Comic Relief Quotes

Everybody wanted to be the hero of their own story. Nobody wanted to be comic relief.

I let out a laugh that sounded more like the yip of a startled poodle. "Superp-powers? I wish. My powers aren't winning me a slot on the Cartoon Network anytime soon... except as a comic relief. Ghost Whisperer Junior. Or Ghost Screamer, more like it. Tune in, every week, as Chloe Saunders runs screaming from yet another ghost looking for her help." Okay, superpower might be pushing it.

I'd been upstaged, demoted from protagonist in my own drama to comic relief in my parents' tragedy

That’s nice of you, but it’s not necessary to loan me a car.” “I loan you cars all the time.” “And I almost always destroy them or lose them. I have terrible luck with cars.” “Working at Rangeman is a high-stress job, and you’re one of our few sources of comic relief. I give you a car and my men start a pool on how long it will take you to trash it. You’re a line item in my budget under entertainment.

What is it we need to talk about, Lord Sun?” “Matthias, this isn’t an eighties sitcom. I can’t casually accept an orphan into my house for comic relief.

With a nod, Thorne started down the street. 'This way.' Five steps later, he paused, pondered, turned around. 'No, no, this way.' 'We're dead.' 'No, I've got it now. It's this way.' 'Don't you have an address?' 'A captain always knows where his ship is. It's like a psychic bond.' 'If only we had a captain here.' He ignored her, marching down the street with spectacular confidence.

Oh, yeah. If there's one thing I'm good for, it's comic relief.

When I see heavy dramas with no comic relief, I don't think they're honest. I don't think people go through life miserable all the time; in fact, if you're very miserable, you giggle a lot at the oddest things." --Carl Reiner in "The Trib

I'll see you there little Red.' Fane’s voice faded out of her mind and she could feel his humor. Oh, wasn't he just too cute, picking up on her two best friends' idea of a sick joke - to turn her into the little girl who almost wound up as the wolf's dinner. "My, what big eyes you have, wolf-man," Jacque said out loud, unable to stop her sarcasm from boiling up. “The better to see you with love,” Jen chimed in. “What big ears you have!” Sally continued their comic relief. “The better to hear you with my love,” Jen followed. “What big teeth you have!” Sally mocked, her hands on either side of her face. “The better to eat you with my love,” Jen cackled, but she wasn’t finished. True to Jen form she added her own twisted sense of humour. “My, what a big-“ Sally slapped a hand over her mouth, quickly realising where Jen was going with that statement.

I was reading an old text on the exploits of Belgarath the Sorcerer, and I –“ Senji stopped, going very pale, turned, and gaped at Garion’s grandfather. “It’s a terrible letdown, isn’t it?” Beldin said. “We always told him he ought to try to look more impressive.” “You’re in no position to talk,” the old man said. “You’re the one with the earthshaking reputation.” Beldin shrugged. “I’m just a flunky. I’m along for comic relief.” “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you, Beldin?” “I haven’t had so much fun in years. Wait until I tell Pol.” “You keep your mouth shut, you hear me?” “Yes, O mighty Belgarath,” Beldin said mockingly.

He asked what she was in for and complimented the find workmanship of her metal extremities, but she ignored him, making him briefly question if he'd been separated from the female population for so long that he could be losing his charm. But that seemed unlikely.

All my life I have been a poor go-to-sleeper. People in trains, who lay their newspaper aside, fold their silly arms, and immediately, with an offensive familiarity of demeanour, start snoring, amaze me as much as the uninhibited chap who cozily defecates in the presence of a chatty tubber, or participates in huge demonstrations, or joins some union in order to dissolve in it. Sleep is the most moronic fraternity in the world, with the heaviest dues and the crudest rituals. It is a mental torture I find debasing. The strain and drain of composition often force me, alas, to swallow a strong pill that gives me an hour or two of frightful nightmares or even to accept the comic relief of a midday snooze, the way a senile rake might totter to the nearest euthanasium; but I simply cannot get used to the nightly betrayal of reason, humanity, genius. No matter how great my weariness, the wrench of parting with consciousness is unspeakably repulsive to me.

It becomes evident that Olmo hasn't really been spotting his underwear, at least not with blood. Azzy has messed with his gullibility. Dad shoots Azzy a we'll-talk-about-this-later look. "Olmo, diarrhea and periods are very different things." Azzy smiles maliciously. "Diarrhea is hereditary; it runs in your jeans.

The truth is Canada is a cloud-cuckoo-land, an insufferably rich country governed by idiots, its self-made problems offering comic relief to the ills of the real world out there, where famine and racial strife and vandals in office are the unhappy rule.

Have you ever had the feeling that you aren't the main character in the story of your life? That you fill a more minor role- supporting cast, maybe, comic relief, or even antagonist.

Well," Cinder finally grumbled. "I guess that was pretty fast thinking." A relieved grin filled up Thorne's face. "We're having another moment, aren't we?" "If by a moment, you mean me not wanting to strangle you for the first time since we met, than I guess we are.

the romantic comedy I seem to have ended up in as the comic-relief ethnically diverse side character

Some moms are equipped by the hand of God to be “that mom.” They have been formed with the three-C gene — Cooking, Crafting, and Cleaning come easily and naturally to them. Others of us have been delightfully chosen to provide the comic relief necessary to keep this world entertained. And to keep future therapists in business.

George Orwell observed: ‘If you look for the working classes in fiction, and especially English fiction, all you find is a hole … the ordinary town proletariat, the people who make the wheels go round, have always been ignored by novelists. When they do find their way between the corners of a book, it is nearly always as objects of pity or as comic relief.’2

Hell, if someome wrote a book about you, well, it'd sell a million copies the day it was released. And if someone else was clever enough to write a parody - you know, to privide som comic relief during these extremely difficult economic times - that would probably be an even bigger seller, or at least it shoud be. So, just come clean with me, Ed. Your secret's safe with me, and whoever reads my internet blog. You...are...a...vampire!

If people were to find out that Comic Relief is a front for organ harvesting, drug dealing and global child prostitution, there’d be a hell of a stink. The papers would be all over us. And Cliff must never get found out.

We should do something,” I said. “Can the something be play blind-guy video games while sitting on the couch?” “Yeah, that’s just the kind of something I had in mind.” So we sat there for a couple hours talking to the screen together, navigating this invisible labyrinthine cave without a single lumen of light. The most entertaining part of the game by was far trying to get the computer to engage with us in humorous conversation: Me: “Touch the cave wall.” Computer: “You touch the cave wall. It is moist.” Isaac: “Lick the cave wall.” Computer: “I do not understand. Repeat?” Me: “Hump the cave wall.” Computer: “You attempt to jump. You hit your head.” Isaac: “Not jump. HUMP.” Computer: “I don’t understand.” Isaac: “Dude, I’ve been alone in the dark in this cave for weeks and I need some relief. HUMP THE CAVE WALL.” Computer: “You attempt to ju—” Me: “Thrust pelvis against cave wall.” Computer: “I do not—” Isaac: “Make sweet love to the cave.” Computer: “I do not—” Me: “FINE. Follow left branch.” Computer: “You follow the left branch. The passage narrows.” Me: “Crawl.” Computer: “You crawl for one hundred yards. The passage narrows.” Me: “Snake crawl.” Computer: “You snake crawl for thirty yards. A trickle of water runs down your body. You reach a mound of small rocks blocking the passageway.” Me: “Can I hump the cave now?” Computer: “You cannot jump without standing.” Isaac: “I dislike living in a world without Augustus Waters.” Computer: “I don’t understand—” Isaac: “Me neither. Pause.

Tequila, anyone?” he asked our group, but his eyes were on me. “Hell, yeah, K, break it out,” Blake said. I tried to take a step back, but I couldn't go far. Kaidan poured the drinks, handing one to each twin and Blake. “Jay?” he asked. “Nah, dude. I gotta drive.” “Kope? Anna?” We both stared at him, not answering. “Oh, that's right, I nearly forgot,” Kaidan said with smooth indifference. “The prince and princess would never stoop so low. Well, bottoms up to us peasants.” What was up with that? The group shared a round of uneasy glances. Jay's mouth was set in firm disapproval as he stared at Kaidan, who wouldn't meet Jay's eye. The four of them raised their glasses, taking the shots and chasing them with bites of lime. I got a strong whiff of the pungent, salty tequila and gripped the counter with one hand. “How's your soda, princess?” Though Kaidan spoke with a calm air, there was underlying menace that pained me to hear. “You don't need to be so hateful,” I whispered. “If you ask me, I'd say the princess prefers a dark knight.” Ginger smirked and took a long drink of her beer. “She only thinks she does,” Kaidan said to her. I opened and closed my hands at my sides. After all we'd been through, how could he stand there and have the audacity to throw temptations in my face and insult me? I wanted to say something to shut him up, but the more flustered I got, the more tongue-tied I became. “Anna?” Jay asked. “You ready to bounce?” There was no way Jay was ready to leave. “No! Don't go yet,” Marna begged. She yanked the front of Kaidan's shirt. “You're scaring everyone off, Kai! If you can't be nice, then don't get so pissed.” “She means drunk,” Blake said to me in a stage whisper; then he added, “Brits,” with a roll of his eyes. Blake's attempt at comic relief didn't lighten the mood much. “My apologies,” Kaidan said to Marna. He slid the bottle away with the back of his hand, and Marna patted down the bit of shirt she'd crumpled. I stared at Kaidan, but he wouldn't meet my eye.

Working at Rangeman is a high-stress job, and you’re one of our few sources of comic relief. I give you a car and my men start a pool on how long it will take you to trash it. You’re a line item in my budget under entertainment.

All the rest of the nonsense a story requires is just a long seduction of the ending. You throw out murders and reversals and heroes and detectives and spies, juggle love affairs and near escapes and standoffs with marvellous guns, kidnappings and sorcery and comic relief and gravediggers and princesses and albino dragons, and it's all just to lure an ending into your bed.

I suppose, he was thinking, that we heard this tale of the Herzogs ten times a year. Sometimes Mama told it, sometimes he. So we had a great schooling in grief. I still know these cries of the soul. They lie in the breast, and in the throat. The mouth wants to open wide and let them out. But all these are antiquities -- yes, Jewish antiquities originating in the Bible, in a Biblical sense of personal experience and destiny. What happened during the War abolished Father Herzog's claim to exceptional suffering. We are on a more brutal standard now, a new terminal standard, indifferent to persons. Part of the program of human destruction into which the human spirit has poured itself with energy, even with joy. These personal histories, old tales from old times that may not be worth remembering. I remember. I must. But who else -- to whom can this matter? So many millions -- multitudes -- go down in terrible pain. And, at that, moral suffering is denied, these days. Personalities are good only for comic relief. But I am still a slave to Papa's pain. The way Father Herzog spoke of himself! That could make one laugh. His I had such dignity.

He caught the first man in the back of the knee before they even knew he was there, and the heavy axehead split flesh and bone like rotten wood. Logs that bleed, Tyrion thought inanely as the second man came for him. Tyrion ducked under his sword, lashed out with the axe, the man reeled backward... and Catelyn Stark stepped up behind him and opened his throat. The horseman remembered an urgent engagement elsewhere and galloped off suddenly.

But this is embarrassing, and you brought him,” he whined and shot Lucky a death stare. “I’m here for comic relief. I’m a fucking wealth of joy and hippie inspiration, motherfucker. Namaste and clean Chakras and all that good shit.” “You

For more than fifty years, or long before the Wright brothers took up their part, would-be “conquerors of the air” and their strange or childish flying machines, as described in the press, had served as a continuous source of popular comic relief.

John, if you please. I assume I may continue. Or is planchette to be dismissed without a hearing? Thank you.

Ow, Todd?

Am I late for my own funeral?

Experts say that the movie King Kong (1933) released the pent-up rage of the Great Depression. Well, COVID-19 Halloween displays could do the same for our feelings about the 2020 lockdown.

She suggested several alternatives, such as telling the people from Comic Relief and Lumos that the library had burned down, or simply pretending that I had dropped dead without leaving instructions. When I told her that on the whole I preferred my original plan, she reluctantly agreed to hand over the book, though at the point when it came to let go of it, her nerve failed her and I was forced to prise her fingers individually from the spine.

Romance comic books, on the cover always a pink face oozing tears like a melting popsicle; men’s magazines were about pleasure, cars and women, the skins bald as inner tubes. In a way it was a relief, to be exempt from feeling.

The point was driven home for him when pizza magnate Herman Cain had spent a not-inconsiderable period of time at the top of the Republican primary polls. Herman Cain! Part of him found the whole thing amusing—but then he pictured actually running for president and somehow trailing a comic-relief candidate like that, and the thought just depressed him.

Eisenhower and Patton, old friends and figures crucial to the Allies' upcoming success, conferred over yet another gaffe on Patton's part that could have cost him his command. Patton's head is on Ike's shoulder in gratitude, but the scene is rescued from being completely maudlin by Eisenhower's internal question as to whether Patton wears his ever-present helmet to bed.

Tobias,” I say anyway. My hands shake, but not from fear this time—from anger. “Where is he? What are you doing to him?” “I see no reason to provide that information,” says Jeanine. “And since you are all out of leverage, I see no way for you to give me a reason, unless you would like to change the terms of our agreement.” I want to scream at her that of course, of course I would rather know about Tobias than about my Divergence, but I don’t. I can’t make hasty decisions. She will do what she intends to do to Tobias whether I know about it or not. It is more important that I fully understand what is happening to me. I breathe in through my nose, and our through my nose. I shake my hands. I sit down in the chair. “Interesting,” she says. “Aren’t you supposed to be running a faction and planning a war?” I say. “What are you doing here, running tests on a sixteen-year-old girl?” “You choose different ways of referring to yourself depending on what is convenient,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “Sometimes you insist that you are not a little girl, and sometimes you insist that you are. What I am curious to know is: How do you really view yourself? As one or the other? As both? As neither?” I make my voice flat and factual, like hers. “I see no reason to provide that information.” I hear a faint snort. Peter is covering his mouth. Jeanine glares at him, and his laughter effortlessly transforms into a coughing fit.

Layla skimmed the legal opinion. The one-page document stated in no uncertain terms that Sam had the full legal right of occupancy to the office and that her claims had no merit. John had signed and dated it at the bottom. Instantly, she understood why Royce had let her read it. "This is dated the day after Sam and I met." "Fancy that." Her heart skipped a beat. "He always knew I had no right to be here. He could have kicked me out at any time." "If it had been me, you and your purple couch would have been out on the street on day one, but then I'm coldhearted that way." Layla sat heavily on the nearest chair. "Then why did he play the game?" Royce shrugged. "Maybe he didn't want you to marry a douche." "Or someone like Ranjeet," she said, considering. "He was trying to protect me. But if I didn't find someone, would he have honored the rules and walked away?" "He does have that character flaw." Royce leaned back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head. "That's why we made a good team. I have no scruples and he has too many." "Would you give him a message from me?" An idea started to form in her mind. "I deleted his contact details from my phone." "Do I look like a receptionist?" "You look like a guy who pretends not to care, but whose colorful clothes hide a warm heart." His lips curved. "What does that make me in this tragedy? The comic relief?" "It's not a tragedy." Layla wrote a quick note on the back of the legal opinion. "It's a romance. Except in this version, Buttercup saves herself.

What would it mean for us to come to terms with the knowledge that civilization, our whole mode of development and culture, has been premised and built upon extermination—on a history experienced as "terror" without end" (to borrow a phrase from Adorno)? To dwell on such a thought would be to throw into almost unbearable relief the distance between our narratives of inherent human dignity and grace and moral superiority, on the one hand, and the most elemental facts of our actual social existence, on the other. We congratulate ourselves for our social progress—for democratic governance and state-protected civil and human rights (however notional or incompletely defended—yet continue to enslave and kill millions of sensitive creatures who in many biological, hence emotional and cognitive particulars resemble us. To truly meditate on such a contradiction is to comprehend our self-understanding to be not merely flawed, but comically delusional... In the nineteenth century, the animal welfare advocate Edward Maitland warned that our destruction of other animals lead only to our own "debasement and degradation of character" as a species. "For the principles of Humanity cannot be renounced with impunity; but their renunciation, if persisted in, involves inevitably the forfeiture of humanity itself. And to cease through such forfeiture man is to become demon." What else indeed can we call a being but demon who routinely enslaves and kills thousands of millions of other gentle beings, imprisons them in laboratories, electrocutes or poisons or radiates or drowns them?

Cook's comic gift was a public blessing. It could also be a private curse. 'It was almost an affliction,' says Bird. 'At least my mind can take a rest from that. I can and do turn it off when I go home and you felt that Peter never did and never could. 'the weight's off my shoulders now,' said Peter Ustinov, formerly the world's funniest man, after seeing Cook perform. 'The accolade, for what it's worth, belongs to him. It's a vast relief.

With thanks to J. K. Rowling for creating this book and so generously giving all her royalties from it to Comic Relief and Lumos

Stop cribbing! Go, get a life. But then, perhaps you hate life. In that case, get a wife.

What's this?" I asked, putting her cup on the counter next to the plate. "Rocky Road Bars," she supplied with a shrug. "Is that some kind of message?" I asked, head dipped. "Message?" she asked, her brows drawing together and proving that it wasn't. "Never mind," I said, shaking my head, feeling a small wave of relief even if she was standing there wound like a clock for some untold reason. Maybe that was the reason that when she shrugged at me and went to reach for her coffee, I reached over the counter, snagged her chin in my thumb and forefinger and leaned in to lick a small bit of chocolate from beside her lips from where she had smudged it. Her entire body stiffened then trembled at the contact. It was all the encouragement I needed. So right there, a dozen eyes no doubt on us, I framed her face in my hands and pressed my lips to hers. There was nothing sweet or chaste about it. I fucking devoured her mouth, my tongue moving to invade, drawing a quiet whimper from her as her hands slammed down on the counter. The sound was enough to remind me that I couldn't take it any further right then and there and better stop before either of us got too worked up. But as I pulled away and her eyes fluttered open and all I could see was a deep desire there, I knew she was a little bit more worked up than I intended. There were a couple chuckles and one brave soul let out a loud whistle as we pulled apart, making my smile tip up slightly, knowing I had just, whether I truly intended it or not, staked a claim. I let the whole town know that I was messing around with one of their favorite daughters. "I hate you right now," she said, her voice airy, her cheeks pink, her lips swollen. "No you don't," I countered, shaking my head. "You just hate that you can't climb over this counter and let me fuck you right here and now. Don't worry, you can have me all to yourself in just a couple of hours. If you can control yourself until then..." "Control myself," she hissed, both looking slightly outraged and equally amused. "I believe you were the one half-mauling me in public." "And I'm pretty sure it was your tongue moving over mine and your whimper I heard, right? Or was that Old Mildred. Hey, Milly..." I started to call, making Maddy's eyes bulge comically as she slammed her hand into my shoulder hard enough to send me back a foot. "Shut up!" she hissed, making me let out a chuckle. "Alright fine. You made your point," she said, shaking her head as she reached for her coffee. "What was my point, exactly?" I asked, curious. "You just like... marked your territory or whatever," she said, rolling her eyes at the very idea, but a small smile pulled at her lips. "So, what, you're mine now?" "Oh, I, well... I thought..." she fumbled, shaking her head at her lack of explanations. "Relax, sweetheart," I said, saving her from her misery. "Like I said last night, I'm in. You were the one who came in all anti-social this morning." "That had nothing to do with you," she informed me, looking almost pained. "Alice?" "My mom needs to find some friends to talk to about sex, Brant. I can't take it. I can't," she said, looking horrified. "I thought I was a cool, mature, experienced, metropolitan woman. But when your mom starts talking about blowjobs, it makes you really, really want to stick your fingers in your ears and scream 'I'm not hearing this, I'm not hearing this' until she shuts up." "Traumatized for life, huh?" "He's coming over tonight. Did I mention that part? He's coming to dinner and then, ah, staying the night. Because apparently it's... serious. Do they still sell earplugs at the pharmacy? I think I might actually die if I have to listen to them doing it.'' I laughed at that, finding myself charmed by her embarrassment. "Tell you what, why don't you come to my place for dinner.

In the film of our lives, I was the comic relief to your starring roll.

Curious,” she said. “And what do you add to the team?” “Comic relief.” She cocked an eyebrow. “Maybe a little whimsy,” he said. “Improvisation. Vision.” “You have a broad imagination, then?” “There are broads in my imagination almost all the time.

do. The castle’s awash in intrigue, subterfuge, and villainy—they’ll be wanting-comic relief between the flattery and the murders.” “Intrigue

Movies with interfering in-laws and kids are often presented as comic, the ridicule bringing welcome relief to beleaguered married folks suffering offscreen at the hands of relatives.

When a snore loud enough to do a man proud fills the room, I can’t hold my laughter back. It’s the comic relief I desperately need. She does it again, and I marvel that such a tiny thing can make such a loud noise. Dear God, this woman may need sinus surgery along with everything else.

Motion picture producers were well aware of audiences who now looked to Walter Brennan to spice up the action, to do something that would entertain them in pictures that were otherwise commonplace. Even in a major A film starring Spencer Tracy as the explorer Henry M. Stanley, Brennan was added for comic relief—in effect because he was Walter Brennan, screenwriter Philip Dunne recalled. When Brennan and Tracy, both Academy Award winners, appeared on the set of Stanley and Livingston, the huge assemblage of extras applauded both men.

Sensation Hunters (January 3, 1934), features Brennan as a stuttering waiter in a nightclub, whose scenes usually end before he can finish a sentence. Dressed in a short cutaway jacket with a lock of hair curled in the middle of his forehead, he is ridiculously slow on the uptake when he is addressed ironically by his employer—“Hey, Handsome,” “Hey, Honey”—as she brushes past him. Before he can say much, she is gone, leaving him to stare dumbly at the tray in his hands. This a typical example of the comic relief he brought to otherwise ordinary scenes, but in this case he also serves as a foil to the fast-paced world of showgirls, con artists, and pickpockets. In a way, Brennan became a specialist, employed to get scenes off to a fast start, or to make a snappy transition with just a little bit of the actor’s business—in this case straining for words that his impatient employer cannot bother to take in. His one moment of joy comes when several showgirls jostle him on their way to the stage, his one brush with stardom. And then he vanishes from the film, no longer of use to the plot.

Live your life as a novel with a daring, awesome main character; otherwise you’re just there for comic relief.

The moral of this story is simple. Some moms are equipped by the hand of God to be “that mom.” They have been formed with the three-C gene — Cooking, Crafting, and Cleaning come easily and naturally to them. Others of us have been delightfully chosen to provide the comic relief necessary to keep this world entertained. And to keep future therapists in business.

Warning: This read will cause lack of sleep! You wont want to put it down! July 13, 2016 by Francine Baia This was a long awaited novel in the Sword of the God series and it was most definitely well worth the wait. The author provides an all encompassing look into the inner thoughts and machinations of each character which is commanding. She tackles several serious subjects that are current in today’s society, including PTSD and how it affects people differently and the devastation it causes on family. Several love stories are explored which keeps the readers on edge and wanting more. The integration of languages and cultures are seamless and readily understandable which bolsters the depth of the multiple storylines and at times is masterfully interlaced with comic relief. This is truly an enjoyable read that you will find difficult to put down. Anxiously anticipating the next installment!

It was a relief for someone to explain what was wrong, what had happened. No one else, none of those doctors in their white jackets or their scrubs - or their comically patterned scrubs if they were trying to bring a sense of humor into a place of smashed bones and dead hearts - none of those people had even tried to explain anything to me. All they could say was they couldn't say anything for sure, that bodies were a mystery, that even blood tests, ultrasounds, X-rays, MRIs, were only little guesses. Whole hospitals shrugged.

What would it mean for us to come to terms with the knowledge that civilization, our whole mode of development and culture, has been premised and built upon extermination—on a history experienced as "terror" without end" (to borrow a phrase from Adorno)? To dwell on such a thought would be to throw into almost unbearable relief the distance between our narratives of inherent human dignity and grace and moral superiority, on the one hand, and the most elemental facts of our actual social existence, on the other. We congratulate ourselves for our social progress—for democratic governance and state-protected civil and human rights (however notional or incompletely defended—yet continue to enslave and kill millions of sensitive creatures who in many biological, hence emotional and cognitive particulars resemble us. To truly meditate on such a contradiction is to comprehend our self-understanding to be not merely flawed, but comically delusional... In the nineteenth century, the animal welfare advocate Edward Maitland warned that our destruction of other animals lead only to our own "debasement and degradation of character" as a species. "For the principles of Humanity cannot be renounced with impunity; but their renunciation, if persisted in, involves inevitably the forfeiture of humanity itself. And to cease through such forfeiture man is to become demon." What else indeed can we call a being but demon who routinely enslaves and kills thousands of millions of other gentle beings, imprisons them in laboratories, electrocutes or poisons or radiates or drowns them?

Bullying: the schoolyard version of a bad sitcom. It's like someone pressing the "stress" button on your mental health remote, but don't worry, we've got the power to change the channel. Let's rewrite the script: bullies become the comic relief, and mental health takes center stage as the hero. We'll bring in some plot twists, like confidence boosts and supportive allies, turning the whole situation into a laugh-out-loud comedy.

I brought light comic relief to the other soldiers who were finding it hard. During moments of spare time I would do impressions of the NCOs who were in charge of us - just on a whim, to bring joy to my fellow cadets. One day I was caught doing this by the NCO I was impersonating. He was not happy at all and decided to make an example of me. 'You think you're funny, Darby?' 'Yes, corporal.' 'Well, we'll see how funny you are when I get you to do your impressions directly in front of those who you mock!' '...' 'Nothing to say to that, Darby?' 'No, corporal. I'm just slightly excited about this opportunity.

I’m no white knight. I’m not a good guy. If you’re the Marvel girlfriend, then I’m the villain disguised as the comic relief. I will do anything not to end up like my dad or most of the men in the Palisades.

When someone violates you sexually, it does not simply haunt and aggrieve you; it alters the very shape of your soul. And altered I was. Contrary to the mythology surrounding the unflinching nature of African-American women, we, too, experience trauma. Black women—our essence, our emotional intricacies, the indignities we carry in our bones—are the most deeply misunderstood human beings in history. Those who know nothing about us have had the audacity to try to introduce us to ourselves, in the unsteady strokes of caricature, on stages, in books, and through their distorted reflections of us. The resulting Fun House image, a haphazard depiction sketched beneath the dim light of ignorance, allows ample room for our strength, our rage and tenacity, to stand at center stage. When we express anger, the audience of the world applauds. That expression aligns with their portrait of us. As long as we play our various designated roles—as court jesters and as comic relief, as Aunt Jemimas and as Jezebels, as maids whisking aperitifs into drawing rooms, as shuckin’ and jivin’ half-wits serving up levity—we are worthy of recognition in their meta-narrative. We are obedient Negroes. We are dutiful and thus affirmable. But when we dare tiptoe outside the lines of those typecasts, when we put our full humanity on display, when we threaten the social constructs that keep others in comfortable superiority, we are often dismissed. There is no archetype on file in which a Black woman is simultaneously resolute and trembling, fierce and frightened, dominant and receding. My mother, a woman who, amid abuse, stuffed hope and a way out into the slit of a mattress, is the very face of fortitude. I am an heir to her remarkable grit. However, beneath that tough exterior, I’ve also inherited my mother’s tender femininity, that part of her spirit susceptible to bruising and bleeding, the doleful Dosha who sat by the window shelling peanuts, pondering how to carry on. The myth of the Strong Black Woman bears a kernel of truth, but it is only a half-seed. The other half is delicate and ailing, all the more so because it has been denied sunlight.

In contrast, the Clown supplies comic relief, distracting everyone from their difficulties by saying cute and funny things.

A fear of cosmic indifference seemed comical, or downright naive. Tester looked back to Malone and Mr. Howard. Beyond them he saw the police forces at the barricades as they muscled the crowd of Negroes back; he saw the decaying facade of his tenement with new eyes; he saw the patrol cars parked in the middle of the road like three great black hounds waiting to pounce on all these gathered sheep. What was indifference compared to malice? “Indifference would be such a relief,” Tommy said.

We didn’t build it,” Lodin said. “It was a gift.” “From who?” He looked at his feet. “Strange devices lying in ponds is no way to escape a race of galactic space wizards,” I muttered as my brain churned through Monty Python skits for comic relief.

I write because I have to...because I'm little more than comic relief at anything else...but I'm not complaining because how many jobs can you do in your pajamas?

And why not—whatever despair we may feel concerning resurrection and reassemblage—find comic relief in the human determination to assert wholeness in the face of inevitable decay and fragmentation?

Improvisation, at its most basic level, lets you respond more quickly in real time--and when practiced, also allows you to use comic relief to ease a potentially awkward confrontation.

All that remains is for me to thank you for supporting Comic Relief and to beg Muggles not to try Quidditch at home; it is, of course, an entirely fictional sport and nobody really plays it. May I also take this opportunity to wish Puddlemere United the best of luck next season.

Daisy wasn’t at all sure they were discussing the dogs anymore, and she wasn’t comfortable with the perceived subtext. She loathed being told that she had a good personality, and that was what it felt like Mason was doing here. Girls with “good personalities” never got the guy. They were never the romantic leads. They were always just the comic relief and the best friend. Daisy was so sick of being that girl, and she would rather not hear that Mason Carlisle saw her in the exact same light as everyone else

feel I have to comment on the comic relief of these flabby old men who fashion themselves the master race. They may not be fine physical specimens, but they’re not fine intellectual specimens either. Nor were they able to rally a good counter rally. But I’m sure your mommies thought you were handsome little boys.

To make matters worse, the CEO was wearing a red clown’s nose made of foam. It was the UK’s Comic Relief Day, a nationwide fund-raiser where everyone wears red clown noses to raise money for charity. The rejection seemed like a bad joke indeed.

I headed to college having learned 3/4 of my vocabulary from reading. Excited to finally discuss so many things! Instead quickly became comic relief for grad students running Intro classes. Mispronounced everything from Goethe to Sartre. But I was there to learn. And I did.