Haze Funny Quotes

Rank is a funny concept in the Teams. It’s not disrespected exactly, but it’s clearly not the full measure of the man.

Dude, Kellan, I know you and Kiera are in there . . . people saw you two head that way. Open the door.” Cursing, Kellan separated from me. I instantly went for his mouth, but he pushed me back a little and unlocked the bathroom door right next to us. Cracking it open, he scowled at the person on the other side of it. “What, Matt?” I laid my head on Kellan’s chest and stared blankly at Matt looking at us through the slit in the door. He didn’t look happy. “Are you about to have sex in my bathroom?” Without missing a beat, Kellan responded with “Yes,” and started closing the door. My hazed mind found it funny, and I started laughing. Matt stopped the door with his hand. “Kell, we only have one bathroom. I don’t want people peeing in my kitchen sink.” Sighing in irritation, Kellan opened the door wider and glared at Matt. Matt looked down at Kellan’s bare chest, then my half-naked chest, then snapped his eyes up to Kellan’s eyes. Kellan shook his head and shrugged. “Bedroom or bathroom,” was all he said. Matt scrunched his brow and Kellan repeated himself, raising his eyebrows. “Bedroom or bathroom? You pick, Matt.” Sighing, Matt rolled his eyes. “Fine, but make it quick.” Grinning, Kellan slammed the door shut and locked it again. I giggled as my mind swam. On the other side I heard Matt slurringly yell, “And clean up when you’re done, damn it!

It’s funny because you cannot hurt me.” That strangely warm breath of his still hovered over the mark on my throat. “You can never weaken me to the point that you’d ever be a real threat.” My breath caught as the meaning of his words penetrated the haze of arousal. I knew what he was saying. I was no real threat because he would never love me.

Do you remember Zhitomir, Vasily? Do you remember the Teterev, Vasily, and that evening when the Sabbath, the young Sabbath tripped stealthily along the sunset, her little red heel treading on the stars? THe slender horn of the moon bathed its arrows in the black waters of the Teterev. Funny little Gedali, founder of the Fourth International, was taking us to Rabbi Motele Bratzlavsky’s for evening service. Funny little Gedali swayed the cock’s feathers on his high hat in the red haze of the evening. The candes in the Rabbi’s room blinked their predatory eyes. Bent over prayer books, brawny Jews were moaning in muffled voices, and the old buffoon of the zaddiks of Chernobyl jingled coppers in his torn pocket... ...Do you remember that night, Vasily? Beyond the windows horses were neighing and Cossacks were shouting. The wilderness of war was yawning beyong the windows, and Robbi Motele Bratzslavsky was praying at the eastern wall, his decayed fingers clinging to his tales. (...)

His mouth curved in the beginning of a sudden smile. "Know something, Juliet?" "What?" "I was terribly angry with you, but now that I think about it, it's all rather funny." "Funny?" "Yes; I mean, here we are, married and having our first row about money. My brother probably has half of England out looking for us. I'll wager he's gone to de Montforte House, Burleigh Place, and all of the Den members' homes in search of us, and where are we? Holed up in the most exclusive bawdy house in London!"  His eyes crinkled with sudden amusement. "Oh, what an adventure we're having!" She shook her head, pitying him for not seeing the seriousness of a situation she saw as grave. "I still don't think it's funny, Gareth." "Don't you?" "No." "Well —" he folded his arms, jauntily, defiantly — "I do." The teasing light was back in his eyes, his chin dimpling beneath its haze of golden-brown stubble, and despite herself, Juliet couldn't help her own reluctant little smile. Just

How much do you think I'm worth?" "A buck ninety-nine on a good day." "Fuck you," he shoots back with a grin. "You're funny now, too? Who the hell is this woman you're sinking your dick into? She needs a goddamn medal.

You are...' 'Devilishly handsome? Wickedly clever?' He turned back tot he western sky, where it still carried the haze of fire. 'Stunningly charismatic?' 'That wasn't what I was going for,' I told him. 'More like ridiculous.' 'Endearing ridiculous,' he corrected.

A group of researchers asked ninety-nine college freshmen and sophomores to think back a few years and recall the grades they had received for high school classes in math, science, history, foreign language study, and English.44 The students had no incentive to lie because they were told that their recollections would be checked against their high school registrars’ records, and indeed all signed forms giving their permission. Altogether, the researchers checked on the students’ memories of 3,220 grades. A funny thing happened. You’d think that the handful of years that had passed would have had a big effect on the students’ grade recall, but they didn’t. The intervening years didn’t seem to affect the students’ memories very much at all—they remembered their grades from their freshman, sophomore, junior, and senior years all with the same accuracy, about 70 percent. And yet there were memory holes. What made the students forget? It was not the haze of years but the haze of poor performance: their accuracy of recall declined steadily from 89 percent for A’s to 64 percent for B’s, 51 percent for C’s, and 29 percent for D’s. So if you are ever depressed over being given a bad evaluation, cheer up. Chances are, if you just wait long enough, it’ll improve.

If you drink anymore, you're going to be positively flammable.

In 2022, New York Times columnist Tish Harrison Warren decried a culture of divorcing for unhappiness, writing, “I want to normalize significant periods of confusion, exhaustion, grief and unfulfillment in marriage. There’s an older couple I know who are in their fifth decade of marriage. They are funny and kind and, by almost any standard, the picture of #relationshipgoals. Early on in our marriage they told us, ‘There are times in marriage when the Bible’s call to love your enemies and the call to love your spouse are the same call.’ ” Life is, of course, not easy, and no one is going to like their partner every day. But Warren’s column makes misery in marriage sound like a necessary evil of being partnered with a man. It’s not. I refuse to believe that it has to be that way. I have two dear friends who I have known for over twenty years; we fight sometimes and disagree. Between us we’ve had three divorces and four marriages and three children. Never once have they felt like the enemy to me. And if it is that way, if the experience of being with a man means I hate him for at least a third of our marriage and he hates me, too, I’d rather not have it. No, thank you. There is no benefit to that martyrdom. To me, columns like Warren’s sound like the mentality that enables hazing rituals and cults where they sacrifice one of their own every fortnight. I was miserable, so you should be, too. I do not want that curse. I want happiness.

Someone thinks they’re funny and puts Barry White on the sound system, as a fresh wave of laughter breaks through our haze.