Coaching Funny Quotes

What about a compromise? I’ll kill them first, and if it turns out they were friendly, I’ll apologize.

Everyone thinks you've been kidnapped," he said. "We've been scouring the ship. When Coach Hedge finds out- oh, gods, you've been here all night?" "Frank!" Annabeth's ears were as red as strawberries. "We just came down here to talk. We fell asleep. Accidentally. That's it." "Kissed a couple of times," Percy said. Annabeth glared at him. "Not helping!

The more you talk about it, rehash it, rethink it, cross analyze it, debate it, respond to it, get paranoid about it, compete with it, complain about it, immortalize it, cry over it, kick it, defame it, stalk it, gossip about it, pray over it, put it down or dissect its motives it continues to rot in your brain. It is dead. It is over. It is gone. It is done. It is time to bury it because it is smelling up your life and no one wants to be near your rotted corpse of memories and decaying attitude. Be the funeral director of your life and bury that thing!

I don't like you two going off on you won. Just remember: behave. If I hear about any funny business, I will ground you until the Styx freezes over.

Coach," Annabeth said, "it was an accident. We were talking, and we fell asleep." "Besides," Percy said, "you're starting to sound like Terminus." Hedge narrowed his eyes. "Is that an insult, Jackson? 'Cause I'll-I'll Terminus you, buddy!

Anyway... she knows a guy who knows a guy who knows a horse who knows a goat who knows another horse-

Never take advice about never taking advice. That is an old vice of men - to dish it out without being able to take it - the blind leading the blind into more blindness.

It's alright" said a dreamy voice from beside Harry as Ron vanished into the coach's dark interior. "You're not going mad or anything. I can see them too." "Can you?" said Harry desperately, turning to Luna. He could see the bat-winged horses reflected in her wide, silvery eyes. "Oh yes," said Luna, "I've been able to see them since my first year here. They've always pulled the carriages. Don't worry. You're just as sane as I am." Smiling faintly, she climbed into the musty interior of the carriage after Ron. Not altogether reassured, Harry followed her.

Everyone knows the only reason Palmetto qualified for this division is because of your coach." "Funny, I'm pretty sure that's how Edgar Allen qualified.

Funny, one somehow imagines her snuffing quietly out now, the way the moon would if the sun vanished.

I believe it was Sartre who said, “Hell is other people,” and I suspect he wrote that after spending an hour with overinvolved parents who won’t stop yelling at coaches, instructors, or crying four-year-olds who really just want a snow cone.

Because I kissed you? Seriously? You only like me because I’m a good kisser? That’s it. We’re not doing this. I’m not letting you risk your life just because you can’t think with your upstairs brain.” “No, you twit.” Ryan laughed. “Because you kissed me that day. I expected the ice queen and got a funny, go-with-the-flow girl that didn’t care what anyone thought about her. A girl willing to stir up gossip just so that I could win a date with someone else. “You didn’t have to help me. In fact, you probably should have been insulted, but you weren’t. You kissed me, you smiled, and then you wished me good luck. No one’s ever surprised me like that. I couldn’t figure out why you did it, and I just had to get to know you after that.” I had no idea that stupid kiss had that kind of effect on him. Charged him up like a battery, sure, but do all that? All this time I really thought it was just the superkissing that kept him coming back. I looked down at my lunch, feeling a little ashamed of my lack of faith in him, but Ryan couldn’t stop there. Oh, no, not Ryan Miller. “After that day, every time I was with you I got brief glimpses of the real Jamie, the one who is dying to break out, and she was this fun, relaxed, smart, funny, caring girl. Finding out the truth about you only made you that much more incredible. You’re so strong. You’ve gone through so much, you’re going through so much, but you never stop trying. You’re amazing.” I was surprised when I felt Ryan’s hand lift my chin up. I didn’t want to look at him, I knew what would happen to my heart if I did, but I couldn’t stop myself. I craved him too much. When we made eye contact, his face lit up and he whispered, “I love you, Jamie Baker.” It came out of nowhere, and it stole the breath from me, leaving me speechless. Ryan stared at me, just waiting for some kind of reaction, and then I was the one who broke the no-kissing rule. It wasn’t my fault. He totally cheated! Like anyone could resist Ryan Miller when he’s touching your face and saying he loves you? I threw myself at him so fast that I startled him for a change, and he was the one who had to pull me off him when his hair started to stick up. “Sorry,” I breathed as he pulled away. “Don’t be sorry,” he teased. “Just stop.” “Sorry,” I said again when I noticed that his leg was now bouncing under the table. “Yeah. Looks like I don’t get to sleep through economics today.” “On the bright side, Coach could make you run laps all practice long and you’d be fine.

The two keys to success as a sportswriter are: 1) A blind willingness to believe anything you're told by the coaches, flacks, hustlers and other "official spokesmen" for the team-owners who provide the free booze ... and: 2) A Roget's Thesaurus, in order to avoid using the same verbs and adjectives twice in the same paragraph. Even a sports editor, for instance, might notice something wrong with a lead that said: "The precision-jack-hammer attack of the Miami Dolphins stomped the balls off the Washington Redskins today by stomping and hammering with one precise jack-thrust after another up the middle, mixed with pinpoint-precision passes into the flat and numerous hammer-jack stomps around both ends....

He gives me another funny look. “You think I’m doing better because you left? That’s nuts, Coach. You know what happened when you got sick?” It’s my turn to wrinkle my forehead. “We were all really worried,” he mumbles, staring down at his skates. “And I was like, crap, I gotta get my shit together because Coach Canning does not need one more thing to worry about. You know, us losing all the time.” He flushes again. “I thought if we were winning, maybe you’d get better faster.

To cut a long story short, coaching by Charlotte and Mr. Giordano was even worse than I’d expected. That was mainly because they were trying to teach me everything at the same time. While I was struggling to learn the steps of the minuet (rigged out in a hooped skirt with cherry-red stripes, not very chic worn with my school uniform blouse, which was the color of mashed potato), I was also supposed to be learning how greatly the political opinions of the Whigs and the Tories differed, how to hold a fan, and the difference between “Your Highness,” “Your Royal Highness,” “Your Serene Highness,” and even “Your Illustrious Highness.” After only an hour plus seventeen different ways of opening a fan, I had a splitting headache, and I couldn’t tell left from right. My attempt to lighten the atmosphere with a little joke—“Couldn’t we stop for a rest? I’m totally, serenely, illustriously exhausted”—went down like a lead balloon. “This is not funny,” said Giordano in nasal tones. “Stupid girl.

...avoid – like the measles – phony laughter. No, really. If you don’t find it to be funny, don't laugh. More evil and injustice has gotten a foothold in this world because of polite, counterfeit laughter – a desire to not “offend”, or to not be “peculiar” - than anything else. But when you do laugh, let your belly shimmy.

... something in the back of her mind whispered that there was no help coming and if she ran out of money, she had no real way to earn more. Her only skills were embroidery and weeding gardens. I suppose I could sell my body, but I'm not sure how one does that, either. It seemed like it would be a lot more complicated than getting a seat on a coach. Dis you approach people, or did they approach you, and how did you start a conversation that ended in money for sex? Was there an etiquette? This was not the sort of thing one was taught at convents. It was easier just to sleep in the coaches.

Elliot is big and sexy and strong and sweet. Polite. Funny As a male specimen, Elliot is highly underrated by the female population of Iowa, and for that, I am eternally grateful.

Hiring a talented teacher or coach is the closest the rich can get to buying their children talent.

Jason summoned his golden lance. He brandished it over his head and yelled, “Giant!” Which sounded pretty good, and a lot more confident than Leo could’ve managed. He was thinking more along the lines of, “We are pathetic ants! Don’t kill us!” Enceladus stopped chanting at the flames. He turned toward them and grinned, revealing fangs like a saber-toothed tiger’s. “Well,” the giant rumbled. “What a nice surprise.” Leo didn’t like the sound of that. His hand closed on his windup gadget. He stepped sideways, edging his way toward the bulldozer. Coach Hedge shouted, “Let the movie star go, you big ugly cupcake! Or I’m gonna plant my hoof right up your—” “Coach,” Jason said. “Shut up.” Enceladus roared with laughter. “I’ve forgotten how funny satyrs are. When we rule the world, I think I’ll keep your kind around. You can entertain me while I eat all the other mortals.” “Is that a compliment?” Hedge frowned at Leo. “I don’t think that was a compliment.

When talking about my relationship with God, or any other area of my life, I want to choose to GROW. Incidentally, my waistline is contradictory to this. It grows when I ignore it and only decreases when I am intentional!

I want to keep him.” “Bruh. Those are thinking thoughts not speaking thoughts,” Noah coached. “You can’t just go around telling strangers you’ve imprinted on them like some werewolf in a Twilight movie. They won’t get it.

Anyhow, high school is just…The. Worst.” “Funny that you became a high school teacher, then,” I say, and she laughs again. “Something I should talk to my therapist about. Speaking of which, you could speak to the school counselor if you want. We have a psychiatrist on staff. A life coach too.” “Seriously?” “I know, right? Finding ways to justify the tuition. Anyhow, if not them, feel free to come talk to me anytime. Students like you are the reason I chose to teach.” “Thanks.” “By the way, I look forward to your and Ethan’s ‘Waste Land’ paper. You’re two of my brightest students. I have great expectations.” Dickens is next on the syllabus. A literary pun. No wonder Mrs. Pollack was destroyed in high school. “We intend to reach wuthering heights,” I say, and as I walk by, she reaches her hand up, and I can’t help it—dorks unite! nerd power!—I give her a high five on my way out.

Poppy tells a story about a friend of hers who used to coach coed youth soccer on weekends. Her friend’s team of six-year-olds had decided to call themselves “The Mommies and the Daddies.” “Which friend?” I ask. “Anna, old roommate Anna?” “Actually,” Poppy says, “it’s not a story from a friend. It’s just a funny tweet I saw.

I would fall in love with someone’s potential rather than with who they actually were. I’d walk in, find a guy who was smart and funny but a complete mess, and light up like a talent agent from the 1950s. I’d think to myself, “This kid’s gonna be a star!” I’d take on a guy the way Michelle Pfeiffer took on the punk-ass kids from Dangerous Minds, seeing the best in them and pushing them to be better. And also like Michelle Pfeiffer in Dangerous Minds, I had to teach a couple of guys how to read. Of course, this dynamic caused my relationships to feel maternal, making my partner resent me and making sex feel like incest. To add insult to injury, I basically ended up coaching a guy to be the best he can be for the next girl who came along. To anyone dating my exes, you’re welcome for getting them together so you could have the perfect boyfriend. Love you, girl.

your team is ranked first? congratulations and big deal. maintaining a top position is far easier than starting over from the gutters. kevin is doing that right now. he’s facing entirely new schools and learning to play with his less dominant hand. when he masters it, and he will, he’ll be better than you could ever have made him. do you know why? it’s not just his natural talent. it’s because he’s with us. there are only ten foxes this year. that’s one sub for every position. think about it. last night we played blackenridge. they have twenty-seven people on their roster. they can burn through players as fast as they want because they have a pile of replacements. we don’t have that luxury. we have to hold our ground on our own.” “you didn’t hold your ground, you lost. your school is the laughingstock of the ncaa. you’re a team with no concept of teamwork.” “lucky for you. if we were a unified front, you wouldn’t have a chance against us.” “you cannot last and your unfounded arrogance is offensive to everyone who actually earned a spot in first class. everyone knows the only reason palmetto qualified for this division is because of your coach.” “funny, i’m pretty sure that’s how edgar allan qualified.” - neil & riko

SPIEGEL: You have a lot of respect for the Dalai Lama, you even rewrote some Buddhist writings for him. Are you a religious person? Cleese: I certainly don't think much of organized religion. I am not committed to anything except the vague feeling that there is something more going on than the materialist reductionist people think. I think you can reduce suffering a little bit, like the Buddhists say, that is one of the few things I take seriously. But the idea that you can run this planet in a rational and kind way -- I think it's not possible. There will always be these sociopaths at the top -- selfish people, power-seekers who want to spend their whole lives seeking it. Robin Skynner, the psychiatrist that I wrote two books with, said to me that you could begin to enjoy life when you realized how bad the planet is, how hopeless everything is. I reached that point these last two or three years when I saw that our existence here is absolutely hopeless. I see the rich people have got a stranglehold on us. If somebody had said that to me when I was 20, I would have regarded him as a left-wing loony. SPIEGEL: You may not have been a left-wing loony, but you were happy to attack and ridicule the church. The "Life of Brian," the story of a young man in Judea who isn't Jesus Christ, but is nevertheless followed like a savior and crucified afterwards, was regarded as blasphemy when it was released in 1979. Cleese: Well there was a small number of people in country towns, all very conservative, who got upset and said, "You can't show the film." So people hired a coach and drove 15 miles to the next town and went to see the film there. But a lot of Christians said, "We got it, we know that the joke is not about religion, but about the way people follow religion." If Jesus saw the Spanish Inquisition I think he would have said, "What are you doing there?" SPIEGEL: These days Muslims and Islam are risky subjects. Do you think they are good issues for satire? Cleese: For sure. In 1982, Graham Chapman and I wrote a number of scenes for "The Meaning of Life" movie which had an ayatollah in them. This ayatollah was raging against all the evil inventions of the West, you know, like toilet paper. These scenes were never included in the film, although I thought they were much better than many other scenes that were included. And that's why I didn't do any more Python films: I didn't want to be outvoted any longer. But I wouldn't have made fun of the prophet. SPIEGEL: Why not? Cleese: How could you? How could you make fun of Jesus or Saint Francis of Assisi? They were wonderful human beings. People are only funny when they behave inappropriately, when they've been taken over by some egotistical emotion which they can't control and they become less human. SPIEGEL: Is there a difference between making fun of our side, so to speak, the Western, Christian side, and Islam? Cleese: There shouldn't be a difference. [SPIEGEL Interview with John Cleese: 'Satire Makes People Think' - 2015]

Coney Island Baby" You know, man, when I was a young man in high school You believe in or not, that I wanted to play football for the coach All those older guys, they said he was mean and cruel But you know, I wanted to play football, for the coach They said I was to little too light weight to play line-back So I say I'm playing right-in Wanted to play football for the coach Cause, you know some day, man, you gotta stand up straight Unless you're gonna fall Then you're gonna die And the straightest dude I ever knew Was standing right for me, all the time So I had to play football for the coach And I wanted to play football for the coach When you're all alone and lonely in your midnight hour And you find that your soul, it has been up for sale And you getting to think about, all the things you done And you getting to hate just about everything But remember the princess who lived on the hill Who loved you even though she knew you was wrong And right now she just might come shining through and the glory of love, glory of love Glory of love, just might come through And all your two-bit friends have gone and ripped you off They're talking behind your back saying, man you are never going to be a human being And you start thinking again About all those things that you've done And who it was and who it was And all the different things you made every different scene Ah, but remember that the city is a funny place Something like a circus or a sewer And just remember, different people have peculiar tastes And the Glory of love, the glory of love The glory of love, might see you through Yeah, but now, now Glory of love, the glory of love The glory of love, might see you through Glory of love, ah, huh, huh, the glory of love Glory of love, glory of love Glory of love, now, glory of love, now Glory of love, now, now, now, glory of love Glory of love, give it to me now, glory of love see you through Oh, my Coney Island baby, now (I'm a Coney Island baby, now) I'd like to send this one out for Lou and Rachel And the Lord appeared and he has one made of two Coney Island baby Man, I swear, I'd give the whole thing up for you Lou Reed, Coney Island Baby (1975)

Based on the findings of a recent qualitative survey carried out in Switzerland, in fact, most of us have up to ten discreet interdependent social identities—identities, the study concludes, which are often in conflict.16 Let’s imagine a middle-aged bank teller living in Pensacola, Florida. He is a father, a son and a husband. He is a Floridian. He is a bank employee. He is also a bicyclist and a recreational runner, and at night, drinking with his friends, he is “the funny one.” He is also a vegetarian, an amateur guitarist, and on weekends he helps coach soccer at his daughter’s high school. Then there are his online identities, including his Facebook, Twitter and Instagram selves. Most surprising is that the man’s ethical mind-set, honesty, sociability and even level of social engagement changes from personality to personality. Imagine that in his professional role, for example, he may be primed to dissembling, or outright deceit, while simultaneously, as a dad, he finds dishonesty repellent.

Wyatt’s lips flatten into a serious line. His voice goes low, laced with passion. “Marrying one woman doesn’t mean spending your life with one woman, because the funny girl you fall in love with on a first date at twenty-eight eventually becomes the fascinating creature you propose to at thirty, then evolves into the stunning bride you wait for at the end of an aisle at thirty-two, and finally grows into the astounding mother to your children at thirty-four. By forty, she has blossomed into the businesswoman, the force to be reckoned with. By the time you’re fifty or sixty or seventy or a hundred, she’s been everything — your wife, your lover, your friend, your companion, your sous-chef, your travel partner, your life coach, your confidant, your cheerleader, your critic, your most stalwart advisor. She grows with you. She changes with you. She is always stable, but never stagnant. She is not one woman. She is a thousand versions of herself, a multitude of layers, an infinite ocean whose depths you plumb over a lifetime, whose many treasures and intricacies, quirks and idiosyncrasies you need an entire marriage to explore.” His voice softens. “A man should be so lucky to spend his life stuck with one woman such as that.” -Julie Johnson, "The Monday Girl

This is the problem with authority that you alluded to last night?" Trey asks, leaning his face close to mine. "No, this is survival, Trey. I'd love to coach you, but I charge for babysitting.

the white tents. 17. Two views of The Wild West in Paris, igo5. Colonel Cody, a Hawkeye by birth, is personally lionized by the Parisians, and his unique exhibition, so full of historical and dramatic interest, made a wonderful impression upon the susceptible French public. The twenty lessons I took in French, at the Berlitz School of Languages, London, only gave me a faint idea of what the language was like, but as I was required to make my lectures and announcements in French, I had my speeches translated, and was coached in their delivery by Monsieur Corthesy, editeur, le journal de Londres. Well, I got along pretty fair, considering that I did not know the meaning of half the words I was saying. Anyway it amused them, so I was satisfied. I honestly believe that more people came in the side show in Paris to hear and laugh at my "rotten" French than anything else, and when I found that a certain word or expression excited their risibilities, I never changed it. I can look back now and see where some of my own literal translations were very funny. Colonel Cody's exhibition is unique in many ways, and might justly be termed a polyglot school, no less than twelve distinct languages being spoken in the camp, viz.: Japanese, Russian, French, Arabic, Greek, Hungarian, German, Italian, Spanish, Holland, Flemish, Chinese, Sioux and English. Being in such close contact every day, we were bound to get some idea of each other's tongue, and all acquire a fair idea of English. Colonel Cody is, therefore, entitled to considerable credit for disseminating English, and thus preserving the entente cordiale between nations. 18. Entrance to the Wild West, Champs de Mars, Paris, Igo5. The first place of public interest that we visited in Paris was the Jardin des Plantes (botanical and zoological garden) and le Musee d'Histoire Naturelle. The zoological collection would suffer in comparison with several in America I might mention, but the Natural History Museum is very complete, and is, to my notion, the most artistically arranged of any museum I have visited. Le Palais du Trocadero, which was in sight of our grounds and facing the

Hello, ladies, I’m your uncle Devlin. Has Westhaven scared you witless with his fuming and fretting?” This fellow looked to be great fun, with a nice smile and kind green eyes. “Mama and Papa didn’t say anything about getting uncles for Christmas,” Amanda observed, but she was smiling back at the big uncle. The biggest uncle—they were all as tall as Papa. “Well, that’s because we’re a surprise,” the other dark-haired fellow said. “I’m your uncle Valentine, and we have an entire gaggle of aunties waiting out in the coach to spoil you rotten. Westhaven here is just out of sorts because Father Christmas gave him a headache for being naughty yesterday.” “I was not naughty.” The other two uncles thought this was quite funny, judging by their smiles. “There’s your problem,” said Uncle Devlin. “I’m thinking it’s a fine day for a pair of ladies to join their aunts for a ride in the traveling coach.” Uncle Gayle—it didn’t seem fair to call him by the same name as Fleur’s puppy—appeared to consider this. “For what purpose?” “To keep the peace. Emmie and I never haul out our big guns around the children,” said Uncle Devlin, which made no sense. “Do you like to play soldiers?” Fleur asked. Amanda appeared intrigued by the notion. She was forever galloping up hills and charging down banisters in pursuit of the French. Uncle Devlin’s brows knitted—he had wonderful dark eyebrows, much like Papa’s. “As a matter of fact, on occasion, if I’ve been an exceedingly good fellow, my daughter lets me join her in a game of soldiers.” “I’m not exactly unfamiliar with the business myself,” said Uncle Valentine. “I excel at the lightning charge and have been known to take even the occasional doll prisoner.” “Missus Wolverhampton would not like being a prisoner,” Fleur said, though Uncle Valentine was teasing—wasn’t he?” “Perhaps you gentlemen can arrange an assignation to play soldiers with our nieces on some other day,” Westhaven said. He sounded like his teeth hurt, which Fleur knew might be from the seasonal hazard of eating too much candy. “You can play too,” Fleur allowed, because it was Christmas, and one ought to be kind to uncles who strayed into one’s nursery. “We’ll let you be Wellington,” Amanda added, getting into the spirit of the day. “Which leaves me to be Blucher’s mercenaries,” Uncle Devlin said, “saving the day as usual.” “Oh, that’s brilliant.” Uncle Valentine wasn’t smiling now. “Leave your baby brother to be the infernal French again, will you? See if I write a waltz for your daughter’s come out, St. Just.” Uncle Gayle wasn’t frowning quite so mightily. In fact, he looked like he wanted to smile but was too grown-up to allow it. “Perhaps you ladies will gather up a few soldiers and fetch a doll or two. We’re going on a short journey to find your mama and papa, so we can all share Christmas with them.” Fleur noticed his slip, and clearly, Amanda had too—but it was the same slip Amanda had made earlier, and one Fleur was perfectly happy to let everybody make. Uncle Gayle had referred to their papa’s new wife not as their stepmama, but as their mama. What a fine thing that would be, if for Christmas they got a mama again for really and truly. Amanda fetched their dolls, Fleur grabbed their favorite storybook, and the uncles herded them from the nursery, all three grown men arguing about whose turn it was to be the blasted French. ***

Hey, Jack,” John said. “Why don’t you go ahead. I’m right here. Go ahead, bring her out.” “No way, man,” he said, backing away. “Come on—you know you want to. Might as well. You did the hard part. You put up with this for nine months.” “Hey!” Mel objected. “Excuse me?” But Jack got a funny, dreamy look on his face and said, “Yeah. Let me bring her out. Let me. Since you’re right here…” All these months of insisting this wasn’t what he wanted and suddenly it was all he wanted. He’d pulled the last one right out of her body and he felt as if he’d gone to heaven, it was such a trip. He gloved up real fast. “There won’t be anyone for Mel’s back,” he said. “I’ll take her back, and I’ll coach you,” John offered. “But you’re okay, you know what to do. Go for it, man. It’s your baby.” “Okay,” he said, getting himself settled on his knees, right at the foot of the bed, and waited through a few more contractions, and then she delivered the baby’s head. Without even being told, he checked around the neck for the cord. John left Mel for a second to look over his shoulder to be sure. Then Jack supported the baby’s head with a large hand and John told Mel to give them a little push. The baby came out slick and easy, mucky and screaming. Jack held another life he’d produced in his hands. No one should be this lucky, he thought. No man on earth should have all this. John

Wrath watched the doctor go through the little monitoring room and out into the hall. A moment later, she returned with the tall, thin physician. Havers bowed to him and to Beth through the glass and then went over to the monitors. Both of them assumed the identical pose: bent at the waist, hands in the pockets, brows down low over their eyes. “Do they coach them to do that in medical school?” Beth said. “Funny, I was wondering the same thing.” -Beth & Wrath

You have an accent I do not recognize," he was saying. 'Tis certainly not local…." "Really, Lord Gareth — you should rest, not try to talk. Save your strength." "My dear angel, I can assure you I'd much rather talk to you, than lie here in silence and wonder if I shall live to see the next sunrise. I ... do not wish to be alone with my thoughts at the moment. Pray, amuse me, would you?" She sighed. "Very well, then. I'm from Boston." "County of Lincolnshire?" "Colony of Massachusetts." His smile faded. "Ah, yes ... Boston."  The town's name fell wearily from his lips and he let his eyes drift shut, as though that single word had drained him of his remaining strength. "You're a long way from home, aren't you?" "Farther, perhaps, than I should be," she said, cryptically. He seemed not to hear her. "I had a brother who died over there last year, fighting the rebels.... He was a captain in the Fourth. I miss him dreadfully." Juliet leaned the side of her face against the squab and took a deep, bracing breath. If this man died, he would never know just who the little girl playing so contentedly with his cravat was. He would never know that the stranger who was caring for him during his final moments was the woman his brother had loved, would never know just why she — a long way from home, indeed — had come to England. It was now or never. "Yes," she whispered, tracing a thin crack in the squab near her face. "So do I." "Sorry?" "I said, yes. I miss him too." "Forgive me, but I don't quite understand...."  And then he blanched and stiffened as the truth hit him with debilitating force. His eyes widened, their lazy dreaminess fading. His head rose halfway out of her lap. He stared at her and blinked, and in the sudden, charged silence that filled the coach, Juliet heard the pounding tattoo of her own heart, felt his gaze boring into the underside of her chin as his mind, dulled by pain and shock, quickly put the pieces together. Boston. Juliet. I miss him, too. He gave an incredulous little laugh. "No," he said, slowly shaking his head, as though he suspected he was the butt of some horrible joke or worse, knew she was telling the truth and could not find a way to accept it. He scrutinized her features, his gaze moving over every aspect of her face. "We all thought ... I mean, Lucien said he tried to locate you ... No, I am hallucinating, I must be!  You cannot be the same Juliet. Not his Juliet —" "I am," she said quietly. "His Juliet. And now I've come to England to throw myself on the mercy of his family, as he bade me to do should anything happen to him." "But this is just too extraordinary, I cannot believe —" Juliet was gazing out the window into the darkness again. "He told you about me, then?" "Told us? His letters home were filled with nothing but declarations of love for his 'colonial maiden,' his 'fair Juliet' — he said he was going to marry you. I ... you ... dear God, you have shocked my poor brain into speechlessness, Miss Paige. I do not believe you are here, in the flesh!" "Believe it," she said, miserably. "If Charles had lived, you and I would have been brother and sister. Don't die, Lord Gareth. I have no wish to see yet another de Montforte brother into an early grave." He settled back against her arm and flung one bloodstained wrist across his eyes, his body shaking. For a moment she thought the shock of her revelation had killed him. But no. Beneath the lace of his sleeve she could see his gleaming grin, and Juliet realized that he was not dying but convulsing with giddy, helpless mirth. For the life of her, she did not see what was so funny. "Then this baby —" he managed, sliding his wrist up his brow to peer up at her with gleaming eyes — "this baby —" "Is your niece.

That’s so funny. Personally, I, too, have always found my swagger coach to be more skilled at providing treatment than an accredited medical professional.” Nicole,

Marrying one woman doesn’t mean spending your life with one woman, because the funny girl you fall in love with on a first date at twenty-eight eventually becomes the fascinating creature you propose to at thirty, then evolves into the stunning bride you wait for at the end of an aisle at thirty-two, and finally grows into the astounding mother to your children at thirty-four. By forty, she has blossomed into the businesswoman, the force to be reckoned with. By the time you’re fifty or sixty or seventy or a hundred, she’s been everything — your wife, your lover, your friend, your companion, your sous-chef, your travel partner, your life coach, your confidant, your cheerleader, your critic, your most stalwart advisor. She grows with you. She changes with you. She is always stable, but never stagnant. She is not one woman. She is a thousand versions of herself, a multitude of layers, an infinite ocean whose depths you plumb over a lifetime, whose many treasures and intricacies, quirks and idiosyncrasies you need an entire marriage to explore.” His voice softens. “A man should be so lucky to spend his life stuck with one woman such as that.

Brit: OH MY GOD. Tyler. It’s a woman, isn’t it? You’re dating someone! Who is she? What’s her name? When do we get to meet her? Are you bringing her home for Christmas? Is she a bunny, or is she someone else? Wait! Wait! Are you dating one of your teammates’ sisters? OH MY GOD. You’re dating the coach’s daughter and you’re trying to make a good impression, aren’t you? Tyler: *picture of a skinny white guy with big glasses* Haha! Psych. I stole this phone. This is me. I’m Bernard. You guys sound like fun. Will you adopt me? I’ll send you my real number. Dad: That’s a funny Grand Canyon of a vagina, Tyler, my favorite son, god of the sun and moon, he who bangs best. Dad: Grand Canyon of a vagina. Dad: WHO CHANGED MY PHONE TO INSULT YOUR YO-YO MA’S SEX TAPE? Dad: BEEEEEEEEEEEP. Keely: OMG, I’m wheezing. Allie: My favorite part of this is that Tyler’s going to get blamed for changing the autocorrect setting in Dad’s phone. Again. Brit: I can’t believe no one changed “joke” in his phone before now. Dad: I CAN STILL SEE YOUR MESSAGES.

There was still another 75 minutes left to play. It didn’t matter. Those 75 minutes would end up as a footnote on Carli Lloyd’s stunning performance—one of the most dominant displays in a championship game anywhere, ever. The Americans won the World Cup, 5–2, but it was the performance of a lifetime for Lloyd. When the whistle blew, Lloyd dropped to her knees and cried. Heather O’Reilly ran from the bench straight to Lloyd and slid into her. Soon all the players found their way to one another for a frantic mishmash of hugs. Afterward, in the post-match press conference, Japanese coach Norio Sasaki told reporters: “Ms. Lloyd always does this to us. In London she scored twice. Today she scored three times. So we’re embarrassed, but she’s excellent.” Lloyd, for her part, almost downplayed the performance. She believed she could’ve scored one more goal. “I visualized playing in the World Cup final and visualized scoring four goals,” Lloyd said. “It sounds pretty funny, but that’s what it’s all about. At the end of the day, you can be physically strong, you can have all the tools out there, but if your mental state isn’t good enough, you can’t bring yourself to bigger and better things.

How would you diagnose a patient who walks back and forth screaming at the top of his lungs one minute, then sits in a chair weeping uncontrollably the next?" A young man in the rear raised his hand and answered, "A basketball coach?

In junior high, we run a mile every week and we're supposed to get faster each time. Logically, there has to be a point when this is physically impossible, but Coach West doesn't seem to think so.

Once, while Jeff and some of the other boys were getting water, the coach yelled, “Get your butts over here!” Jeff thought it would be funny to do exactly what his coach said. He ran toward his coach backward, with his rear end sticking up in the air.

After 30 years of coaching and teaching stand-up comedy to thousands, both in my workshops (longest continuous in LA) and private coachings; I finally wrote the book! It covers 1-Discovering your Comedic Character; 2- an 80-page workbook using the best joke formulas from over 25 years in my workshops: 3- How to put it all together, deal with audiences, clubs, and the biz.

Mike Phelan, Sir Alex Ferguson’s last assistant manager, said that one of his greatest contributions to the Ferguson leadership was to make his boss laugh. In my interviews, the same comedic quality was attributed to another of Ferguson’s coaches, Steve McClaren, to both John Prescott and Alastair Campbell for Tony Blair, and Nicki Chapman for her many artistes. Funny Cs can break down the structure of A opinion, and put it back together somehow modified, all in a pleasurable whirl.

When you're trying to fall asleep alone and you hear your buddy having sex on the coach in your parents living room.... Yes, it's like a traumatic nuclear explosion at Jurassic park. It's the kindness that causes temporary blindness... One day you'll laugh. But at first you might not find it funny." - @

The tennis coach slowly moved his fingers towards his friend’s arsehole and shakily circled the rim as instructed. “Anything abnormal there?” “It’s hairy,” Butcher complained. “It is very hairy,” the doctor agreed. “But, although an arsehole that hairy is undoubtedly unusual, it’s not technically an abnormality.

Coney Island Baby" You know, man, when I was a young man in high school You believe in or not, that I wanted to play football for the coach All those older guys, they said he was mean and cruel But you know, I wanted to play football, for the coach They said I was to little too light weight to play line-back So I say I'm playing right-in Wanted to play football for the coach Cause, you know some day, man, you gotta stand up straight Unless you're gonna fall Then you're gonna die And the straightest dude I ever knew Was standing right for me, all the time So I had to play football for the coach And I wanted to play football for the coach When you're all alone and lonely in your midnight hour And you find that your soul, it has been up for sale And you getting to think about, all the things you done And you getting to hate just about everything But remember the princess who lived on the hill Who loved you even though she knew you was wrong And right now she just might come shining through and the glory of love, glory of love Glory of love, just might come through And all your two-bit friends have gone and ripped you off They're talking behind your back saying, man you are never going to be a human being And you start thinking again About all those things that you've done And who it was and what it was And all the different things you made every different scene Ah, but remember that the city is a funny place Something like a circus or a sewer And just remember, different people have peculiar tastes And the Glory of love, the glory of love The glory of love, might see you through Yeah, but now, now Glory of love, the glory of love The glory of love, might see you through Glory of love, ah, huh, huh, the glory of love Glory of love, glory of love Glory of love, now, glory of love, now Glory of love, now, now, now, glory of love Glory of love, give it to me now, glory of love see you through Oh, my Coney Island baby, now (I'm a Coney Island baby, now) I'd like to send this one out for Lou and Rachel And the Lord appeared and he has one made of two Coney Island baby Man, I swear, I'd give the whole thing up for you Lou Reed, Coney Island Baby (1975)

Change is a funny thing. Although most people say they want to change—so they can have a better life, with more love, more dreams, and more fun—the fact is that many of us are afraid of change. Faced with the real prospect of it, we look at our lives and decide that being where we are right now isn’t so bad, after all. Better the devil you know than the one you don’t, we tell ourselves. Tony Robbins, the great motivational speaker and coach, calls this attitude a kind of “no man’s land” of the soul. It’s a place where your life isn’t really that great, but it really isn’t that bad, either. It’s just so-so.

Joy through suffering: this phrase (extracted from one of Beethoven's letters, where it actually referred to an uncomfortable coach journey) became the central motto of the Beethoven cult [..].

The coach has a little boy, must be about three. And one day last week when I went overtown to pick Ned up, I saw him down on one knee, playing toss with that little boy in left field. And I fell in love with my kid all over again, Sandy. As strong as when I first held him in my arms, wrapped in a blanket. Isn’t that funny?” Sandy doesn’t think it’s funny. He thinks it’s maybe all the truth the world needs about men.

No one is mad at you. No one thinks you’re stupid. (Honestly, everyone thinks you’re hot.) No one noticed that one embarrassing thing you did back there and if they did, they already stopped thinking about it. You’re doing a great job. You look cute today. You are very funny. You would be missed. It’s okay. Things happen. You will get another chance. Everyone you admire has had to ask for help. If they left, they are not the one. If they made you feel small, they are not the one. If they tip 10%, they are not the one. What you’re feeling is totally normal. That person was wrong about you. You can pull that off (maybe reexamine the idea of only wearing clothing that is “flattering”— it’s maybe not the guiding light it should be). There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Things will get easier. You are not in the way. What you’re feeling makes sense. You do not have to earn joy or rest. You do not have to be your “best self” every day. (And if someone tells you this they are a life coach trying to funnel you into a six-week course. Run.) No one does it like you. It is not too late. You are not too old. You are worthy of good things. If cauliflower can be pasta you can be whatever you want.

Reassurances to Save for a Rainy Day No one is mad at you. No one thinks you’re stupid. (Honestly, everyone thinks you’re hot.) No one noticed that one embarrassing thing you did back there and if they did, they already stopped thinking about it. You’re doing a great job. You look cute today. You are very funny. You would be missed. It’s okay. Things happen. You will get another chance. Everyone you admire has had to ask for help. If they left, they are not the one. If they made you feel small, they are not the one. If they tip 10%, they are not the one. What you’re feeling is totally normal. That person was wrong about you. You can pull that off (maybe reexamine the idea of only wearing clothing that is “flattering”— it’s maybe not the guiding light it should be). There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Things will get easier. You are not in the way. What you’re feeling makes sense. You do not have to earn joy or rest. You do not have to be your “best self” every day. (And if someone tells you this they are a life coach trying to funnel you into a six-week course. Run.) No one does it like you. It is not too late. You are not too old. You are worthy of good things. If cauliflower can be pasta you can be whatever you want.