Flintstones Quotes

Eleven thousand five hundred and fifty-one years old, and yes, I feel every day of it. (Acheron) Wow, I had no idea. Hell, I didn’t even know we had people back then. (Nick) Yeah, I was part of the original Bedrock crew who worked in the quarry on the back of dinosaurs and ran with the Flintstones. Barney Rubble was short, but he played a good game of stone-knuckle. (Acheron)

Isabel frowned. “Alma Trumbo, you did not just dig up a human bone from our flowerbed. It’s got to be a dinosaur bone, dinky or not.” “A dinosaur bone, eh?” The short, stout Alma gave her tall, slim sister the old up and down. “What then, are we the Flintstones living in Bedrock?

pomegranates

but Betty…the boy wants to be your Fred Flintstone so he can make your Bedrock. Peyton from Going Under

It makes me think. Maybe the only meaning to life is that which we get from each other.

We call this widespread tendency to project contemporary culture proclitivities into the distant past "Flintstonization.

The Faerie Courts are duking it out up there, and it’s probably going to be very hairy. The Summer Lady is our baddie, and the Winter Knight is her bitch. She has a magic hankie. She’s going to use it to change a statue into a girl and kill her on a big Flintstones table at midnight.

From 1935 to 1995, the average weight of "broilers" increased by 65%, while their time-to-market dropped 60% and their feed requirements dropped 57%. To gain a sense of the radicalness of this change, imagine human children growing to be 300 pounds in 10 years, while eating only granola bars and Flintstones vitamins.

Can we help you?” “Nope.” “Do you need a tow?” And what do you say? The truth? “Thanks, but we’re just so poor my mom makes her kid push the car”? That was some of the most embarrassing shit in my life, pushing the car to school like the fucking Flintstones. Because the other kids were coming in on that same road to go to school. I’d take my blazer off so that no one could tell what school I went to, and I would bury my head and push the car, hoping no one would recognize me.

Here’s one way to tell if you’re driving how I want you to—nay, how America needs you to. Whenever I drive my dad around, I see him mashing his feet into the floor mat. The old man is using imaginary brakes because I’m driving so hard. When your passenger is trying to stop the vehicle with his feet like Fred Flintstone, this is the ultimate tip of the cap.

shoddily constructed sexual fantasies" The Guardian... a newspaper in England.

Rachel Bloom "Oh Hi Rocky!

Yo momma's so old she used to hitch a ride to work with Fred Flintstone.

The boys wore helmets that looked too big on their heads, like the Great Gazoo on The Flintstones, and it was nearly impossible to tell which kid was which.

Of course, with any new technology, the question in the back of everyone's mind is 'Can I have sex with it or use it to kill people?' -Flintstones Vol. 2: Bedrock Bedlam

When you trick somebody into participating in a small-time fraud, it's called a 'scam.' But when the scam is so big that people have no choice but to participate, it's called 'economics.

I pulled open the door, and the orangey-peach colored dress she was wearing cast my dark mood into the gutter. She reminded me of a Flintstone’s push-pop I’d had as a kid, and I wanted to lick her from neck to knees.

Virgil reached into the wool cap that contained his dreads, stuffed so full as to give him the appearance, Ted thought, of the Great Kazoo on the latter years of The Flintstones or a Jiffy Pop container expanded to its max. (Ted made a mental note that these are not bad similes and hoped he could find them on a rainy day.)

He scratches his mustache. “Thirty is when you stop producing human growth hormone, you know. And your DNA telomeres start degrading. It’s when the body starts dying.” “Exactly!” Livia says from behind me. “I’m not dying!” I protest for the millionth time in the last two months. “And neither are you, Liv.” “We’re kind of dying, though,” she says. In front of me, Bud nods in agreement. “Take your vitamins,” he adds, with a touch of sternness, “and then you won’t die so fast.” I have something like a Vietnam flashback to all the vitamins Bud’s fed me over the years. And they weren’t the fun Flintstones ones either. “I’ll be sure to do that

Dream on, Bullwinkle.” “Oooh, a classic cartoon reference. Now you’re talking my language.” I couldn’t help a grin. “You like cartoons?” “Hell yeah! The classics, though. Looney Tunes, Rocky and Bullwinkle, Mickey Mouse, The Flintstones, The Jetsons, Transformers. I’ll even include the 1990s Batman animated series, but I usually stick to pre-1990.” I

Labels are for gifts under the tree, never for those who are sexually free.

The very genetics of chickens, along with their feed and environment, were now intensively manipulated to produce either excessive amounts of eggs (layers) or flesh, especially breasts (broilers). From 1935 to 1995, the average weight of “broilers” increased by 65 percent, while their time-to-market dropped 60 percent and their feed requirements dropped 57 percent. To gain a sense of the radicalness of this change, imagine human children growing to be three hundred pounds in ten years, while eating only granola bars and Flintstones vitamins.

I have never in my life felt anything as powerful as whatever force was in that room while those women talked, and I began to believe that it was the talking itself that did it, that perhaps women’s voices in harmony were like some sort of flintstone sparking, or like the hot burst of air that comes through a window, billowing the curtains, before rain, I imagined the whole room lifting up from their talk— lifting up and spinning out, into the future times to come,when everyone would be truly free. The tine I thought we were all planning for.

I turn from the window and see Ringer across the aisle, staring at me. She holds up two fingers. I nod. Two minutes to the drop. I pull the headband down to position the lens of the eyepiece over my left eye and adjust the strap. Ringer is pointing at Teacup, who’s in the chair next to me. Her eyepiece keeps slipping. I tighten the strap; she gives me a thumbs-up, and something sour rises in my throat. Seven years old. Dear Jesus. I lean over and shout in her ear, “You stay right next to me, understand?” Teacup smiles, shakes her head, points at Ringer. I’m staying with her! I laugh. Teacup’s no dummy. Over the river now, the Black Hawk skimming only a few feet above the water. Ringer is checking her weapon for the thousandth time. Beside her, Flintstone is tapping his foot nervously, staring forward, looking at nothing. There’s Dumbo inventorying his med kit, and Oompa bending his head in an attempt to keep us from seeing him stuff one last candy bar into his mouth. Finally, Poundcake with his head down, hands folded in his lap. Reznik named him Poundcake because he said he was soft and sweet. He doesn’t strike me as either, especially on the firing range. Ringer’s a better marksman overall, but I’ve seen Poundcake take out six targets in six seconds.

I've told you a million times not to exaggerate!

It gave me a sudden chill to recognize what it was like without wireless technology that I can't even remember what it was like without it. One day you're a Flintstone, the next a Jetson. As we grow older we're always complaining about how fast time goes, but this made me feel as though I'd raced through the last eighteen years without noticing them.

Fucking country. Middle of nowhere. He’d been doing quite well until now. Trying to ignore the mosquitoes and blackflies and no-see-’ems. At least in Montreal you see what’s coming at you. Cars. Trucks. Kids jonesing on crack. Big things. Out here everything’s hidden, everything’s hiding. Tiny bloodsucking bugs, spiders and snakes and animals in the forests, rotten wiring behind walls made from tree trunks for God’s sake. It was like trying to conduct a modern murder investigation in Fred Flintstone’s cave.

On my birthday, The Flintstones was on television for the first time.” He studied his mother’s face for a reaction. “Don’t you understand? That’s the most important thing that happened on my birthday. That’s all they could come up with for that day.” “That’s all who could come up with?” “Whoever puts together the list of important things that happen on each day. I checked it out at the library. It’s all there in black and white.

Kalinske suggested that the vitamins be shaped like characters that kids liked, and arranged for the licensing rights to a recently syndicated cartoon from the animation company Hanna-Barbera. This deal resulted in the creation of a successful new product called Flintstones Chewable Vitamins.

Taking my vitamins in the morning reminds me of the sweet, chalky taste of the jar of Flintstones I snuck, in an act of delicious medicinal rebellion, eaten like candy, inches from the television screen.

To begin the discussion of the Tipping Point, I’ll start with a prominent strategy, “Invite-Only,” that is often used to suck in a large network through viral growth. Another method to tip over a market is with a “Come for the Tool, Stay for the Network” strategy. Take Dropbox, for instance, which is initially adopted by many people for file backup and keeping files synced up between work and home computers—this is the tool. But eventually, a more advanced and stickier use case emerges to share folders with colleagues—this is the network. And if that doesn’t work, some products can always just spend money to build out their network, with a strategy of just “Paying Up for Launch.” For many networked products that touch transactions like marketplaces, teams can just subsidize demand and spend millions to stimulate activity, whether that’s in paying content creators for your social network, or subsidizing driver earnings in rideshare. If the hard side of the network isn’t yet activated, a team can just fill in their gaps themselves, using the technique of “Flintstoning”—as Reddit did, submitting links and content until eventually adding automation and community features for scale. In the end, all of these strategies require enormous creativity. And to close out the Tipping Point section of the book, I introduce Uber’s core ethos of “Always Be Hustlin’”—describing the creativity and decentralized set of teams, all with its own strategies that were localized to each region. Sometimes adding the fifth or one hundredth network requires creativity, product engagements, and tactical changes. In the goal of reaching the Tipping Point, teams must be fluid to build out a broad network of networks.

Look. Is The Rock a perfect movie? No. But is it a perfect movie? Maybe! Just describing the plot of The Rock is a lush, lip-smacking thrill, like a piece of bacon that is all fatty rind, like a bowl of Lucky Charms that is all marshmallows—so many elements that could each, alone, be too much, here combined into one film that somehow works, one great, baroque cinnamon roll that is all the middle of the cinnamon roll, The Jetsons Meet the Flintstones, a duck-billed platypus, a place beyond decadence, foie gras on your burger, everything you want and nothing you don’t and then some more. Nicolas Cage, an unchained freak; Sean Connery, virtuosically hammy; Ed Harris, a haunted prince going down with his ship; antihero vs. antihero vs. antihero vs. the president; and gruesome chemical weapons and a heist and a mutiny and a double mutiny and family drama and Alcatraz and mine carts and fighter jets and flames and a rock, stalwart against the sea. All that, but with none of the septic irony, the relentless self-conscious hedging, that infects so much of our lives these days. The Rock does not take one single moment to look you in the eye and say, yes, we know this is a little silly, we are sorry, please know we are cool—there’s no need! The Rock believes in itself, it commits, it is happy to be fun. Coolness is a deadly neurotoxin. Inject The Rock into your heart.

Because what would you rather read about: a swashbuckling starship captain? Or a being as incomprehensible to us as we are to an amoeba? To be fair, science fiction novels have been written about a future in which this transformation has occurred. And I could write one of these, as well. The problem is that for the most part, people like reading about other people. People who are like them. People who act and think like, you know . . . people. Even if we imagine a future society of omniscient beings, we wouldn’t have much of a story without conflict. Without passions and frailties and fear of death. And what kind of a story could an amoeba write about a man, anyway? I believe that after a few hundred years of riding up this hockey-stick of explosive technological growth, humanity can forge a utopian society whose citizens are nearly-omniscient and nearly-immortal. Governed by pure reason rather than petty human emotions. A society in which unrecognizable beings live in harmony, not driven by current human limitations and motivations. Wow. A novel about beings we can’t possibly relate to, residing on an intellectual plane of existence incomprehensible to us, without conflict or malice. I think I may have just described the most boring novel ever written. Despite what I believe to be true about the future, however, I have to admit something: I still can’t help myself. I love space opera. When the next Star Trek movie comes out, I’ll be the first one in line. Even though I’ll still believe that if our technology advances enough for starships, it will have advanced enough for us to have utterly transformed ourselves, as well. With apologies to Captain Kirk and his crew, Star Trek technology would never coexist with a humanity we can hope to understand, much as dinosaurs and people really didn’t roam the earth at the same time. But all of this being said, as a reader and viewer, I find it easy to suspend disbelief. Because I really, really love this stuff. As a writer, though, it is more difficult for me to turn a blind eye to what I believe will be the truth. But, hey, I’m only human. A current human. With all kinds of flaws. So maybe I can rationalize ignoring my beliefs long enough to write a rip-roaring science fiction adventure. I mean, it is fiction, right? And maybe dinosaurs and mankind did coexist. The Flintstones wouldn’t lie, would they?  So while the mind-blowing pace of scientific progress has ruined far-future science fiction for me, at least when it comes to the writing of it, I may not be able to help myself. I may love old-school science fiction too much to limit myself to near-future thrillers. One day, I may break down, fall off the wagon, and do what I vowed during my last Futurists Anonymous meeting never to do again: write far-future science fiction.  And if that day ever comes, all I ask is that you not judge me too harshly.

I was just picturing all of us sitting around a table with thick metal playing cards like we were the Flintstones, but then I realized it was probably a horrible thing to laugh about.” Alison was silent for a moment, which worried Izzie, but then broke out in laughter. “Oh, my God, who would be Bam Bam?

Right,” began Trey as he picked Taryn up, wrapping her legs around his waist, “then we’ll see you guys later, because we have some celebratory sex to do.” “Okay, but, Taryn,” said Dominic, “if it doesn’t work out with him, well…I’m no Fred Flintstone, but I sure can make your bed rock.” He chuckled at everyone’s groans. Trey, of course, growled and then strode out of the living area with wide, determined steps. “We’ve just done the deed twice outside!” she reminded him. “You know I’m always good to go again when it comes to you, baby.

When I was little my mother used to say that I had “a nervous stomach.” That was what we called “severe untreated anxiety disorder” back in the seventies, when everything was cured with Flintstone vitamins and threats to send me to live with my grandmother if I didn’t stop hiding from people in my toy box.

[My sister] said, oh dear, you've fallen in love with her, you idiot. I said no, no, no, absolutely not. I'm simply experiencing an overpowering level of irrational emotion that makes me want to roll a rock over the door like a Flintstone and imprison her, until she realises she must choose me. I won't be a cruel jailer, she will get fed and can take supervised baths. My sister said, yeah, that's love.

Then I think of what a stupid reason that is for Ben to die. He died over Fruity Pebbles. It would be funny if it wasn’t so… It will never be funny. Nothing about this is funny. Even the fact that I lost my husband because I had a craving for a children’s cereal based on the Flintstones cartoon. I hate myself for this. That’s who I hate the most.

For a second, nothing happens and I’m sure that I’ve reached a new level of fucked. Then the hardpack around the rib shatters and I haul it out of the ground like a deranged Fred Flintstone.

Twice a year, I have lunch with Dr. George Will and Dr. Charles Krauthammer, who write and speak about important issues in the world, such as politics and war and gay marriage. But at lunch, all we talk about is baseball, which is good because I can’t talk fluently about anything else, especially with two guys that, when it comes to intelligence, make me feel like Fred Flintstone. At lunch one day, Charles said, without apology, “I read the front page for ninety seconds every day, then I go straight to the box scores.” To which, George said, “Why do you waste the ninety seconds?

When Myron got back to the office, Esperanza was at the reception desk. “Where’s Big Cyndi?” Myron asked. “Having lunch.” The image of Fred Flintstone’s car tipping over from the weight of his Bronto-ribs flashed in front of Myron’s eyes.

Sooner or later, parents have to take responsibility for putting their kids into a system that is indebting them and teaching them to be cogs in an economy that doesn’t want cogs anymore. Parents get to decide . . . [and] from 3 p.m. to 10 p.m., those kids are getting homeschooled. And they’re either getting home-schooled and watching The Flintstones, or they’re getting homeschooled and learning something useful.

We're all Flintstones.

When you trick somebody into participating in a small-time fraud, it's called a 'scam.' But when the scam is so big that people have no choice but to participate, it's called 'economics.

No offense, but it seems like the whole point of civilization is to get someone else to do your killing for you.

Death raised his brows, unashamed to be caught ogling. “Just because you’re a gutless harlot doesn’t mean I won’t find your . . . attributes attractive. I might be immortal, but I’m still a red-blooded male.” Attributes? Was that why he’d kept me alive? Each morning, I had asked him, “Have you decided whether you’re going to kill me today?” He’d always answer, “Not yet, creature.” Each night by the fire, Death used the tip of one sword to carve barbs in that flattened metal strip from his armor. Though I had no idea why, he seemed very pleased with himself, would gaze at me as he worked. Was his attraction intensifying . . . ? “Harlot? Who talks like that? Father Time, meet the Flintstones.

As Mr. Atterbury’s wife, Iris, I cast Bea Benaderet, the wonderful comedy actress who would later become the voice of Betty Rubble on The Flintstones and star in the television series Petticoat Junction.

Wilma!

They called Kershaw “Fred” after Fred Flintstone because, like Fred Flintstone, Kershaw was short, squat, barrel chested with thick arms and neck, and had an unruly mop of dark hair.

The Opener What if you could say anything to the other person–anything from “Yabba dabba doo!” (in a Flintstone voice), to “Hi. You’re gorgeous!” to “Hi, do you know how many stars are in the galaxy?”–and have the other person respond with a genuine smile and be happy you have entered their world? The beauty of conversation openers is that you can say any of these–as I’ve experienced by experimenting with hundreds of different openers.

Thomas Middleditch, 'Sir, you are brillant... ly disturbed!

One man wrote War and Peace. Thirty-five screenwriters wrote The Flintstones.

The Flintstone Block No.1: A whole nation has created the kindling Which owes you desperately But it hasn’t been specified Whether it’s the flintstone Or A firestorm? Block No.2: A piece of my happiness is in debt with the flintstone You’ve turned to the rocks But it’s for the flint stone. Block No.3: I’m in debt with the flintstone The whole world is in debt with the flintstone Block No.4: It has cast a spell For all your desires Behind the railing. Block No.5: I’m the mother of this Flintstone I’ve nourished it I’ve shed tears on it If the world is on fire I’m the one to blame. Block No.6: I’ve betrayed the heaven above God is disabled by it. Block No.7: And since then people have taken the vow of silence, … From 'Dating Noah’s Son' Rosa Jamali (TRANSLATED FROM ORIGINAL PERSIAN INTO ENGLISH BY ROSA JAMALI)

You’ll notice,” Pike said, “that the only people in here who look like thugs are me and you.” “You, maybe. I look like Don Johnson. You look like Fred Flintstone.

By projecting recent post-agricultural preoccupations with female fidelity into their vision of prehistory, many theorists have Flint-stonized their way right into a cul-de-sac. Modern man’s seemingly instinctive impulse to control women’s sexuality is not an intrinsic feature of human nature. It is a response to specific historical socioeconomic conditions—conditions very different from those in which our species evolved. This is key to understanding sexuality in the modern world.

KIuft (1985a, b) describes eight year old Tom, who could "space out," but remain aware of partially dissociated alter personalities. One, Marvin, was based on the character Captain Kirk of the TV series "Star Trek," and on the TV series character "Hulk." Marvin also represented Tom's father. Another alter personality was derived from Mr. Spock, who was also identified with his mother. Two female alter personalities had names taken from 'The Flintstones." The use of fantasy is clearly apparent despite the fantasized characters being identifications with real characters in the child's life. Tom gives us a glimpse of the transition of his fantasies becoming dissociated mental structures.