Humour Retirement Quotes

My point is that I am going to figure this out, like I always do. First, we’re going to find a way to get into Artemisia. We’re going to find Cress and rescue Cinder and Wolf. We’re going to overthrow Levana, and by the stars above, we are going to make Cinder a queen so she can pay us a lot of money from her royal coffers and we can all retire very rich and very alive, got it?" Winter started to clap. "Brilliant speech. Such gumption and bravado." "And yet strangely lacking in any sort of actual strategy," said Scarlet. "Oh, good, I'm glad you noticed that too," said Iko. "I was worried my processor might be glitching.

Nothing is as irritating to a shy man as a confident girl.

Life is a process during which one initially gets less and less dependent, independent, and then more and more dependent.

Death devours not only those who have been cooked by old age; it also feasts on those who are half-cooked and even those who are raw.

With regard to things such as independence, mental capabilities, and sexuality, a very old man is nothing but a gigantic infant with white hair and wrinkles.

For their never-ending endeavours to obtain or retain wealth, countries desperately need companies, because they—unlike most human beings—have the means of production, and human beings, because they—unlike all companies—have the means of reproduction.

Some social ills are preserved by the common misbelief that things such as ignorance, greed, and stupidity do not have the stamina required to reach old age.

Loneliness tortures many if not most of the elderly more intensely and more frequently than it torments many if not most of us who will never be or have not yet been pushed or pulled into old age.

When will the Home Office realize that when judges retire, not only are they sent home for the rest of their lives, but the only people they have left to judge are their innocent wives.' 'So what are you recommending?'asked Alex as they walked into the drawing room. 'That judges should be shot on their seventieth birthday, and their wives granted a royal pardon and given their pensions by a grateful nation.' 'I may have come up with a more acceptable solution,' suggested Alex. 'Like what? Making it legal to assist judges' wives to commit suicide?' 'Something a little less drastic,' said Alex.

Next door to the Bensons is Emmet Frag, a retired pacemaker who is credited with inventing the notion of happiness. He’s currently working on a method for categorising ducks based on their singing voice. He’s also the owner of the world’s largest collection of tenor geese.

Hey, you,” I snap at a waiter on his phone just outside the door. “Are those the coconut shrimp?” He nods dumbly, eyes wide at being caught slacking on the job. “Give them to me.” “What?” He’s scared. He looks around for a manager, but it’s just us. “You heard me. Stuff them in my purse—now!” And that’s how I leave Dr. Lopez’s retirement party toting two dozen coconut shrimp. Grey, R.S.. Hotshot Doc (pp. 55-56). Kindle Edition.

FOOL, n. A person who pervades the domain of intellectual speculation and diffuses himself through the channels of moral activity. He is omnific, omniform, omnipercipient, omniscience, omnipotent. He it was who invented letters, printing, the railroad, the steamboat, the telegraph, the platitude and the circle of the sciences. He created patriotism and taught the nations war — founded theology, philosophy, law, medicine and Chicago. He established monarchical and republican government. He is from everlasting to everlasting — such as creation's dawn beheld he fooleth now. In the morning of time he sang upon primitive hills, and in the noonday of existence headed the procession of being. His grandmotherly hand was warmly tucked-in the set sun of civilization, and in the twilight he prepares Man's evening meal of milk-and-morality and turns down the covers of the universal grave. And after the rest of us shall have retired for the night of eternal oblivion he will sit up to write a history of human civilization.

It was a damned near-run thing, I must admit,' said Jack, modestly; then after a pause he laughed and said, 'I remember your using those very words in the old Bellerophon, before we had our battle.' 'So I did,' cried Dundas. 'So I did. Lord, that was a great while ago.' 'I still bear the scar,' said Jack. He pushed up his sleeve, and there on his brown forearm was a long white line. 'How it comes back,' said Dundas; and between them, drinking port, they retold the tale, with minute details coming fresh to their minds. As youngsters, under the charge of the gunner of the Bellerophon, 74, in the West Indies, they had played the same game. Jack, with his infernal luck, had won on that occasion too: Dundas claimed his revenge, and lost again, again on a throw of double six. Harsh words, such as cheat, liar, sodomite, booby and God-damned lubber flew about; and since fighting over a chest, the usual way of settling such disagreements in many ships, was strictly forbidden in the Bellemphon, it was agreed that as gentlemen could not possibly tolerate such language they should fight a duel. During the afternoon watch the first lieutenant, who dearly loved a white-scoured deck, found that the ship was almost out of the best kind of sand, and he sent Mr Aubrey away in the blue cutter to fetch some from an island at the convergence of two currents where the finest and most even grain was found. Mr Dundas accompanied him, carrying two newly sharpened cutlasses in a sailcloth parcel, and when the hands had been set to work with shovels the two little boys retired behind a dune, unwrapped the parcel, saluted gravely, and set about each other. Half a dozen passes, the blades clashing, and when Jack cried out 'Oh Hen, what have you done?' Dundas gazed for a moment at the spurting blood, burst into tears, whipped off his shirt and bound up the wound as best he could. When they crept aboard a most unfortunately idle, becalmed and staring Bellerophon, their explanations, widely different and in both cases so weak that they could not be attempted to be believed, were brushed aside, and their captain flogged them severely on the bare breech. 'How we howled,' said Dundas. 'You were shriller than I was,' said Jack. 'Very like a hyena.

Living out in the wilds of Manitoba, I write a lot as a substitute for human interaction. I'm quite shy and retiring. Think of me as some gentle, wide-eyed woodland creature, more afraid of you, than you are of it... like a grizzly bear.

I'm sending you to Los Angeles, California. They haven't had a superhero there since Kareem Abdul-Jabbar retired." "What about Shaquille O'Neal?" Melvin asked. "He's not a superhero. He's just very tall.

Hildy resisted the urge to suck on the end of her braid. "Look. I know. Paul crossed the line and --" Xiu raised her hand. "Stop. For starters, don't call him Paul." "Why? That's his name." "Too confusing. Pauls are potentially datable. Bobs are retired gym teachers and alcoholic great-uncles and, thus, are not. Stick to Bob. Or Douchebag. Your choice.

L'apparition du pantalon dans les Principautés [roumaines], comme toute chose destinée à changer les sociétés, fut d'abord honteuse, décriée, huée et raillée. Le tout premier Roumain qui a changé ses habits pour un frac et un chapeau haut de forme est longtemps passé, auprès des cours de Iași et de Bucarest pour un excentrique ou pour ce qu'on appelle maintenant un « clown ». Les intendants des domaines rigolaient, les valets et les Tziganes étaient gênés de retirer leur chapeau devant une queue de pie et les boyards en caressant leurs grandes barbes touffues selon rang et fonction criaient avec beaucoup d'humour : « Hé, l'Allemand… ! » En hivers les chenapans accostaient les porteurs de vestons dans la rue par des remarques du genre : « Chaud, chaud messieurs ? », et par d'autres mots d'esprit très en vogue à l'époque. Les boyards et les dames se tordaient de rire. […] Personne ne se doutait en ce jour-là qu'une grande bourrasque traversait la Moldavie, bouleversant ses vieilles habitudes… Aujourd'hui des anciens habits ne reste qu'un souvenir, dont on s'étonne quand on les aperçoit parfois au théâtre. (traduit du roumain par Mălina Sgondea Vuillet)

TOM CLARE From a child, I was gripped by the amazing imagination on display in Alice in Wonderland. In my teens, the wild and wacky Goon Show came into being on the radio. Later, I became a huge fan of Tom Sharpe and his wickedly funny books. The more Gothic writing of Daphne du Maurier, especially in Rebecca and Don't Look Now, and the time manipulation novels of William Boyd, linger in my memory. Absurdity, in all its forms, is my type of humour. In retirement, all these sources, together with the stranger events from my life, inspired me to take up writing.

Et le lecteur ? Il a, en apparence, la vie facile : il achète les bons livres et ignore les autres. En fait son rôle est beaucoup plus important. Toute la stratégie que l’écrivain emploie pour écrire son livre, et le censeur pour le contrôler repose sur la complicité du lecteur ; aucun régime, sauf le parfait stalinisme des années « 50, ne peut s’en passer. En deuxième lieu, le lecteur agit directement sur la littérature en tant que critique littéraire. Il faudrait écrire un grand chapitre — je ne peux ici que l’esquisser — sur le rôle très important qu’a joué la critique littéraire en Roumanie en freinant à grands coups de bride par son esthétisme militant — le galop du censeur. La qualité esthétique des livres, réelle ou amplifiée par la complicité, a été tout le temps défendue comme étant constitutive de la littérature, mais en fait la critique traduisait maintes fois en code esthétique ce qu’elle ne pouvait formuler en code politique. L’esthétisme a sauvé la littérature, tout en dépolitisant la culture et la société roumaine, et en « mandarinisant » ses écrivains qui ont obtenu le droit de se retirer pour écrire dans leur ghetto — l’île des bienheureux — où ils traduisent en fiction les luttes qu’ils ne peuvent pas, ou qu’ils n’osent pas, porter, là-bas sur la terre ferme où l’on se meurt du désespoir d’être trahi par les élites et oublié par les dieux. Le lecteur est important, en troisième lieu, comme représentant d’un espace de liberté irréductible : la vie privée. On peut obliger le citoyen à applaudir ses maîtres mais non pas à jouir des livres qui leur déplaisent. La lecture reste un fait privé. D’où l’immense effort du stalinisme dans les années cinquante aussi bien que du néo-stalinisme actuel à réduire l’espace privé de l’individu et même à l’intégrer dans sa vie publique. Les mesures les plus aberrantes des autorités roumaines pendant les années quatre-vingt semblent obéir à une telle logique : le contrôle du nombre des enfants d’une famille : la socialisation du sexe ; la réduction à trois heures par jour du programme de télévision dédié presque intégralement au Grand Maître : la socialisation de l’amusement ; les moyens immenses accordés au festival propagandistique « Le Chant de la Roumanie » aux dépens des tirages d’œuvres littéraires de valeur : la socialisation de la consommation de l’art etc. Face à cette offensive de l’État contre la société, celle-ci peut concevoir deux stratégies de défense : soit elle met sur pied sa propre organisation, en marge et contre les mécanismes étatiques, soit elle privatise la plupart des activités. Face à un immense appareil de répression, la société roumaine s’est trouvée dans l’impossibilité de s’organiser en tant que société civile. Elle a dû choisir, pour son grand malheur, la deuxième stratégie : la privatisation. Pas de solidarité syndicale, mais de l’entraide au sein de la famille et des amis, aucune gaieté dans les rues, mais la fête et l’hospitalité à la maison, pas d’action de protestation, mais le retrait dans l’allusion et l’humour, dans l’érotisme et dans la consommation et la production de culture. La privatisation de la lecture — la chasse aux livres nouveaux, la lecture passionnée des livres empruntés correspond à la mandarinisation de l’écriture qui absorbe rapidement les techniques occidentales, l’érudition et l’étendue des connaissances ; les deux vont dans le sens d’une restriction de la vie sociale. (pp. 144-145, « Une culture de l’interstice : la littérature roumaine d’après-guerre », article publié dans « Les Temps modernes », Paris, n° 522, janvier 1990)

I might have only turned twenty-two a few months ago, but I am already looking forward to my retirement.

. You start school as a baby aged five and leave aged seventeen going on sixty. Then you start again in the wide, wide world as a green and innocent beginner, behaving like a child, with new boyfriends and hair in bunches and immature thoughts about how the world should be run (‘Let’s share everything! Let’s stay up all night and not pay taxes! Let’s go round the world like gypsies and never settle down in boring jobs!’) and slowly the world turns and suddenly you are struggling with forms to fill in and bills to pay. Your own children grow, and eat like wolves; and life seems like hard work with none of the rewards you thought would come your way simply by being a grown-up. Then comes the time to retire, and back you go again, holding hands on the beach and laughing as you eat apples with your dentures firmly attached by glue to your gums; sometimes television shows geared for the very young are more appealing than the alien humour and scary news programmes that make up the menu in the listings. Then, as Shakespeare noted, we are back to being big babies again, balding and in need of care and changing and feeding, and one day, so soon that you may be able to see the beginning of your life at the same time, the end comes, and That’s All There Was. There has to be a way of looking at it to make a story, to make sense of it. How we longed to be like the film stars of those days! We dipped our nylon petticoats in sugar-water and dried them on radiators to make them stiff so our skirts would stick out like Brigitte Bardot’s pink gingham dress. Bardot! But her baby-ish pout and bed-time hair said Young Creature, not svelte siren of forty. Even then, women were beginning to try to look young, rather than mature. True, Sophie Loren looked utterly femme fatale but she was not our icon, nor was Marilyn Monroe with her curves and thick lipstick. It was Bardot then and still is now, fifty years later. And just as my school days were drawing to a close, the Beatles arrived with Love Me Do (Oh! How thrilling! I do love you, mop-top charmers from Liverpool even though I have never really been anywhere in Britain except school and the south. I love you, and I love the thought of London, waiting huge and wicked like a distant stalker with sweets). The pantheon of Buddy Holly and the Everly Brothers, Little Richard, Cliff and even Elvis had to be reshuffled so that the new world order of pop music could accommodate the