Fiddlestick Quotes

Fiddlesticks” is Scarlett O’Hara’s way of saying “Fuck this shit.

Fiddlesticks!” Rall replied. “These clodhoppers will not attack us, and should they do so, we will simply fall on them and rout them.”58 (on describing that they had nothing to fear from the COlonists of New Jersey before the night of December 25, 1776; when Washington and his men crossed the Deleware.)

Summerlee burst into derisive laughter. 'A ptero-fiddlestick!' said he. 'It was a stork, if I ever I saw one.

To tell you the truth,’ repeated Sarah coldly, ‘she had a fright, and the bandboxes broke loose.’ ‘What frightened her?’ ‘A Headless Horseman,’ said Sarah. He was frowning again. ‘Headless Horseman? Fiddlesticks!’ ‘Very well,’ said Sarah, as one making a concession, ‘then it was a dragon.

Consider the fiddlesticks!

Oh, folderol and fiddlesticks!” said Mrs. Wiggins. “You’ve done plenty. Now let’s have your ideas.” Freddy

That’s disappointing,” she says with exaggerated distress. “But at least it’s progress.” “Goodness, I’m so sorry you’re so sad about this.” “Did you just say ‘goodness’?” “Apparently. I don’t know why.” “How quaint of you. Perhaps I shall start exclaiming ‘Goodness!’ from now on. It has an old-fashioned ring to it. There’s no reason to get a bee in your bonnet, missy! Egad and fiddlesticks and dang it all! God save the queen!” “God save the queen? Really? How does that fit in here?” “I think it’s a nice substitution for swearing. I’m going to start using it, like, all the time, so get ready.

How quaint of you. Perhaps I shall start exclaiming ‘Goodness!’ from now on. It has an old-fashioned ring to it. There’s no reason to get a bee in your bonnet, missy! Egad and fiddlesticks and dang it all! God save the queen!

DEEP IN THE ENCHANTED FOREST, in a neat gray house with a wide porch and a red roof, lived the witch Morwen and her nine cats. The cats were named Murgatroyd, Fiddlesticks, Miss Eliza Tudor, Scorn, Jasmine, Trouble, Jasper Darlington Higgins IV, Chaos, and Aunt Ophelia, and not one of them looked anything like a witch’s cat.

How did he know my dad helped get me this job? Did someone in the office tell him? I mean, it’s not like I’m some spoiled, incompetent rich kid with zero work experience and mega connections. My dad’s just aCPA! But I’m not going to bother explaining that or anything else. Because right now, I’m halfway convinced a hole in my skull has blown right off and my brains are flowing out like molten lava. I think I might well and truly hate Porter Roth. “You know nothing about me or my family. And you’re a goddamn dickbag, you know that?” I say, so enraged that I don’t even care that a family of four is walking up to my window. I should have. And I should have noticed that I left the green switch turned on from the last pair of tickets I sold. But the family’s wide-eyed faces clue me in now. They’ve heard every nasty word. For one terrible moment, the booth spins around me. I apologize profusely, but the parents aren’t happy. At all. Why should they be? Oh God, is the wife wearing a crucifix pendant? What if these people are fundamentalists? Are these kids homeschooled? Did I just ruin them for life? Jesus fu—I mean, fiddlesticks. Are they going to ask to speak to Mr. Cavadini? Am I going to be fired? On my first day? What is my dad going to say?

Wilson dug into his pockets, feeling in every one. Then he tried his car doors. I could have told him they were all locked, but I wisely remained silent. I suppose that would be twelve things: I can be wise. “Bollocks!” He pressed his face up against the car window, hands shielding his eyes on either side. “Blast!” “You have a filthy mouth, Mr. Wilson,” I chided, trying not to laugh. “Isn't saying blast like saying the F word in England?” “What? No! Bugger, blast and bloody are fairly tame . . . like damn.” “And bollocks? That sounds downright profane.” It really didn't, but I found I was enjoying myself. “Soon you'll be saying fiddlesticks! I don't think Principal Beckstead would approve.” “My keys are in the ignition,” Wilson groaned, ignoring me. He straightened and looked down at me soberly. “We're walking, Blue, unless you're willing to admit you have certain skills . . . breaking and entering, perhaps?” “I don't need skills to break and enter. I just need tools – and I don't have any of them on me,” I retorted flatly. “We could shove your big violin through your car window, though.” “Always a smartarse,” Wilson turned and began walking toward the road. “I live about four miles away in that direction,” I offered, hobbling along after him. “Oh, good. I live six. That means for at least two miles, I will not have to listen to you snipe at me,” Wilson grumbled. I burst out laughing. He really was cranky

Death ray, fiddlesticks! Why, it doesn't even slow them up!

Are you sure this idea of yours is entirely safe?” I asked, looking nervously down at the living room floor from atop the lofty fireplace mantel. “What if they come back early, Fred? What if we don’t find the right hiding spot? Fiddlesticks warned us—” “Of course we’re safe, my dear mouse,” Fred interrupted. “I’m sure they won’t be back for a while yet. We’ll blend into these incredible works of art, these…what are they called again?” “They’re mouse Hummels: little statues or figurines,” I replied, inching carefully between two of the delicate figures. “Well, this new owner has excellent taste, that’s fer sure. Very lifelike they are. Shame we have to knock some sense into this poor chap.” He extended a curious paw to examine a figurine’s tail when suddenly it turned and knocked his paw aside, exclaiming, “Excusez moi, s’il vous plaît!

fiddlesticks” and

Aaarrgghheeee….” There was a pounding of feet and a yell that would make a ninja master proud. I spun around just as Shawn dashed past me in a mindless panic. Before I could understand the reason behind his mad dash for freedom, I felt the brush of feathers. A black swan was madly flapping his wings and chasing after my boyfriend, reaching his long neck to peck at his butt. Shawn ran for his life, darting across the lawn and running in a circle before making his way back toward me. “Shawn!” I gasped in shock and panic. He attempted to jump over a small tree in the garden, but caught his foot and went sprawling on the lakeside path, knocking me off balance as he fell. I took a step backward with the impact of his body against mine, but there was nothing behind me apart from lake. The water was knee deep, and I fell, spread eagle on my back, and splashed into it without hurting myself. But it was cold, wet, and dirty. Birds scattered in fright as I picked myself up with disgust. Ow, help, ow, help, ow, get off, ow.” Shawn was still yelling, and I looked up to see a swan attacking his prone body, pecking at his arms, legs, and face. His mother came to the rescue, using her handbag like a battle-ax, knocking the bird away from Shawn, then swinging the bag in front of the swan’s face until he gave up the fight and retreated to the water. I climbed out of the lake, dripping and stinking like a sewer. “Shawn?” There was blood on his clothes, and my heart stopped. “Shawn? Baby? You’re bleeding.” He sat up gingerly and inspected a couple of peck marks on his arms before touching his chin. “Oh, fiddlesticks,” he exclaimed. “I hit my chin when I fell. How bad is it, Harley?” Still soaking wet, I drove him to the hospital, where Christine exclaimed with delight over his injuries before the doctor slipped in three stitches under his chin. Christine patched up his peck marks and cleaned his grazed palms before we went home.

Oh, dagnab it!” fumed Isobar Jones. “Oh, tarnation and dingbust! Oh—fiddlesticks!

Fiddlesticks! I happen to know that residents have first priority when it comes to inviting parties. I am disappointed in you. Furthermore, you are not making your mark on society.” “I do not need to make my mark on society,” said the captain with a certain hauteur. “I am in society.” “But not a leader. You must cultivate some eccentricity. There is a captain in the Guards who has achieved a certain notoriety by engaging to climb around the furniture of a room without once setting foot on the floor.

Sticky… Sticky… hmm. Always fiddles with his glasses… fiddlesticks! Okay, fiddlesticks. Good. I’ll remember that.

Not until fiddlesticks!” The snort Miss Howard gave was truly magnificent.

That’s nice.”  Nicole’s hands are trembling.  She grips her coffee mug hard to make them stop. “That they’d do that for strangers.” “Yes.  Maybe.  I mean, I don’t see it as people helping strangers.” “What do you see it as?” “I see it as people helping people who can’t help themselves at a particular moment in their lives.  We all have times that we fall down and hit the dirt.  Sometimes it’s just harder to get up than others.  That’s where they come in.  Helping hands I guess you could call it.” Nicole nods, thinking about that.  Agnes makes it sound so normal, to check out of life and give up, to stay in John’s house and suffer the abuse for another week, another month, another year.  Just like falling down and having a hard time getting up.  Yeah, right.  Wouldn’t you like to believe that. Nicole snorts in disgust at herself. “What?  You don’t agree?”  Agnes turns to face her. “No.”  Nicole stares into her cup.  “It’s one thing to fall down in the dirt.  It’s another to lie down in it and refuse to get up.” “The point is, you do get up.  You got up.  You’re up.”  She smiles and nudges Nicole’s leg.  “Right?” Nicole wants to smile. She really does.  But her face will only twitch.  “I got up because someone picked me up, not because I did it on my own.” “Pish posh.  Up is up.  Doesn’t matter how you got there.  Besides, doesn’t it feel glorious to know that someone cares enough to do the heavy lifting?”  She sighs loudly and dramatically.  “Oh to be young again and have a strong, handsome Galahad to come by and sweep me off my feet.”  She looks at Nicole and smiles.  “You’re such a lucky girl.” Lucky is the very last word in the English language Nicole would have used to describe herself a month ago, but now that Agnes mentions it, it’s impossible to deny how much it applies today.  “Are you talking about Brian?” “Of course I’m talking about Brian.  Do you see any other Galahads around these parts?”  She sweeps her arm out towards the yard. The smile won’t stay away now.  Nicole feels her face turning pink with it.  “It’s not like that with him.” “Fiddlesticks. That boy is ripe for the picking. What’s stopping you?” Nicole’s smile fades.  “I would think that’s fairly obvious.” Agnes stands.  “You know, there’s a reason why certain expressions never go away and endure the test of time.  It’s because they’re as real today as they were a hundred years ago.” “What expressions?” Nicole asks, confused. “Love is blind.” Agnes reaches out a hand and strokes Nicole’s cheek.  “Love sees inside the person.  It doesn’t stop at the surface.  That stuff is all just window dressing, anyway.  It says nothing about what you’re really getting.  If a man loves you when you look your worst, you know he’s a keeper.  They’re a rare breed, too, so I don’t recommend walking away from it easily.”  

Drat,” Pandora exclaimed, examining a handful of puzzle pieces, “I can’t find Luton.” “Don’t concern yourself with it,” West told her. “We can leave out Luton entirely, and England will be none the worse for it. In fact, it’s an improvement.” “They are said to make fine hats in Luton,” Cassandra said. “I’ve heard that hat making drives people mad,” Pandora remarked. “Which I don’t understand, because it doesn’t seem tedious enough to do that.” “It isn’t the job that drives them mad,” West said. “It’s the mercury solution they use to smooth the felt. After repeated exposure, it addles the brain. Hence the term ‘mad as a hatter.’” “Then why is it used, if it is harmful to the workers?” Pandora asked. “Because there are always more workers,” West said cynically. “Pandora,” Cassandra exclaimed, “I do wish you wouldn’t force a puzzle piece into a space where it obviously does not fit.” “It does fit,” her twin insisted stubbornly. “Helen,” Cassandra called out to their older sister, “is the Isle of Man located in the North Sea?” The music ceased briefly. Helen spoke from the corner, where she sat at a small cottage piano. Although the instrument was out of tune, the skill of her playing was obvious. “No, dear, in the Irish Sea.” “Fiddlesticks.” Pandora tossed the piece aside. “This is frustraging.” At Devon’s puzzled expression, Helen explained, “Pandora likes to invent words.” “I don’t like to,” Pandora said irritably. “It’s only that sometimes an ordinary word doesn’t fit how I feel.

Pandora,” Cassandra exclaimed, “I do wish you wouldn’t force a puzzle piece into a space where it obviously does not fit.” “It does fit,” her twin insisted stubbornly. “Helen,” Cassandra called out to their older sister, “is the Isle of Man located in the North Sea?” The music ceased briefly. Helen spoke from the corner, where she sat at a small cottage piano. Although the instrument was out of tune, the skill of her playing was obvious. “No, dear, in the Irish Sea.” “Fiddlesticks.” Pandora tossed the piece aside. “This is frustraging.” At Devon’s puzzled expression, Helen explained, “Pandora likes to invent words.” “I don’t like to,” Pandora said irritably. “It’s only that sometimes an ordinary word doesn’t fit how I feel.

Pandora,” Cassandra exclaimed, “I do wish you wouldn’t force a puzzle piece into a space where it obviously does not fit.” “It does fit,” her twin insisted stubbornly. “Helen,” Cassandra called out to their older sister, “is the Isle of Man located in the North Sea?” The music ceased briefly. Helen spoke from the corner, where she sat at a small cottage piano. Although the instrument was out of tune, the skill of her playing was obvious. “No, dear, in the Irish Sea.” “Fiddlesticks.” Pandora tossed the piece aside. “This is frustraging.” At Devon’s puzzled expression, Helen explained, “Pandora likes to invent words.” “I don’t like to,” Pandora said irritably. “It’s only that sometimes an ordinary word doesn’t fit how I feel.” Rising from the piano bench, Helen approached Devon. “Thank you for finding Kathleen, my lord,” she said, her gaze smiling. “She is resting upstairs. The maids are preparing a hot bath for her, and afterward Cook will send up a tray.” “She is well?” he asked, wondering exactly what Kathleen had told Helen. Helen nodded. “I think so. Although she is a bit weary.” Of course she was. Come to think of it, so was he. Devon turned his attention to his brother. “West, I want to speak to you. Come with me to the library, will you?” West drained the rest of his tea, stood, and bowed to the Ravenel sisters. “Thank you for a delightful afternoon, my dears.” He paused before departing. “Pandora, sweetheart, you’re attempting to cram Portsmouth into Wales, which I assure you will please neither party.” “I told you,” Cassandra said to Pandora, and the twins began to squabble while Devon and West left the room.

The ï⌁ᵶ⎔ctogon8⌁ð Do not beat your nik, Or play at fiddlesticks. Prefix not thy rhetoric With suffix that transfix. Play no dirty tricks, That try to s’nick or nix. Go the quick route fix– With things that intermix. Do not be thick, Or over politic. Be ye no sophistahick, Playin’ smartass in the sticks. Do not be sad or heartsick, If your neck has no ies full of hick. If you are not on the River Styx, Look alive–give Charon a kick. If a bad guy has given all the slip, Be chivalric: use a *sharp stick. If with a bovine that is lovesick, She’ll smooch you a wet cowlick. Light a candlestick: Let it all brightly click– [Eighth power of a # ∞8: ≒ ∼ ≓ —be sure well to remember]. Zenzic aside, Do not panic but abide. ’Tis just a mathematic– Past the deep end sixth— It is nothing ’cept a ⇌ ’twixt ⇋. Quite a simple pick: Avoid the contradixts– Choose humble little⌁ Zenzizenzizenzics ⌁—