Gloves Funny Quotes

Oh- and grab the plastic bag over by my suitcase." I slug down the last of the coffee and get up. The bag contains panty hose. I put them on her desk. "They're for you." "You want me to look homeless, desperate, but also kind of fabulous?

She did not seem to want to speak, or perhaps she was not able to, but she mad timid motions toward Neville, holding something in her outstretched hand. "Again?" said Mrs. Longbottom, sounding slightly weary. "Very well, Alice dear, very well- Neville, take it, whatever it is..." But Neville had already stretched out his hand, into which his mother dropped an empty Droobles Blowing Gum wrapper. "Very nice, dear," said Neville's grandmother in a falsely cheery voice, patting his mother on the shoulder. But Neville said quietly, "Thanks Mum." His mother tottered away, back up the ward, humming to herself. Neville looked around at the others, his expression defiant, as though daring them to laugh, but Harry did not think he'd ever found anything less funny in his life. "Well, we'd better get back," sighed Mrs. Longbottom, drawing on her long green gloves. "Very nice to have met you all. Neville, put that wrapper in the bin, she must have given you enough of them to paper your bedroom by now..." But as they left, Harry was sure he saw Neville slip the wrapper into his pocket.

How can you stand touching her?” my sister blurted, staring at our clasped hands. “Doesn’t that hurt?” I seized on the change of topic. “These gloves are specialized rubber. They block the current.” Gretchen’s gaze traveled over Vlad, disbelief still stamped on her features. “Yeah, but how do you two do anything else, unless he has a special, currentrepelling glove for his—” “Gretchen!” my father cut her off. My cheeks felt hot. Don’t say a word, I thought to Vlad, seeing his chest tremble with suppressed laughter. “He has a natural immunity,” I gritted out.

Colin : “Perhaps now is the time to tell you that I have a weakness for agreeable women.” Sugar Beth : “Well, that sure does leave me out.” Colin : “Exactly. With agreeable women, I’m unendingly considerate. Gallant even.” Sugar Beth : “But with tarts like me, the gloves are off, is that it?” Colin : “I wouldn’t exactly call you a tart. But then, I tend to be broad-minded.” She suppressed the urge to dump her porridge in his lap.

Condoms seemed to her inherently wicked. But they were also inherently funny. They were like rubber gloves with only one finger, and every time she saw one she had to be severe with herself or she’d get the giggles, a terrifying thought because the man might think you were laughing at him, at his dick, at its size, and that would be fatal.

Cody had said it was magic, and had told me not to ask any questions lest I “anger the wee daemons inside who make the gloves work and our coffee taste good

Having sex with a condom is like eating chocolate with the wrap on.

You want to know the coolest part?" Mom chimed in. "There isn't assigned seating at the dinning room, and they have tables for four. That means the three of us can sit down and if we pile the extra chair with our gloves and hats, nobody can sit with us!" Dad and I looked a each other, like, Is she joking? "And penguins," Mom quickly added. "I'm wildly excited about all those penguins.

Hey, manager... Some kid must have left his glove here... It has his name on it... See? Right here... Willie Mays... He wrote his name on his glove, see? Poor kid... He's probably been looking all over for it... We should have a lost and found. I don't know any kid around here named Willie Mays, do you? How are we gonna get it back to him? He was pretty smart putting his name on his glove this way, though... It's funny, I just don't remember any kid by that name..." "Look at your own glove." "What?" "Look at your own glove... There's a name on it..." "Babe Ruth... Well, I'll be! How in the world do you suppose I got her glove?!

Diane felt a gentle hand touch her own, a sympathetic pat. Dawn had both hands on her coffee cup. Diane looked back down at her own hand, and saw the final quick motion of a gray-gloved hand disappearing under her table.

What's beautiful, grey and wears glass slippers? Cinderelephant. Why are elephants wrinkled? They don't fit on the ironing board. How do you get down from an elephant? You don't. You get down from a goose. Why do elephants have trunks? Because they'd look funny with a glove compartments

Bucket had started his criminal career in Braas, not far from when Allan and his new friends now found themselves. There he had gotten together with some like-minded peers and started the motorcycle club called The Violence. Bucket was the leader; he decided which newsstand was to be robbed of cigarettes next. He was the one who has chosen the name- The Violence, in English, not swedish. And he was the one who unfortunately asked his girlfriend Isabella to sew the name of the motorcycle club onto ten newly stolen leather jackets. Isabella had never really learned to spell properly at school, not in Swedish, and certainly not in English. The result was that Isabella sewed The Violins on the jackets instead. As the rest of the club members had had similar academic success, nobody in the group noticed the mistake. So everyone was very surprised when one day a letter arrived for The Violins in Braas from the people in charge of the concert hall in Vaxjo. The letter suggested that, since the club obviously concerned itself with classical music, they might like to put in am appearance at a concert with the city’s prestigious chamber orchestra, Musica Viate. Bucket felt provoked; somebody was clearly making fun of him. One night he skipped the newsstand, and instead went into Vaxjo to throw a brick through the glass door of the concert hall. This was intended to teach the people responsible lesson in respect. It all went well, except that Bucket’s leather glove happened to follow the stone into the lobby. Since the alarm went off immediately, Bucket felt it would be unwise to try to retrieve the personal item in question. Losing the glove was not good. Bucket had traveled to Vaxjo by motorbike and one hand was extremely cold all the way home to Braas that night. Even worse was the fact that Bucket’s luckless girlfriend had written Bucket’s name and adress inside the glove, in case he lost it." For more quotes from the novel visit my blog: frommybooks.wordpress.com

No matter what I tell you about vampires, you're going to be intrigued instead of horrified. Your kind always wants to be bitten or changed.' 'Not me,' Evangeline argued. 'But you're curious,' Jacks challenged. 'I'm curious about a lot of things. I'm curious about you, but I don't want you to bite me.' The corner of Jacks' mouth twitched. 'I've already done that, Little Fox.' His cold fingers found her wrist and slipped underneath the edge of her glove to stroke the last remaining broken heart scar. 'Lucky for you, no matter how many times I bite you, you'll never turn in to what I am. But sometimes all it takes from a vampire is one look, and you're theirs.

Bertie: Any message for him? Roderick Spode: Yes. Tell him I'm going to break his neck. Bertie: Break his neck, right. And, if he should ask why? Roderick Spode: He knows why. Because he is a butterfly, who toys with women's hearts and throws them away like soiled gloves! Bertie: Do butterflies do that? Roderick Spode: Are you trying to be funny?

Bertie : [on Gussie] Any message for him? Roderick Spode - 8th Earl of Sidcup: Yes. Tell him I'm going to break his neck. Bertie : Break his neck, right. And, if he should ask why? Roderick Spode - 8th Earl of Sidcup : He knows why. Because he is a butterfly, who toys with women's hearts and throws them away like soiled gloves! Bertie : Do butterflies do that? Roderick Spode - 8th Earl of Sidcup : Are you trying to be funny?

Nothing will go wrong,Micheal said soothingly. Me and you? We've been through to much together. And your too unpleasant to die.Too bossy.God will keep you down here for a while until you learn your lesson and start learning to work and play well with others. Now your talking.Will you go with me a week from Friday when I get my biopsy? Wild horses and an evil head nurse with rubber gloves couldn't keep me away. Now your just being gross.

The princess found herself being gently prodded and pushed and combed and magicked, and her hair felt weird. When she was spun around to face the mirror again, she was in a yellow dress, waves of sunshine spilling down from her bodice to her toes. Her shoulders were bare, which was a little strange, but they were pale and perfect and delicate. 'Swanlike,' she could hear the minstrel saying. Her hair was loosely braided over one shoulder, a yellow ribbon tying it off. The fairies gasped. "You are 'sooooo' beautiful!" Even 'more' beautiful!" "Can it be possible?" "Look at 'this'," a fairy commanded. With a serious look and a wave of her wand, she transformed the princess again. This time her hair was piled high on her head in an elegant chignon, a simple ribbon holding it back. A light blue dress puffed out around her softly, like a cloud. The finest gloves she had ever worn covered her bare arms up to her shoulders. Funny little tinkling shoes felt chilly on her feet. She put her hands on the skirt and twisted this way and that; what a dress to dance in! She would look like a fairy herself. Or a bride.

I don’t know. I think maybe I’m just partly yellow and partly the type that doesn’t give much of a damn if they lose their gloves. One of my troubles is, I never care too much when I lose something—it used to drive my mother crazy when I was a kid. Some guys spend days looking for something they lost. I never seem to have anything that if I lost it I’d care too much. Maybe that’s why I’m partly yellow. It’s no excuse, though. It really isn’t. What you should be is not yellow at all. If you’re supposed to sock somebody in the jaw, and you sort of feel like doing it, you should do it. I’m just no good at it, though. I’d rather push a guy out the window or chop his head off with an ax than sock him in the jaw. I hate fist fights. I don’t mind getting hit so much—although I’m not crazy about it, naturally—but what scares me most in a fist fight is the guy’s face. I can’t stand looking at the other guy’s face, is my trouble. It wouldn’t be so bad if you could both be blindfolded or something. It’s a funny kind of yellowness, when you come to think of it, but it’s yellowness, all right. I’m not kidding myself.

This is happy! Your face opening is in sad mode. Why, question?' 'Going to be a long trip and I'll be all alone.' ... 'You will miss me, question? I will miss you. You are friend.' 'Yeah. I'm going to miss you.' I take another swig of vodka. 'You're my friend. Heck, you're my best friend. And pretty soon we're going to say goodbye forever.' He two tapped gloved claws together. They made a muffled sound instead of the usual click that comes along with the dismissive gesture. 'Not forever. We save planets. Then we have Astrophage technology. Visit each other.' I give a wry smile. 'Can we do all that within fifty Earth years? 'Probably not. Why so fast, question?' 'I only have fifty years or so left to live. Human's don't'- I hiccup- 'don't live long, remember?' 'Oh.' He's quiet for a moment. 'So we enjoy remaining time together, then go save planets. Then we are heroes!' 'Yeah!' I straighten up. I'm a little dizzy now. I've never been much of a drinker, and I'm hitting this vodka harder than I should. 'We're the moss imporn't people in the gal'xy! We're awesome!' He grabs a nearby wrench and raises it in one of his hands. 'To us!' I raise the vodka. 'To ush!

Neville’s mother had come edging down the ward in her nightdress. She no longer had the plump, happy-looking face Harry had seen in Moody’s old photograph of the original Order of the Phoenix. Her face was thin and worn now, her eyes seemed overlarge, and her hair, which had turned white, was wispy and dead-looking. She did not seem to want to speak, or perhaps she was not able to, but she made timid motions toward Neville, holding something in her outstretched hand. “Again?” said Mrs. Longbottom, sounding slightly weary. “Very well, Alice dear, very well — Neville, take it, whatever it is . . .” But Neville had already stretched out his hand, into which his mother dropped an empty Drooble’s Blowing Gum wrapper. “Very nice, dear,” said Neville’s grandmother in a falsely cheery voice, patting his mother on the shoulder. But Neville said quietly, “Thanks Mum.” His mother tottered away, back up the ward, humming to herself. Neville looked around at the others, his expression defiant, as though daring them to laugh, but Harry did not think he’d ever found anything less funny in his life. “Well, we’d better get back,” sighed Mrs. Longbottom, drawing on long green gloves. “Very nice to have met you all. Neville, put that wrapper in the bin, she must have given you enough of them to paper your bedroom by now . . .” But as they left, Harry was sure he saw Neville slip the wrapper into his pocket. The door closed behind them.

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

Condoms are not like a glove; one size does not fit all. Bring your own.

Taking a deep breath, Sailor decided to lay himself at her feet. "I was imagining the future and thinking of how if everything went according to plan, I'd have a very successful business with a high turnover." He made sure his hands were locked behind Ísa's back--just in case she decided to leave him in her dust a fourth time. "And since I'd be rich, I'd be able to buy houses and other nice things for my family." Ísa frowned. "I don't think your family expects that." "They don't exactly need my largess either," Sailor muttered. "But in my future fantasy, I'm buying everyone fancy cars and houses. Go with it." Ísa's lips twitched. "Okay, big spender. What else is fantasy Sailor doing?" "He's building a ginormous mansion. Swimming pool, tennis court, the works." "Is he hiring a buff personal masseuse named Sven?" "Hell no." He glared at her. "The masseuse is a fifty-year-old forner bodybuilder named Helga. Now, can I carry on?" Pretending to zip up her lips and throw away the key, Ísa made a "go on" motion. "Future Sailor is also creating a huge walk-in closet for you and filling it with designer shoes and clothes. He's giving you everything your heart desires." A flicker of darkness in Ísa's gaze, but she didn't interrupt... though her hands went still on his shoulders. "And there's a tricked-out nursery too," he added. "Plus a private playground for our rug rats." Throat moving, Ísa said, "How many?" It was a husky question. "Seven, I think." "Very funny, mister." "I'm not done." Sailor was the one who swallowed this time. "And in this fantasy house, future Sailor walks in late for dinner again because of a board meeting, and he has a gorgeous, sexy, brilliant wife and adorable children. But his redhead doesn't look at him the same anymore. And it doesn't matter how many shoes he buys her or how many necklaces he gives her, she's never again going to look at him the way she did before he stomped on her heart. Ísa's lower lip began to quiver, but she didn't speak. "I'm so sorry, baby." Sailor cupped her face, made sure she saw the sheer terror he felt at the thought of losing her. "I've been so tied to this idea of becoming a grand success that I forgot what it was all about in the first place--being there for the people I love. Sticking through the good and the bad. Never abandoning them." Silent tears rolled own Ísa's face. "But that great plan of mine?" he said, determined not to give himself any easy outs. "It'd have mean abandoning everyone. How can I be there for anyone when all I do is work? When I shove aside all other commitments? When the people I love hesitate to ask for my time because I'm too tired and too busy?" Using his thumbs, he rubbed away her tears. More splashed onto the backs of his hands, her hurt as hot as acid. "Spitfire, please," he begged, breaking. "I'll let you punch me as many times as you want if you stop crying. With a big red glove. And you can post photos online." Ísa pressed her lips together, blinked rapidly several times. And pretended to punch him with one fist, the touch a butterfly kiss. Catching her hand, he pressed his lips to it. "That's more like my Ísa." He wrapped his arms around her again. And then he told her the most important thing. "I realized that I could become a multimillionaire, but it would mean nothing if my redhead didn't look at me the way she does now, if she expected to have to take care of everything alone like she's always done--because her man was a selfish bastard who was never there." Ísa rubbed her nose against his. "You're being very hard on future Sailor," she whispered, her voice gone throaty. "That dumbass deserves it," Sailor growled. "He was going to put his desire to be a big man above his amazing, smart, loving redhead.

A splash of light snuck beneath the a dressing room door. He heard a groan. A shuffle. A bump. A heavy sigh. "Uh, too tight." He walked toward the back, stopping outside the dressing room. The door was cracked a fraction. He rested a shoulder against the wall, and glanced inside. Grace as Catwoman blew his mind. A feline fantasy. The three-way mirror tripled his pleasure. He viewed her from every angle. Hot, sleek, fierce. The lady could fight Batman in her skintight black leather catsuit and come out the winner. After a moment she scrunched her nose, slapped her palms against her thighs. Stuck out her tongue at her reflection in the mirrors. He saw what had her so frustrated. Sympathized with her disappointment. Her costume didn't fit. The front zipper hadn't fully cleared her cleavage, which was deep and visible. She wore no bra. She gave a little hop, and her breasts bounced. Full and plump. He felt a tug at his groin. Superhero lust. He cleared his throat and made his presence known. She caught his image in the corner of the glass, and reached for the fitting room chair, positioning it between them. Like that would keep him from her. He should've looked away, but couldn't. He sensed her embarrassment. Her panic. Flight? She had nowhere to go. He blocked the door. He wasn't leaving until they'd talked. "Archibald's going to love your costume," he initiated. She didn't find him funny. Her gaze narrowed behind the molded cat-eye mask with attached ears. Her fingers clenched in her elbow-length gloves. Inspired by the movie The Dark Knight, she'd added a whip and a gun holster. Her thigh-high stiletto boots were killer, adding five inches to her height. Her image would stick with him forever. She backed against the center mirror, and nervously fingered the open flaps over her breasts. A yank on the zipper broke the tab. The metal teeth parted, and the gap widened, revealing the round inner curves of her breasts. A hint of her nipples. Dusky pink. All the way down to the dent of her navel.

It only took two hundred and fourty days seven hours twenty-six minutes and eighteen seconds But I can finally say it: I'm over you. I no longer thing about the way your hips move when you walk the way your lips move when you read the way you always took your glove off before you held my hand so you could feel me I've completly forgotten about texts in the middle of the night, saying you love me, miss me inside jokes no one else thinks are funny songs that made you want to pull your car over and kiss me immediately I can't remember how your voice sounds how your mouth tastes how your bedroom looks when the sun first comes up. I can't recall exactly what you said that day what I was wearing how long it took me to start crying. It only took two hundred and fourty days seven hours twenty-six minutes and eighteen seconds to wipe you from my memory. But if you said you wanted me again today or tomorrow or two hundred and fourty days seven hours twenty-six minutes and eighteen seconds from now, I'm sure it would all come back to me.

Lady, you must be from around here, right?" I resent the Lady. "Yes I am, and you?" "I just drove here from New Jersey. Maybe you could help me with directions? I'm trying to get to Fernandina Beach, my GPS is saying 'no signal.' " I take out my Florida map from the glove compartment. The young woman laughs. "That's funny," she says. "What?" "I didn't know anyone still used those." And who's the one who's lost?

Karly- Look- at this old photo from- Nevaeh town, and her mother from the past. The uniformed man motioned lazily, not paying attention. Olivia accelerated, edging around him, and heading for the gate. He shouted something at us, All the same, and all, held his ground, waving frantically to keep the next car from following our bad example. The man at the gate wore a matching uniform. As we approached him, the throngs of tourists passed, crowding the sidewalks, staring curiously at the pushy, flashy Porsche. The guard stepped into the middle of the street before us. Olivia angled the car carefully before she came to a full stop. The sun beat against my window that I was now looking out, and she was in shadow. She swiftly reached behind the seat and grabbed something from her bag. The guard came around the car with an irritated expression and tapped on her window angrily. She rolled the window down halfway, and I watched him do a double-take when he saw the face behind the dark glass. ‘I'm sorry, only tour buses allowed in the city today, miss,’ he said in English, with a heavy accent. He was apologetic to both of us, now, as if he wished he had better news for the strikingly beautiful woman such as us. ‘It's a private tour,’ Olivia said, flashing an alluring cute flirty smile. Then and there, she reached her hand out of the window, into the sunlight. I froze some until, at that moment, I realized she was wearing an elbow-length, tan glove. She took his hand, still raised from tapping her window, and pulled it into the car some. She put something into his palm and folded his fingers around it, saying there you go. His face was dazed as he retrieved his hand and stared at the thick roll of money he now held. The outside bill was a thousand-dollar bill. ‘Is this a joke?’ He mumbled. Olivia's smile was blinding. ‘Only if you think it's funny.’ He looked at her, his eyes staring wide. I glanced nervously at the clock on the dash. If Marcel stuck to his plan, we had only five minutes left.

What a pretty little wedding,' Rhysand said, stuffing his hands into his pockets as those many swords remained in their sheaths. The remaining crowd was pressing back, some climbing over seats to get away. Rhys looked me over slowly, and clicked his tongue at my silk gloves. Whatever had been building beneath my skin went still and cold. 'Get the hell out,' growled Tamlin, stalking toward us. Claws ripped from his knuckles. Rhys clicked his tongue again. 'Oh, I don't think so. Not when I need to call in my bargain with Feyre darling.' My stomach hollowed out. No- no, not now. 'You try to break the bargain, and you know what will happen,' Rhys went on, chuckling a bit at the crowd still falling over themselves to get away from him. He jerked his chin toward me. 'I gave you three months of freedom. You could at least look happy to see me.