations. The trouble was that he’d got his sums all wrong, but she didn’t want to be the one to tell him that.

The wife’s gotta know. You can’t hook up like that for what looks like about six or seven years without the wife figuring it out. Unless she’s another idiot. “I’m not an idiot.” Smiling, Roarke continued to stroke. “I’ll keep that in mind when I decide to have a long-term affair.” “Yeah, you do that. They’ll never find your body,” she murmured, then dropped into sleep. His smiled warmed, and feeling well loved, he dropped off with her.

Thus, in moments of catastrophe, when hard decisions needed to be made quickly, all AIs included in their calculations a human death toll governed by a factor called ‘pigheadedness’.

How was the sex?” he asked casually. “Excuse me?” “How was it,” said Nicholas, emphasizing each syllable, “when he fucked you? I'm assuming it was a he. Tell me all about it. I want to know.” Jay set her fork down with a ping. “It was fine.” “Dinner is fine. Cable television is fine. I'm asking if, when he was pounding into you at night with his college boy cock, were you screaming the walls down, or were you just lying there calculating last night's tips?

Of course, I have to say, when I took on these rules for myself, I was much younger and stronger, and I suppose I didn’t really calculate for my growing weaker with age. It’s funny, sir, but you don’t.

My name is Draco Malfoy. I'm here to turn myself in. I'm a hardened criminal and I'm sure Ronald Weasley would be only too happy to take my statement." He presented his wand and the woman took it before handing him a badge that read: Draco Malfoy, Hardened Criminal "If you'll wait over there, dear, I'll summon Mr. Weasley for you." Draco shrugged, not much caring one way or another. He could keep breathing and cataloguing his regrets as easily in Azkaban as anywhere else. Weasley seemed to waffle between being pleased as punch and calculatingly suspicious. "Why are you turning yourself in?" "My close proximity to the Savior of the Wizarding World infected me with sunshine and happy thoughts. I found my inner Gryffindor and it told me to repent." "Fuck you, Malfoy. Why are you really here?

Je me rends parfaitement compte du desagreable effet que produit sur la majorite de l'humanité, tout ce qui se rapporte, même au plus faible dègré, á des calculs ou raisonnements mathematiques. I am well aware of the disagreeable effect produced on the majority of humanity, by whatever relates, even at the slightest degree to calculations or mathematical reasonings.

It's funny, most people think that revenge is a passionate affair, driven by rage and pain. But it can't be. Feelings such as those make you weak. They overwrite thought and cause reckless impulses that lead to poor decisions. If anything, revenge is the absence of emotion. It's pure, calculated thought stripped bare of entangling emotions. It's cold, deliberate action.

Funny thing, time, how it all fit together despite such arbitrary beginnings and endings, the whole of it played out and calculated down to the very second, each breath, every sunset, dream and waking moment designed, the beat of every heart accounted for, each life a preordained piece of a much larger puzzle, a precisely measured unit in the infinite vacuum of space and time.

Everyone's here except for St. Clair." Meredith cranes her neck around the cafeteria. "He's usually running late." "Always," Josh corrects. "Always running late." I clear my throat. "I think I met him last night. In the hallway." "Good hair and an English accent?" Meredith asks. "Um.Yeah.I guess." I try to keep my voice casual. Josh smirks. "Everyone's in luuurve with St. Clair." "Oh,shut up," Meredith says. "I'm not." Rashmi looks at me for the first time, calculating whether or not I might fall in love with her own boyfriend. He lets go of her hand and gives an exaggerated sigh. "Well,I am. I'm asking him to prom. This is our year, I just know it." "This school has a prom?" I ask. "God no," Rashmi says. "Yeah,Josh. You and St. Clair would look really cute in matching tuxes." "Tails." The English accent makes Meredith and me jump in our seats. Hallway boy. Beautiful boy. His hair is damp from the rain. "I insist the tuxes have tails, or I'm giving your corsage to Steve Carver instead." "St. Clair!" Josh springs from his seat, and they give each other the classic two-thumps-on-the-back guy hug. "No kiss? I'm crushed,mate." "Thought it might miff the ol' ball and chain. She doesn't know about us yet." "Whatever," Rashi says,but she's smiling now. It's a good look for her. She should utilize the corners of her mouth more often. Beautiful Hallway Boy (Am I supposed to call him Etienne or St. Clair?) drops his bag and slides into the remaining seat between Rashmi and me. "Anna." He's surprised to see me,and I'm startled,too. He remembers me. "Nice umbrella.Could've used that this morning." He shakes a hand through his hair, and a drop lands on my bare arm. Words fail me. Unfortunately, my stomach speaks for itself. His eyes pop at the rumble,and I'm alarmed by how big and brown they are. As if he needed any further weapons against the female race. Josh must be right. Every girl in school must be in love with him. "Sounds terrible.You ought to feed that thing. Unless..." He pretends to examine me, then comes in close with a whisper. "Unless you're one of those girls who never eats. Can't tolerate that, I'm afraid. Have to give you a lifetime table ban." I'm determined to speak rationally in his presence. "I'm not sure how to order." "Easy," Josh says. "Stand in line. Tell them what you want.Accept delicious goodies. And then give them your meal card and two pints of blood." "I heard they raised it to three pints this year," Rashmi says. "Bone marrow," Beautiful Hallway Boy says. "Or your left earlobe." "I meant the menu,thank you very much." I gesture to the chalkboard above one of the chefs. An exquisite cursive hand has written out the morning's menu in pink and yellow and white.In French. "Not exactly my first language." "You don't speak French?" Meredith asks. "I've taken Spanish for three years. It's not like I ever thought I'd be moving to Paris." "It's okay," Meredith says quickly. "A lot of people here don't speak French." "But most of them do," Josh adds. "But most of them not very well." Rashmi looks pointedly at him. "You'll learn the lanaguage of food first. The language of love." Josh rubs his belly like a shiny Buddha. "Oeuf. Egg. Pomme. Apple. Lapin. Rabbit." "Not funny." Rashmi punches him in the arm. "No wonder Isis bites you. Jerk." I glance at the chalkboard again. It's still in French. "And, um, until then?" "Right." Beautiful Hallway Boy pushes back his chair. "Come along, then. I haven't eaten either." I can't help but notice several girls gaping at him as we wind our way through the crowd.

Speaking of welding torches... there’s one heading our way!’ The Nursebot was not wrong. Coming for them with the calculated patience of a Grim Reaper on rollerblades was the greatest wildfire the trio had ever seen. Burning in a mischievous cobalt-blue flame that straightforwardly spelled “chemical fire”, the all-consuming flames had cornered them by the unopenable hatch, within an inch of their lives. ‘We’re all going to die!’ wined 22-8, cradling his coppery head. ‘We’re done for!’ ‘I thought you social robots were built with problem-solving code,’ said Floater, hovering as close to the ceiling as possible. ‘Yes, well. My problem-solving code took too much space on the disk,’ said 22-8 morosely. Floater shook his head in disbelief. ‘So you deleted it? To make room for what?’ 22-8 lowered his head and whispered something that sounded very much like “dank memes” before falling silent.

Negroes know about each other what can here be called family secrets, and this means that one Negro, if he wishes, can “knock” the other’s “hustle”—can give his game away. It is still not possible to overstate the price a Negro pays to climb out of obscurity—for it is a particular price, involved with being a Negro; and the great wounds, gouges, amputations, losses, scars, endured in such a journey cannot be calculated. But even this is not the worst of it, since he is really dealing with two hierarchies, one white and one black, the latter modeled on the former. The higher he rises, the less is his journey worth, since (unless he is extremely energetic and anarchic, a genuinely “bad nigger” in the most positive sense of the term) all he can possibly find himself exposed to is the grim emptiness of the white world—which does not live by the standards it uses to victimize him—and the even more ghastly emptiness of black people who wish they were white. Therefore, one “exceptional” Negro watches another “exceptional” Negro in order to find out if he knows how vastly successful and bitterly funny the hoax has been. Alliances, in the great cocktail party of the white man’s world, are formed, almost purely, on this basis, for if both of you can laugh, you have a lot to laugh about. On the other hand, if only one of you can laugh, one of you, inevitably, is laughing at the other.

Because of this place I’m a murderer,” he said. “Complicity,” he amended after a moment’s consideration. “Soon to be.” The last was a conclusive mutter. “Get to the funny part,” Libby suggested dryly. “Well, there’s a stain on me now, isn’t there? A mark. Would kill for…followed by a blank space.” Nico summoned the knife back to his palm, only of course it didn’t register that way. One moment the knife was cast aside, the next it was in his hand. “I wouldn’t have that if I hadn’t come here. And I wouldn’t have come here at all if it weren’t for you.” She wondered if he blamed her. He didn’t sound accusatory, but it was hard not to assume that he was. “You were going to do it regardless, remember?” “Yeah but only because they asked you.” He glanced down at the knife in his hand, turning it over to inspect the blade. “Inseverable,” he said, neither to himself nor her. “What?” “Inseverable,” he repeated, louder this time. He glanced at her, shrugging. “One of those if-then calculations, right? We met, so now we can’t detach. We’re just going to always play a weird game of…what’s the word? The thing, espejo, the game. The mirror game.” “Mirror game?” “Yeah, you do one thing, I do it too. Mirror.” Libby asked, “But who does it first?” “Doesn’t matter.” “Do you resent it?” He looked down at the knife, and then back up at her. “Apparently, I’d kill to protect it,” he said, “so yeah.” “We could stop,” she suggested. “Stop playing the game.” “Stop where? Stop here? No,” Nico said with a shake of his head, fingers tapping at his side. “This isn’t far enough.” “But what if it’s too far?” “It is,” he agreed. “Too far to stop.” “Paradox,” Libby observed aloud, and Nico’s mouth twisted with wry acknowledgement. “Isn’t it? The day you are not a fire,” he said, “is the day the earth will fall still for me.

The best advice came from the legendary actor the late Sir John Mills, who I sat next to backstage at a lecture we were doing together. He told me he considered the key to public speaking to be this: “Be sincere, be brief, be seated.” Inspired words. And it changed the way I spoke publicly from then on. Keep it short. Keep it from the heart. Men tend to think that they have to be funny, witty, or incisive onstage. You don’t. You just have to be honest. If you can be intimate and give the inside story--emotions, doubts, struggles, fears, the lot--then people will respond. I went on to give thanks all around the world to some of the biggest corporations in business--and I always tried to live by that. Make it personal, and people will stand beside you. As I started to do bigger and bigger events for companies, I wrongly assumed that I should, in turn, start to look much smarter and speak more “corporately.” I was dead wrong--and I learned that fast. When we pretend, people get bored. But stay yourself, talk intimately, and keep the message simple, and it doesn’t matter what the hell you wear. It does, though, take courage, in front of five thousand people, to open yourself up and say you really struggle with self-doubt. Especially when you are meant to be there as a motivational speaker. But if you keep it real, then you give people something real to take away. “If he can, then so can I” is always going to be a powerful message. For kids, for businessmen--and for aspiring adventurers. I really am pretty average. I promise you. Ask Shara…ask Hugo. I am ordinary, but I am determined. I did, though--as the corporation started to pay me more--begin to doubt whether I was really worth the money. It all seemed kind of weird to me. I mean, was my talk a hundred times better now than the one I gave in the Drakensberg Mountains? No. But on the other hand, if you can help people feel stronger and more capable because of what you tell them, then it becomes worthwhile for companies in ways that are impossible to quantify. If that wasn’t true, then I wouldn’t get asked to speak so often, still to this day. And the story of Everest--a mountain, like life, and like business--is always going to work as a metaphor. You have got to work together, work hard, and go the extra mile. Look after each other, be ambitious, and take calculated, well-timed risks. Give your heart to the goal, and it will repay you. Now, are we talking business or climbing? That’s what I mean.

magazines. He was disappointed about something else, she thought; he was disappointed that he’d never quite added up to as much as the results of his own calculations. The trouble was that he’d got his sums all wrong, but she didn’t want to be the one to tell him that.

Three months is 12 weeks. That’s 12 whole weeks with no Andrea! I got a calculator for Christmas, and I figured it out. Twelve weeks times 7 days in a week is 84 days. That’s 84 days with no Andrea! And 84 days times 24 hours in a day is 2,016 hours. That’s 2,016 hours with no Andrea! And 2,016 hours times 60 minutes in an hour is 120,960 minutes. That’s 120,960 minutes with no Andrea! And 120,960 minutes times 60 seconds in a minute is 7,257,600 seconds.

Why couldn't the blonde add 10 and 7 on a calculator? A: She couldn't find the 10 key.

You laughin’ at me, dwarf?” Mulch stopped laughing. “With you,” he corrected. “I’m laughing with you. That skull joke was pretty funny.” The goblin advanced, until his slimy nose was a centi-meter from Mulch’s own. “You pay-tron-izin’ me, dwarf?” Mulch swallowed, calculating. If he unhinged now, he could probably swallow the leader before the others reacted. Still, goblins were murder on the digestion. Very bony. The goblin conjured up a fireball around his fist. “I asked you a question, stumpy.” Mulch could feel every sweat gland on his body pop into instant overdrive. Dwarfs did not like fire. They didn’t even like thinking about flames. Unlike the rest of the fairy races, dwarfs had no desire to live aboveground. Too close to the sun. Ironic for someone in the Mud People Possession Liberation business. “N-no need for that,” he stammered. “I was just trying to be friendly.” “Friendly,” scoffed Wart-face. “Your kind don’t know the meanin’ of the word. Cowardly backstabbers, the lot of you.” Mulch nodded diplomatically. “We have been known to be a bit treacherous.

Elizabeth Green’s New York Times article “Why Do Americans Stink at Math?” is funny and not so funny. In it, she recounts how, in the 1980s, A. Alfred Taubman, owner of the A&W chain, attempted to win over customers from McDonald’s. To lure customers from McDonald’s Quarter Pounder hamburger, he advertised the A&W better-tasting burger that was, in contrast to the McDonald’s Quarter Pounder, a full one-third pounder. One-third of a pound versus one-quarter of a pound and at the same price! Great idea, right? Well, not if you don’t know one-third is more than one-fourth! Taubman called in his cutting-edge marketing firm, Yankelovich, Skelly & White, to find out why the A&W campaign was failing. A study had shown that, without question, respondents preferred the taste of A&W’s burger over McDonald’s. Except for one small glitch. “Why,” respondents asked, “should we pay the same amount for a third of a pound of meat at A&W as we do for a fourth of a pound at McDonald’s?” Since three is less than four, reasoned more than half of those questioned, A&W was really ripping them off! And the problem is not confined to hamburger connoisseurs. Medical professionals, it turns out, aren’t immune to fallacious math either. Doctors and nurses have also been known to err when calculating dosages for medications. The problem is prevalent enough, in fact, to support services that help simplify math for doctors and nurses, including Broselow.com, whose tagline is “Taking the math out of medicine.

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.

Caspian Marks, he... he is a lot of things. He was made to mean something, to be someone, to move mountains, touch the moon, and explore the deep blue seas. He was made to become someone extraordinary. So don’t you dare let him be stripped of that potential, and help him see his potential if needs it. Sometimes he will, sometimes he won’t. And if at any time you ever need the reminder, he may be a lot of things, but Caspian Marks will never be a heartbreaker. He is not meant to break hearts.” Caspian Marks was a lot of things. He was irritating and brave and calculative and helpful and articulate and beautiful and funny in his own way. He was a lot of things, Caspian Marks, but out of all the things he was out of the many things in the world he could be, he was a lover. He was a lover, and he loved me.

He tugged on my wet hair. 'We'll have to find a way to put a damper on that light.' 'I can keep the shadows hidden easily enough.' 'Ah, but you only lose control of those when you're pissed. And since I have every intention of making you as happy as a person can be... I have a feeling we'll need to learn to control that wondrous glow.' 'Always thinking; always calculating.' Rhys kissed the corner of my mouth. 'You have no idea how many things I've thought up when it comes to you.' 'I remember mention of a wall.' His laugh was a sensual promise. 'Next time, Feyre, I'll fuck you against the wall.' 'Hard enough to make the pictures fall off.

But was I purposely pushing the envelope and happy-dancing over the line in hopes of being found unworthy and stripped of my status? That was... that would be incredibly irrational. I could be quite irrational. Like when I saw a spider, I behaved as if it were the size of a horse with the cold calculation of an assassin. That was irrational.

AARP’s retirement calculator; it can be found on AARP.org. (As of this writing, the link to the calculator isn’t on the home page; you’ll need to click on “Work & Retirement,” then on “Retirement Planning” to locate it.) The calculator will ask your age, your salary, your savings, and some questions about Social Security and the sort of lifestyle you imagine your older self having before giving you an estimate of how much money you’ll need at retirement and how much you’re likely to have if you continue to earn and save at your current levels. Another source of information is dinkytown.net. This website has a funny name, but if you like calculators, you’re going to be quite pleased. Dinkytown offers a variety of calculators on Social Security benefits, 401(k) plans, Roth

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.