Idiot Funny Quotes

I've had great success being a total idiot.

She was an idiot. An adorable, gorgeous, feisty, funny, sweet, sexy idiot.

Idiot.” “That fact is well established and adds nothing to the plot.

Would you like to borrow a pair of my panties to wave around at the next Council meeting to get the point across?” His eyes flashed. “Got any to spare?” I could’ve picked somebody rational. But no, I had to fall in love with this arrogant idiot. Come to the Keep with me, be my princess. Mourn me when your crazy dad kills me. Yeah, right.

I wonder if my entire life will be a series of moments in which I realize I’m an idiot long after I can actually do anything about it. Will I ever feel like I know what I’m doing?

Look," I whisper to Cat, "Shooting star! That's good luck." She rolls her eyes. "It's a plane, you idiot," she says, and when I look again I can see that she's right. Typical.

Forgive me....I called you an idiot. I spoke too hastily. You are not. Had I given it more thought, I would have called you a scoundrel.

You can read minds, and you didn't tell me?” Link stared at me like he just found out I was the Silver Surfer. He rubbed his head nervously. “Hey, man, all that stuff about Lena? I was yankin’ your chain.” He looked away. “Are you doin’ it now? You're doin’ it, aren't you? Dude, get out of my head.” He backed away from me and into the bookshelf. “I can't read your mind, you idiot.

Every single person is a fool, insane, a failure, or a bad person to at least ten people.

I know who I am. Bloody hell, I'm getting enough bills for Karl Pilkington so I hope I am him, 'cos if I'm not, I have no idea who I'm paying for.

There is probably no better or more reliable measure of whether a woman has spent time in ugly duckling status at some point or all throughout her life than her inability to digest a sincere compliment. Although it could be a matter of modesty, or could be attributed to shyness- although too many serious wounds are carelessly written off as "nothing but shyness"- more often a compliment is stuttered around about because it sets up an automatic and unpleasant dialogue in the woman's mind. If you say how lovely she is, or how beautiful her art is, or compliment anything else her soul took part in, inspired, or suffused, something in her mind says she is undeserving and you, the complimentor, are an idiot for thinking such a thing to begin with. Rather than understand that the beauty of her soul shines through when she is being herself, the woman changes the subject and effectively snatches nourishment away from the soul-self, which thrives on being acknowledged." "I must admit, I sometimes find it useful in my practice to delineate the various typologies of personality as cats and hens and ducks and swans and so forth. If warranted, I might ask my client to assume for a moment that she is a swan who does not realzie it. Assume also for a moment that she has been brought up by or is currently surrounded by ducks. There is nothing wrong with ducks, I assure them, or with swans. But ducks are ducks and swans are swans. Sometimes to make the point I have to move to other animal metaphors. I like to use mice. What if you were raised by the mice people? But what if you're, say, a swan. Swans and mice hate each other's food for the most part. They each think the other smells funny. They are not interested in spending time together, and if they did, one would be constantly harassing the other. But what if you, being a swan, had to pretend you were a mouse? What if you had to pretend to be gray and furry and tiny? What you had no long snaky tail to carry in the air on tail-carrying day? What if wherever you went you tried to walk like a mouse, but you waddled instead? What if you tried to talk like a mouse, but insteade out came a honk every time? Wouldn't you be the most miserable creature in the world? The answer is an inequivocal yes. So why, if this is all so and too true, do women keep trying to bend and fold themselves into shapes that are not theirs? I must say, from years of clinical observation of this problem, that most of the time it is not because of deep-seated masochism or a malignant dedication to self-destruction or anything of that nature. More often it is because the woman simply doesn't know any better. She is unmothered.

So this is the "smug idiot thinks he's funny" face, Kami observed. Not to be confused with other "smug idiot" variants.

Any other iron on you?” he asked impatiently. “Just my tongue stud.” His look was a mixture of curiosity and horror. “I’m kidding, you idiot. Let’s go.

Idiots are of two kinds: those who try to be smart and those who think they are smart.

But why me? Because, idiot, you... are funny and smart and you have a giant heart that you can't even pretend to hide. And you love your friends and your mum, and you held my hand and made me sing when I was so scared I thought I was going to die. I knew you understood, right from the beginning, this thing inside, the stuff in your head that you need to make real. You get that.... And you wear stupid Superman pyjamas without any irony, and your face lights up when you talk about the movies you love.... And... you protect my dwarf. You always have her back. And you have a dimple when you smile that's so cute I almost died the first time I saw it.

It was fortunate she loved him because he really was an idiot.

Y’all might as well come on out,” I said. “I know you’re there. I can smell you.” “Smell me? But I just took a shower this morning!” an indignant voice drifted out of the shadows. There was a loud sound, like someone was getting smacked upside the head. Then another voice let out a low mutter. “Shut up, idiot.

That’s a funny thing: you think, when awful things happen, everything else just stops, like you would forget to pee and eat and get thirsty, but it’s not really true. It’s like you and your body are two separate things, like your body is betraying you, chugging on, idiotic and animal, craving water and sandwiches and bathroom breaks while your world falls apart.

It was all Mrs. Bumble. She would do it," urged Mr. Bumble; first looking round, to ascertain that his partner had left the room. That is no excuse," returned Mr. Brownlow. "You were present on the occasion of the destruction of these trinkets, and, indeed, are the more guilty of the two, in the eye of the law; for the law supposes that your wife acts under your direction." If the law supposes that," said Mr. Bumble, squeezing his hat emphatically in both hands, "the law is a ass — a idiot. If that's the eye of the law, the law is a bachelor; and the worst I wish the law is, that his eye may be opened by experience — by experience.

Rhiannon's Law #22. You can't lie to yourself, so don't bother trying. Doing so only multiplies your douchebag level to the umpteenth power and confirms what others have been saying for years - that you are an idiot.

I WAS INTIMIDATED BY YOU, AND I DONT KNOW WHY I'm an Anxious Idiot™ but your super funny and I wish I weren't shy so we could talk.

I feared Sarah was one of those women who instead of laughing said, "That's funny," or instead of smiling said, "That's interesting," or instead of saying, "You are a stupid blithering idiot," said, "Well I think it's a little more complicated than that.

The following is a list of statements made many years ago by experts in their fields. At the time they were said they sounded intelligent. With the passing of time, they sound idiotic.

Lucius shrugged. "Perhaps in time you will find it useful." "Sure. I'll keep it on my shelf right next to The Idiot's Guide to Becoming a Mythical Creature.'' Lucius actually laughed. "Very funny. I didn't know you made jokes." "I'm a funny person," I defended myself. "And by the way—I don't snore." "You do snore. And you mumble, too." My blood froze. The dream . . . "What? What did you hear?" "Nothing too intelligible. But it must have been a rather pleasant dream. You sounded ecstatic.

Most people are idiots

While I'm fixing up this idiot. I want you to get some sleep ... and tell Amano that if he bothers you, I'll break his other leg.

This situation was a heart attack waiting to happen. He just knew it. The stress of the job, now this. Yep, he was going to keel over. He could see the writing on his tombstone now: Sloane Brodie departed this world at age 37 due to massive coronary trauma as a result of idiot partner Dexter J. Daley. --Sloane

Remember, the village idiot was the spiritual man who built the ark and saved his family. Keep being you and never give up marching to the beat of your own drum!

I’m an idiot. I’m ten times an idiot. God, I could just die.” Then I forged ahead because the last comment was too close for comfort these days. “Not die die, as in not-breathing die, but die figuratively, if you know what I mean.” Lee was grinning.

World is so full of idiots that you can't even imagine to escape. The only solution is isolation. But it still spares one!

Idiot," I said, before grinning broadly and crushing his mouth to mine. "We need to pick new pet names for each other," he muttered as I hefted myself up from the ground.

Real comedy is not when you laugh at an idiot, it's when the idiot laughs at you.

Parker, I'm old," She said matter-of-factly. "I get away with these things." She continued to wave and smile wildly. "People treat me like an idiot so I'm allowed to act like one from time to time. It's one of the perks.

In my heart, I knew that Whorf was right. I knew I thought differently in Turkish and English - not because thought and language were the same, but because different languages forced you to think about different things. Turkish, for example, had a suffix, -mis, that you put on verbs to report anything you didn't witness personally. You were always stating your degree of subjectivity. You were always thinking about it, every time you opened your mouth. The suffix -mis had not exact English equivalent. It could be translated as "it seems" or "I heard" or "apparently." I associated it with Dilek, my cousin on my father's side - tiny, skinny, dark-complexioned Dilek, who was my age but so much smaller. "You complained-mis to your mother," Dilek would tell me in her quiet, precise voice. "The dog scared-mis you." "You told-mis your parents that if Aunt Hulya came to America, she could live in your garage." When you heard -mis, you knew that you had been invoked in your absence - not just you but your hypocrisy, cowardice, and lack of generosity. Every time I heard -mis, I felt caught out. I was scared of the dogs. I did complain to my mother, often. The -mis tense was one of the things I complained to my mother about. My mother thought it was funny.

The problem is, these days you have to listen to too many parts of your body. Sometimes I go with my gut feeling, some say go with what your heart says - it's only a matter of time before my appendix will have an opinion. This is probably why there are so many helplines these days. No one knows who to bloody listen to!

Days ago, when she faced Khione on the Argo II, Piper had started talking without thinking, following her heart no matter what her brain said. Now she did the same thing. She moved in front of the statue and faced the giant, though the rational part of her screamed: RUN, YOU IDIOT!

One of the most common and most dangerous misbeliefs is that it is impossible for someone to be stupid just because they are a doctor or a lawyer.

He's getting away you idiots! Shoot him. I'm wearing Spider-Man underpants!

Yeah, I get it; you're a vampire," she said. "Creepy. And okay, a little hot, I admit." "You don't mean that." "Come on. I still like you, you know, even if you... crave plasma." Michael blinked and looked at her as if he had never seen her before. "You what?" "Like. You." Eve enunciated slowly, as if Michael might not know the words. "Idiot. I always have. What, you didn't know?" Eve sounded cool and grown-up about it, but Claire saw the hectic color in her cheeks, under the makeup. "How clueless are you? Does it come with the fangs?" "I guess I... I just thought... Hell. I just didn't think... You're kind of intimidating, you know." "I'm intimidating? Me? I run like a rabbit from trouble, mostly," Eve said. "It's all show and makeup. You're the one who's intimidating. I mean, come on. All that talent, and you look... Well, you know how you look." " How do I look?" He sounded fascinated now, and he'd actually moved a little closer to Eve on the couch. She laughed. "Oh come on. You're a total model-babe." "You're kidding." "You don't think you are?" He shook his head. "Then you're kind of an idiot, Glass. Smart, but and idiot." Eve crossed her arms. “So? What exactly do you think about me, except that I’m intimidating?” “I think you’re…you’re…ah, interesting?” Michael was amazingly bad at this, Claire thought, but then he saved it by looking away and continuing. “I think you’re beautiful. And really, really strange.” Eve smiled and looked down, and that looked like a real blush, under the rice powder. “Thanks for that, “ she said, “I never thought you knew I existed, or if you did, that you thought I was anything but Shane’s bratty freak friend.” “Well, to be fair, you are Shane’s bratty freak friend.” “Hey!” “You can be bratty and beautiful,” Michael said. “I think it’s interesting.

My lord, the queen would speak with you, and presently. HAMLET Do you see yonder cloud that's almost in shape of a camel? POLONIUS By th'mass, and 'tis like a camel indeed. HAMLET Methinks it is like a weasel. POLONIUS It is backed like a weasel. HAMLET Or like a whale? POLONIUS Very like a whale. HAMLET Then I will come to my mother by and by. - They fool me to the top of my bent. - I will come by and by.

Are you gonna talk to her after the game?” Hollis asks expectantly. “Or do we need to bring out a shotgun and—” “Relax, you don’t have to make me talk to her at gunpoint,” I say with a chuckle. “What?” His expression is puzzled. “I was going to say we’d clock you in the back of the head with the shotgun, knock some sense into you.” I turn to Fitzgerald, who shrugs and says, “His brain operates on a level us mortals can’t comprehend.

Mr Moony presents his compliments to Professor Snape, and begs him to keep his abnormally large nose out of other people's business.' Snape froze. Harry stared, dumbstruck, at this message. But the map didn't stop there. More writing was appearing beneath the first. 'Mr Prongs agrees with Mr Moony, and would like to add that Professor Snape is an ugly git.' It would have been funny if the situation hadn't been so serious. And there was more... 'Mr Padfoot would like to register his astonishment that an idiot like that ever became a Professor.' Harry closed his eyes in horror. When he'd reopened them, the map had had its last word. 'Mr Wormtail bids Professor Snape good day, and advises him to wash his hair, the slimeball.

Because, of course, of how intelligent you are. And funny. Not that you aren't attractive. Because you are. Attractive. Oh, bugger..." I wait. "Are you still there, or did you hang up because I'm such a bleeding idiot?" "I'm here." "God, you made me work for that.

Funny thing about lessons: the idiot student thinks when he is given a little fact that he owns it—that two and two is always four no matter the circumstance. Just as it was not true for Orwell, it is not true for anyone. True lessons require not only knowing, but that the student practices his knowledge again and again. Thus knowledge becomes us, and we become more than the animal and the machine. That is why the best teachers are students always, and the best students are never fully educated. I had forgotten Gibson’s lesson for a moment, but stood a little straighter, shouldering as a pack my grief, my regret and self-loathing.

If you call yourself an "authoress" on your Facebook profile, you suck at life. You are stupid and your children are ugly. It doesn't matter if you're just trying to be cute and original. You're not. You are about as original as all those other witless twits "writing" the one millionth shitty Fifty Shades clone. Or maybe you're trying to show your 2000 fake Facebook "friends" that you are an empowered feminist who will not stand for sexist terminology. But you're not showing people that you are fighting the good fight, you're showing people that you are a sheep, who's trying just a little too hard to ride the current wave of idiotic political correctness. The word "author" is no more gender-discrimination than the word "person." Do you call yourself a personess? No, of course not, because then you might as well wear a sign around your neck that says, "Hello, I'm a retard.

She sat down next to him, took one of his cigarettes, listened to his apologies. He was distraught, of course: he was just the kind of idiot who could only understand what things meant by doing them first.

I am a vicious and unrepentant killer who should be locked up. With him, my idiot boyfriend.

Most unintelligent or foolish people do not regard themselves as that; they regard themselves as not-that-intelligent or not-that-wise.

You are more likely to find three TVs inside a randomly selected house than you are to find a single book that is or was not read to pass an exam, to please God, or to be a better cook.

If you've spent any time trolling the blogosphere, you've probably noticed a peculiar literary trend: the pervasive habit of writers inexplicably placing exclamation points at the end of otherwise unremarkable sentences. Sort of like this! This is done to suggest an ironic detachment from the writing of an expository sentence! It's supposed to signify that the writer is self-aware! And this is idiotic. It's the saddest kind of failure. F. Scott Fitzgerald believed inserting exclamation points was the literary equivalent of an author laughing at his own jokes, but that's not the case in the modern age; now, the exclamation point signifies creative confusion. All it illustrates is that even the writer can't tell if what they're creating is supposed to be meaningful, frivolous, or cruel. It's an attempt to insert humor where none exists, on the off chance that a potential reader will only be pleased if they suspect they're being entertained. Of course, the reader isn't really sure, either. They just want to know when they're supposed to pretend to be amused. All those extraneous exclamation points are like little splatters of canned laughter: They represent the "form of funny," which is more easily understood (and more easily constructed) than authentic funniness.

IT'S MORNING, TIME to get up, so get up, Arturo, and look for a job. Get out there and look for what you'll never find. You're a thief and you're a crab-killer and a lover of women in clothes closets. You'll never find a job! Every morning I got up feeling like that. Now I've got to find a job, damn it to hell. I ate breakfast, put a book under my arm, pencils in my pocket, and started out. Down the stairs I went, down the street, sometimes hot and sometimes cold, sometimes foggy and sometimes clear. It never mattered, with a book under my arm, looking for a job. What job, Arturo? Ho ho! A job for you? Think of what you are, my boy! A crab-killer. A thief. You look at naked women in clothes closets. And you expect to get a job! How funny! But there he goes, the idiot, with a big book. Where the devil are you going, Arturo? Why do you go up this street and not that? Why go east - why not go west? Answer me, you thief! Who'll give you a job, you swine - who? But there's a park across town, Arturo. It's called Banning Park. There are a lot of beautiful eucalyptus trees in it, and green lawns. What a place to read! Go there, Arturo. Read Nietzsche. Read Schopenhauer. Get into the company of the mighty. A job? fooey! Go sit under a eucalyptus tree reading a book looking for a job.

Money never made anybody rich. To be rich, you need the poor. The rich understand this quite well. But the poor do not. And this idiocy, they call an economy.

Put me down. This isn’t funny.” My feet make little ineffectual spirals. This isn’t the first time a big kid’s thrown his weight around with me. Marcus DuShay in third grade once slung me onto the hood of the principal’s car and ran off laughing. The plight of the little humans. There is no dignity for us in this oversize world. “Visit me up here for a sec.” “What on earth for?” I try to slide down but he spans his hands on my waist and presses me against the wall. I squeeze his shoulders until I come to the informed conclusion that his body is extravagant muscle under these Clark Kent shirts. “Holy shit.” His collarbone is like a crowbar under my palms. I say the only idiotic thing I can think of. “Muscles. Bones.” “Thanks.

I'm here." St. Clair is angry. "I'm just sorry I'm not there. With you. I wish there was something I could do." "Wanna come beat her up for me?" "I'm packing my throwing stars right now." I sniffle and wipe my nose. "I'm such an idiot. I can't believe I thought he liked me.That's the worst part, knowing he was never even interested." "Bollocks.He was interested." "No,he wasn't," I say. "Bridge said so." "Because she's jealous! Anna, I was there that first night he called you. I've seen how he looked at you in pictures." I protest,but he interrupts. "Any bloke with a working prick would be insane not to like you." There's a shocked pause,on both ends of the line. "Because,of course,of how intelligent you are. And funny.Not that you aren't attractive.Because you are. Attractive. Oh,bugger..." I wait. "Are you still there,or did you hang up because I'm such a bleeding idiot?" "I'm here." "God,you made me work for that." St. Clair said I'm attractive.That's the second time. "You're so easy to talk to," he continues, "that sometimes I forget you're not one of the guys." Scratch that. He thinks I'm Josh. "Just drop it. I can't take being compared to a guy right now-" "That's not what I meant-" "How's your mom? I'm sorry, I've hogged ur entire conversation,and this was supposed to be about her,and I didn't even ask-" "You did ask. It was the first thing you said when you answered. And technically I called you. And I was calling to see how the show went, which is what we've been talking about.

When I was a kid I read these books, the Redwall books, fantasy books about a bunch of warrior mice, and the mice had this war cry that I always thought was coo: 'Eulalia.' And like an idiot that's what I yelled off the Brooklyn Bridge: 'Eulaliaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!' And I could have died right then. And considering how things went, I really should have.

So this is the “smug idiot thinks he’s funny” face, Kami observed. Not to be confused with other “smug idiot” variants. And everyone told me English girls were so sweet, Jared said, and then: Oh, hey.

Did you just call me a numpty?" "Yup. A delusional one." "What, may I ask, is a numpty?" "A person demonstrating a lack of knowledge of a situation; a silly person; an idiot; a dumbass. A delusional numpty: Joss Butler’s stupid, idiotic, blind misconception of the true nature of her relationship with my brother, Braden Carmichael." She glowered at me, but it was an Ellie glower so it didn't really count. I nodded my head. "Numpty. Good word." She threw a cushion at me.

But my nose is running!' What do you have hands for, idiot, if not to wipe it? 'But how is it right that there be running noses in the first place?' Instead of thinking up protests, wouldn't it be easier just to wipe your nose?

Mind telling me what’s so funny?” he asked as he spooned beans onto their plates. “Nothing.” Lorelai avoided looking at Kol. “Then if nothing is funny, you two can stop grinning at each other like village idiots and start eating your dinner. I imagine tomorrow will be another difficult day.” And

The heavy eyelids snapped open. Jack froze. A huge gold-and-amber eye, as big as a dinner plater, stared at him. The dark pupil shrank, focusing. Jack stood very still. The colossal head turned, the scaled lip only three feet from Jack. The golden eyes gazed at him, wirling with fiery color. Jack breathed in tiny, shallow breaths. Dont blink. Don't blink... Two gusts of wind erutped from the wyvern's nostrils Jack jumped straight up, bounced off the ground into another jump, and scrambled up the nearest tree. In the clearing, Gaston bent over, guffawing like an idiot. 'It's not funny!

He was distraught, of course: he was just the kind of idiot who could only understand what things meant by doing them first.

The Law of Moronic Ubiquity: Anything in the universe that is generally considered to be idiot-proof will eventually be ruined by an idiot.

Sorry, Ian," Cameron said. He found himself saying that to Ian quite a bit. "I didn't understand." Ian gave him a faint nod but didn't answer. His look told Cameron that he knew his older brother was an idiot, but he'd learned to put up with it.

Every time I watch Lady and the Tramp I think "SHE'S HAVING SOME OF YOUR PASTA!" "QUICK! EAT IT ALL! EAT IT ALL, NOW!!!" "GROWL! BARE YOUR TEETH! DO SOMETHING! "OH, DON'T GIVE HER THE MEATBALL! THERE'S MEAT IN IT!" "IDIOT!" But then again I'm not the romantic type.

All I have to do is shoot! In my excitement, I throw the ball down with more force than ever, feeling bad-ass. It ricochets off the floor at an angle and slams right into my crotch. All around me, the room goes, “Ohhhh!” I look up. Every face is staring at me, contorted into winces. Right. Ball in crotch equals excruciating pain. I’m such an idiot! Too late, I double over in pain. “Ouch!” I yell. I sneak a glance around. Nobody looks convinced, so I add, “My balls!

A sound of laughter was heard-they turned sharply. Vera Claythorne was standing in the yard. She cried out in a high shrill voice, shaken with wild bursts of laughter: "Do they keep bees on this island? Tell me that. Where do we go for honey? Ha! ha!" They stared at her uncomprehendingly. It was as though the sane well-balanced girl had gone mad right before their eyes. She went on in that high unnatural voice: "Don't stare like that! As though you thought I was mad. It's sane enough what I'm asking. Bees, hives, bees! Oh, don't you understand? Haven't you read that idiotic rhyme? It's up in all of your bedrooms-put it there for you to study! We might have come here straightaway if we'd had sense. Seven little soldiers chopping up sticks. And the next verse, I know the whole thing by heart, I tell you! Six little soldier boys playing with a hive. And that's why I'm asking-do they keep bees on this island- isn't it damned funny...?

My mom believed that you make your own luck. Over the stove she had hung these old, maroon painted letters that spell out, “MANIFEST.” The idea being if you thought and dreamed about the way you wanted your life to be -- if you just envisioned it long enough, it would come into being. But as hard as I had manifested Astrid Heyman with her hand in mine, her blue eyes gazing into mine, her lips whispering something wild and funny and outrageous in my ear, she had remained totally unaware of my existence. Truly, to even dream of dreaming about Astrid, for a guy like me, in my relatively low position on the social ladder of Cheyenne Mountain High, was idiotic. And with her a senior and me a junior? Forget it. Astrid was just lit up with beauty: shining blonde ringlets, June sky blue eyes, slightly furrowed brow, always biting back a smile, champion diver on the swim team. Olympic level. Hell, Astrid was Olympic level in every possible way.

The wife’s gotta know. You can’t hook up like that for what looks like about six or seven years without the wife figuring it out. Unless she’s another idiot. “I’m not an idiot.” Smiling, Roarke continued to stroke. “I’ll keep that in mind when I decide to have a long-term affair.” “Yeah, you do that. They’ll never find your body,” she murmured, then dropped into sleep. His smiled warmed, and feeling well loved, he dropped off with her.

Give him Bigfoot with an AK-47, a room full of sugar-induced five-year-olds, or any supermodel on the circuit in a little black dress playing a private game of cops and robbers with his fly, and he’d be fine. Wouldn’t break a sweat. But, put him within fifty feet of Maddie Freemont? He turned into a tongue-tied, forgot-his-own-name, card-carrying member of the idiot brigade.

He's an idiot," Harry said again. "One who doesn't deserve to lick your feet. You'll thank me someday." "I have no intention of allowing him to lick me anywhere," she retorted, then turned utterly red when she realized what she's said.

What? What's so funny? Some idiot tried to put a stake through your heart, and he didn't even hit the darn thing!" For which I am grateful. And I am even more grateful that you rescued me. I did not like being imprisoned and in such pain.

This morning she told a joke to make me feel better. She's tough and funny and caring. Beautiful. And that ass. Don't look at her ass, you idiot. It's the same ass you've seen a million times, so just forget about it because the last thing you need is to start remembering what it feels like. She really isn't Lillian, is she? She sort of is, Lillian, though, in all the best ways. No, that's wrong. I'm not looking for Lillian in Lily anymore, and I haven't since we've been on the run. It's strange, but I'm starting to wonder if it wasn't Lillian I loved. Maybe what I loved was the Lily in Lillian. Oh, shit. I think I love Lily...

When alone in a dark forest waiting for an audience with an evil god, the most prudent course of action is to be quiet and wait. ‘Prudent’ wasn’t one of my favourite words. “Hello? I’ve come to borrow a cup of sugar. Anybody? Perhaps there is an old woman with a house made of candy who could help me?” “Marrying for love isn’t wise.” The voice came from somewhere to the left. Melodious, but not soft, definitely female and charged with a promise of hidden power. Something told me that hearing her scream would end very badly for me. I stopped and pivoted toward the voice. “Marry for safety. Marry for power. But only fools marry for love.” When a strange voice talks to you in the black woods, only idiots answer. I was that idiot. “Thank you, counsellor. How much do I owe you for this session?

Even on mute, the news is too loud.

This idea is so basic that when I first thought of it, I felt very brilliant, and then I wondered if I was an idiot.

That's it!" Victoria dramatically threw her hands up, disrupting people around them. "It's official. You inherited it." "What?" "The idiot gene.

He may look like an idiot and talk like an idiot, but don’t let that fool you. He really is an idiot.

Safi ignored him--he was clearly an idiot

I've said it before and I'll say it again: I wasn't thinking about none of y'all. I. Wanted. To. Save. My. Ass

You're like an idiot...trapped in an idiot's body!" Hey it was funny at the time and level of intoxication.

Which sort of shows why my body is an idiot, because forced narcolepsy is pretty much the worst defense ever.

It’s okay to be annoyed by people. I’m sure you’re annoying to others too.

Ten short years ago, nobody had ever heard of a selfie. But today every decent cell phone has not one but two cameras, so you can take idiotic duck face pictures. And don't forget the billion dollar selfie-stick industry. Capitalism has found a whole new way to turn our vanity into profit.

When the old man in the crumpled suit came to the counter to pay for the copy of Dostoyevsky's The Idiot, I discreetly pointed out that his fly was open. He glanced down - as if for confirmation of this - then looked back at me and said, 'A dead bird can't fall out of it's nest', and left the shop fly still agape.

Watch this." Hayden "Oh this is so weird." Hayden in Dragon form.Then he slapped his tail into the wall. "Ow! Have to watch that." He jerked it back and hit himself in the head with the barbed end. Instantly he returned to being human so he could rub his unintended injury. "Oh my God! Is that blood? Look at that! I'm bleeding." Hayden "Oh my God! only my idiot twin could knock himself out with his own tail. How stupid are you?" Edena

Bildon killed Tad. Look, there’s his dagger hidden in the pot of semolina. There’s the proof,” he screamed. “It’s in the pudding.” What an idiot, thought Madrick as he raced up the steps, the proof is always in the eating.

These are icebreakers. You’re not supposed to break the ice, you’re just supposed to coat your voice with as many layers of confidence as possible so that they don’t hear your voice shake when it’s your turn to speak. Idiot.

you're Shane, right?' He inched away from her and managed a quick nod as he twisted the rag he held in his fingers. 'Heidi sad you were willing to teach me how to ride.' Her expression shifted from entertained to confused, as if she was wondering why no one had mentioned he was a can or two shy of a six-pack. 'A horse,' he clarified, then wanted to kick himself. What else but a horse? Did he think she was here to learn to ride his mother's elephant? One corner of Annabelle's perfect, full mouth twitched. 'A horse would be good. You seem to have several.' He wanted to remind himself that he was usually fine around women. Smooth even. He was intelligent, funny and could, on occasion, be charming. Just not now, with his blood pumping and his brain doing nothing more than shouting "it's her, it's her" over and over again. Chemistry, he thought grimly. It could turn the smartest man into a drooling idiot. Here he was, proving the theory true.

How funny would it be if we left a trail of Faerie dust in our wake?” “That would be hilarious.” I laughed. “It’s a shame we don’t produce any.” Do we? I idiotically shook my hand as I tried to brandish Faerie dust like Tinkerbell. It didn’t work.

It's alive and well everywhere. Native Americans get a lot of crap in the West and south west. Muslims get treated like crap in just about every country in the Western world lately. Black people are mistreated in some parts of the US still. There are black people who are racist against white people. I've recently encountered someone who decided they couldn't tolerate my presence because I'm catholic, which according them makes me a pedophile, Satan worshipper and a whore. I've even encountered discrimination from people over seas for being American. Especially with my cousin's friends from England. They were rude to me the entire visit. They thought that I had to be an ignorant, xenophobic, racist slob just because I was from America and they spent most of the time trying to pick a fight with me to prove it. Racism exists, but don't take the comments you read online seriously. A good 80-90% of those are trolls looking for attention or a bored teenager who thinks it's funny to be an idiot.

So…you're not going to tell me what they mean? C'mon. What's the Hob? Why Forks?” When I stand, I switch to my blatantly rude, you're-an-idiot tone. This is the one that always pisses off my mom. To be sure he's not missing my insult this time, I also cross my arms and speak very slowly like I'm speaking to a toddler. “The Hob is from The Hunger Games books. It's the underground market where the characters trade food and information. Forks would be the town in Twilight. The setting. In boy-speak, Forks equals the planet Tatooine for Star Wars. You know—Anakin Skywalker's childhood home? Or are you not familiar with any global blockbusters? I suppose I could use Sesame Street or Pokémon for a reference—if it would help you understand better?” Bam. That should seal it. I couldn't have sounded more like a total bitch. He nods. “No, I've got it. My bedroom was Tatooine for all of third and fourth grade. Boy-speak…that's funny.” He laughs again, and it sounds warm and—and—not at all offended!

He made a noise that sounded like a strangled laugh, and then said: Ah, I like your style. I’ll give you that. You’re not easy to get the upper hand on, are you? Obviously I’m not going to manage it. It’s funny, because you carry on like you’d let me walk all over you, answering my texts at two in the morning, and then telling me you’re in love with me, blah blah blah. But that’s all your way of saying, just try and catch me, because you won’t. And I can see I won’t. You’re not going to let me have it for a minute. Nine times out of ten you’d have someone fooled with the way you go on. They’d be delighted with themselves, thinking they were really the boss of you. Yeah, yeah, but I’m not an idiot. You’re only letting me act badly because it puts you above me, and that’s where you like to be. Above, above. And I don’t take it personally, by the way, I don’t think you’d let anyone near you. Actually, I respect it. You’re looking out for yourself, and I’m sure you have your reasons. I’m sorry I was so harsh on you with what I said, because you were right, I was just trying to hurt you. And I probably did hurt you, big deal. Anyone can hurt anyone if they go out of their way. But then instead of getting mad with me, you go saying I’m welcome to stay over and you still love me and all this. Because you have to be perfect, don’t you? No, you really have a way about you, I must say. And I’m sorry, alright? I won’t be trying to take a jab at you again. Lesson learned. But from now on you don’t need to act like you’re under my thumb, when we both know I’m nowhere near you. Alright? Another long silence fell. Their faces were invisible in darkness. Eventually, in a high and strained voice, straining perhaps for an evenness or lightness it did not attain, she replied: Alright. If I ever do get a hold of you, you won’t need to tell me, he said. I’ll know. But I’m not going to chase too much. I’ll just stay where I am and see if you come to me. Yes, that’s what hunters do with deer, she said. Before they kill them.

New Rule: If the guy who makes up the poll questions at CNN doesn't want to do it anymore more, he should just quit. This is an actual recent poll question: "Would you like to live on the moon?" And the shocking results: No, as it turns out, we would not like to live on the moon. This is the cable news equivalent of being in a dead-end relationship with an idiot. "What are you thinking?" "I dunno, honey, I guess I was just wondering how many Americans would like to live on the moon.

Of course, I'd also suggest that whoever was the genius who thought it was a good idea to read things ONE FUCKING BYTE AT A TIME with system calls for each byte should be retroactively aborted. Who the f*ck does idiotic things like that? How did they not die as babies, considering that they were likely too stupid to find a tit to suck on?

Eight dragons in one small cave, all thinking at the same time. How was she going to get through this? “Let’s go around and introduce ourselves,” Tsunami said. “I mean, maybe it’s unnecessary, but that’s what Sunny said to do. And then she said I probably wouldn’t listen to her anyway, so I am proving her wrong, so there. I’m Tsunami, if anyone didn’t know. I was going to give myself a title like Commander of Recruitment, but then for some reason everyone voted that I would be terrible at recruiting, whatever that is all about, so they made me Head of School instead. So I’m pretty much the boss. And I’m running your first small group-discussion class, which was Glory’s big idea, so I figure we’ll figure it out together. Any questions?” “Yeah,” said Carnelian. “Are we stuck with this group?” “That’s not quite how I would put it,” said Tsunami. “But yes.” “What if we would prefer to be in a group with other IceWings?” Winter asked. “Such as my sister?” “That’s not how the winglets are set up,” Tsunami said. “But you’ll be in some bigger group classes with her and have plenty of time to make other friends as well.” “I love our winglet,” Kinkajou volunteered. “When do we eat?” Umber asked. “Just kidding. Pretending to be Clay.” He grinned, then shot a look at Qibli. Did he think that was funny? I hope that was funny. Did I sound like an idiot?

though he could certainly be witty, he wasn’t what you would really call funny, not like Dickens was.

Kids are the future, as we were once. It is a nominal title. Best not to get too attached.

The notion of trying to make friends in high places seems absurd, when you consider what they must have done to get there.

Sex, Emma thought. It curdled the mind and turned one into a drooling idiot. She had firsthand knowledge.

One of the ways the brain sorts out the important information from the unimportant is by recognising and focusing on patterns.

Idle living turns me into an idiot. I can’t afford to get stupid. I’ve already been irritating. I’ve used up my passes on personality flaws.

Shut up, idiot,” he growled. “Oops,” Ian replied, looking uncomfortable. “I feel stupid, now.” Peter shook his head. “That's the understatement of the year.

An idiot who does idiotic things is not funny.

According to a much quoted Russian saying 'the country has two eternal problems, roads and idiots'.

I grew up in a country of over a billion people. The first uncomfortable question I asked my parents was not where children came from, but why were there so many of them.

The Royal Sun Goddess, Heiress to the Realms of Light, Blessed of the Sun, Second of the Blood, and enemy of my people, was a blithering idiot.

I'm fascinated by idiots... Here's looking at you, kid!

if the short-term memory where we do our thinking has such a small capacity, how the hell do we get anything done?

Ever notice that anyone going slower than you is an idiot, but anyone going faster is a maniac?

मूर्खता खास किस्म का गुण है जो बेवकूफी में वजन से थोड़ा ज्यादा होने की मांग करता है।

Funny the things one dreams of! And later I realized that even within prison walls one can have a great life.

Percy, you are dismissed from my service." "Me? Why, my lord?" "Why? Because, Percy, far from being a fit consort for a prince of the realm, you would bore the leggings off a village idiot. You ride a horse rather less well than another horse would. Your brain would make a grain of sand look large and ungainly, and the part of you that can't be mentioned, I am reliably informed by women around the court, wouldn't be worth mentioning even if it could be. If you put on a floppy hat and a funny codpiece, you might just get by as a fool, but since you wouldn't know a joke if it got up and gave you a haircut, I doubt it. That's why you're dismissed." "Oh, I see." "And as for you, Baldrick..." "Yes." "You're out, too.

Kenji goes suddenly still. At the creak of the door Kenji’s eyebrows shoot up; a soft click and his eyes widen; a muted rustle of movement and suddenly the barrel of a gun is pressed against the back of his head. Kenji stares at me, his lips making no sound as he mouths the word psychopath over and over again. The psychopath in question winks at me from where he’s standing, smiling like he couldn’t possibly be holding a gun to the head of our mutual friend. I manage to suppress a laugh. “Go on,” Warner says, still smiling. “Please tell me exactly how she’s failed you as a leader.” “Hey—“ Kenji’s arms fly up in mock surrender. “I never said she failed at anything, okay? And you are clearly over-react—“ Warner knocks Kenji on the side of the head with the weapon. “Idiot.” Kenji spins around. Yanks the gun out of Warner’s hand. “What the hell is wrong with you, man? I thought we were cool.” “We were,” Warner says icily. “Until you touched my hair.” “You asked me to give you a haircut—“ “I said nothing of the sort! I asked you to trim the edges!” “And that’s what I did.” “This,” Warner says, spinning around so I might inspect the damage, “is not trimming the edges, you incompetent moron—“ I gasp. The back of Warner’s head is a jagged mess of uneven hair; entire chunks have been buzzed off. Kenji cringes as he looks over his handiwork. Clears his throat. “Well,” he says, shoving his hand in his pockets. “I mean—whatever, man, beauty is subjective—“ Warner aims another gun at him. “Hey!” Kenji shouts. “I am not here for this abusive relationship, okay?” He points to Warner. “I did not sign up for this shit!” Warner glares at him and Kenji retreats, backing out of the room before Warner has another chance to react; and then, just as I let out a sign of relief, Kenji pops his head back into the doorway and says “I think the cut looks cute, actually” and Warner slams the door in his face.

I circle around them, my sword pointed in their direction. "Hermes Trismegistus. Ostanes the Persian. Olympiodorous of Thebes---" I stop, feeling like an idiot. These necromancers and the ridiculous names they give themselves. They're always trying to outdo one another. "You five," I said instead. "By the authority of King Malcolm of Anglia, I am commanded to arrest you for the crime of witchcraft.

Things I Used to Get Hit For: Talking back. Being smart. Acting stupid. Not listening. Not answering the first time. Not doing what I’m told. Not doing it the second time I’m told. Running, jumping, yelling, laughing, falling down, skipping stairs, lying in the snow, rolling in the grass, playing in the dirt, walking in mud, not wiping my feet, not taking my shoes off. Sliding down the banister, acting like a wild Indian in the hallway. Making a mess and leaving it. Pissing my pants, just a little. Peeing the bed, hardly at all. Sleeping with a butter knife under my pillow. Shitting the bed because I was sick and it just ran out of me, but still my fault because I’m old enough to know better. Saying shit instead of crap or poop or number two. Not knowing better. Knowing something and doing it wrong anyway. Lying. Not confessing the truth even when I don’t know it. Telling white lies, even little ones, because fibbing isn’t fooling and not the least bit funny. Laughing at anything that’s not funny, especially cripples and retards. Covering up my white lies with more lies, black lies. Not coming the exact second I’m called. Getting out of bed too early, sometimes before the birds, and turning on the TV, which is one reason the picture tube died. Wearing out the cheap plastic hole on the channel selector by turning it so fast it sounds like a machine gun. Playing flip-and-catch with the TV’s volume button then losing it down the hole next to the radiator pipe. Vomiting. Gagging like I’m going to vomit. Saying puke instead of vomit. Throwing up anyplace but in the toilet or in a designated throw-up bucket. Using scissors on my hair. Cutting Kelly’s doll’s hair really short. Pinching Kelly. Punching Kelly even though she kicked me first. Tickling her too hard. Taking food without asking. Eating sugar from the sugar bowl. Not sharing. Not remembering to say please and thank you. Mumbling like an idiot. Using the emergency flashlight to read a comic book in bed because batteries don’t grow on trees. Splashing in puddles, even the puddles I don’t see until it’s too late. Giving my mother’s good rhinestone earrings to the teacher for Valentine’s Day. Splashing in the bathtub and getting the floor wet. Using the good towels. Leaving the good towels on the floor, though sometimes they fall all by themselves. Eating crackers in bed. Staining my shirt, tearing the knee in my pants, ruining my good clothes. Not changing into old clothes that don’t fit the minute I get home. Wasting food. Not eating everything on my plate. Hiding lumpy mashed potatoes and butternut squash and rubbery string beans or any food I don’t like under the vinyl seat cushions Mom bought for the wooden kitchen chairs. Leaving the butter dish out in summer and ruining the tablecloth. Making bubbles in my milk. Using a straw like a pee shooter. Throwing tooth picks at my sister. Wasting toothpicks and glue making junky little things that no one wants. School papers. Notes from the teacher. Report cards. Whispering in church. Sleeping in church. Notes from the assistant principal. Being late for anything. Walking out of Woolworth’s eating a candy bar I didn’t pay for. Riding my bike in the street. Leaving my bike out in the rain. Getting my bike stolen while visiting Grandpa Rudy at the hospital because I didn’t put a lock on it. Not washing my feet. Spitting. Getting a nosebleed in church. Embarrassing my mother in any way, anywhere, anytime, especially in public. Being a jerk. Acting shy. Being impolite. Forgetting what good manners are for. Being alive in all the wrong places with all the wrong people at all the wrong times.

... they only trusted the wisdom of people brighter and more worldly than themselves when it was expressed in the vocabulary and style of rural idiots. In his guise as Brazenydol, he had once had a contract with DARPA to teach a team of physicists the basic terminology of tractor pulls so that they could give an acceptable explanation of omniwavelength stealth to a Congressional committee that didn’t understand tractor pulls, either.

I think a lot of my friends thought I was a selfish idiot, giving up a pretty good thing just for the hope of a really good thing. But how can I teach my kid not to settle if I’m not willing to fight for the life I want?

When that woman stood up and said, “No, rape is not funny,” she did not consent to participating in a culture that encourages lax attitudes toward sexual violence and the concerns of women. Rape humor is what encourages a man to feel comfortable tweeting to Daniel Tosh, “the only ppl who are mad at you are the feminist bitches who never get laid and hope they get raped so they can get laid,” which is one of the idiotic, Pavlovian responses a certain kind of person has when women have the nerve to suggest that they don’t find sexual violence amusing. In that man’s universe, women who get properly laid are totally fine with rape humor. A satisfied vagina is a balm in Gilead.

It was too much for weak men, of more or less good will, who knew in their hearts that the Pope was right ad that they ought to cooperate with him, when the Pope demanded, with harsh and angry words, that they should immediately change their way of life and give up all small comforts they had grown accustomed to, in order to live in a state of self-denial suitable for the strictest ascetic. They were agreed that it was time for a reform within the Church. But if this were reform... And the language he used when he broke into a rage! "Shut up!" he said to the cardinals. He shouted "Pazzo!" -Idiot- to Cardinal Orsini, and "Ribaldo!" -Bandit- to the Cardinal of Geneva. His electors began to regret their choice bitterly.

Zoya poked me in the arm with one long finger. “He hasn’t been with anyone, you idiot. Do you know what the girls back at the White Cathedral called him? Beznako.” A lost cause. “It’s funny,” Zoya said contemplatively. “I understand why the Darkling and Nikolai want your power. But Mal looks at you like you’re … well, like you’re me.” “No he doesn’t,” said Tolya. “He watches her the way Harshaw watches fire. Like he’ll never have enough of her. Like he’s trying to capture what he can before she’s gone.

When I was a kid I read these books, the Redwall books, fantasy books about a bunch of warrior mice, and the mice had this war cry that I always thought was cool: “Eulalia.” And like an idiot, that’s what I yelled off the Brooklyn Bridge: Eulaliaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

...a little calf, about a day old, looking idiotically at the two women, which showed that it had not long been accustomed to the phenomenon of eyesight, and often turning to the lantern, which it mistook for the moon, inherited instinct having as yet had little time for correction by experience.

After I hang up, I try to read Hamlet for a while, but I don't understand it that well, and I have to keep looking over to the right margin where they define the words, and it just makes me feel like an idiot. Not that smart. Not that hot. Not that nice. Not that funny. That's me: I'm not that.

Like when you see a celebrity in a cafe and instinctively burst out, "Oh, hi there!" before you realize that your brain has had time to tell you, "Hey, that's probably someone you know, say hi!" but not, "No wait, it's just that guy from the TV!" Because your brain likes to make you look like an idiot.

The disciples finally begin to get a grasp that maybe God can become flesh and dwell among us, maybe God can be a man, and then they come back and not only is God a man, but He's acting like an idiot! He's hanging out with a bunch of kids. He's blessing them, you know. And you think, How do you bless children? Well, the best way I know is that you pick them up and you just throw them as high as you can, and you catch them right before they splatter. You get down on all fours and you run around the room and you let them ride you and you buck them off. … You put your mouth against their bellies and you make funny noises. Here's Jesus probably doing all this business. His disciples were humiliated! And they said, “You should not be making such a fool of Yourself!” And Jesus says, “Here, look, look, fellas. I'll call the shots here. I may be dumb, but I am God. And I'll tell you what else, if you wanna come into My kingdom, you'll come in like one of these or you won't come in at all.

The duke he quit tending door and went around the back way and come on to the stage and stood up before the curtain and made a little speech, and praised up this tragedy, and said it was the most thrillingest one that ever was; and so he went on a-bragging about the tragedy, and about Edmund Kean the Elder, which was to play the main principal part in it; and at last when he’d got everybody’s expectations up high enough, he rolled up the curtain, and the next minute the king come a-prancing out on all fours, naked; and he was painted all over, ring-streaked-and-striped, all sorts of colors, as splendid as a rainbow. And – but never mind the rest of his outfit; it was just wild, but it was awful funny. The people most killed themselves laughing; and when the king got done capering and capered off behind the scenes, they roared and clapped and stormed and haw-hawed till he come back and done it over again, and after that they made him do it another time. Well, it would make a cow laugh to see the shines that old idiot cut.

New Rule: For at least the next generation, the Crocodile Hunter clan has to leave nature alone. This week, the late Steve Irwin’s youngest son was bitten by a boa constrictor. Authorities don’t know exactly what went wrong, but they think the accident might have happened when a bunch of idiots let a four-year-old fuck around with a giant snake.

I told him a Turkish joke about two deaf fishermen. “Are you going fishing?” the first fisherman asked. The second fisherman said, “No, I’m going fishing.” Then the first fisherman said, “Oh— I thought you were going fishing.” Ivan told me a joke about a scientist who had a grant to study fleas. He would shout, “Jump,” and measure how far the flea jumped. After a while it got boring because the flea always jumped the same distance, so he pulled off the flea’s legs, one by one. The distance got shorter and shorter, until finally he had pulled off all six legs and the flea didn’t jump at all. “If you remove six legs,” the scientist concluded, “the flea cannot hear.” I thought it was really funny.

Where’s new-Jay?” Jules asked, and then she and Chelsea exchanged a look and started cracking up at their own joke. Even Claire, who was generally so serious about everything, giggled a little. Violet rolled her eyes. “How long did it take you geniuses to plan that little gem?” she accused her friends, which only made them laugh harder. She shook her head. “You two are idiots,” she said, biting into her apple again and deciding to ignore them. “Which is it, Violet?” Claire asked. “Are they geniuses or idiots?” Chelsea leaned into Jules now, laughing so hard at their stupid joke that no sound was even coming out of her mouth anymore. Violet looked up from Chelsea to Jules and then back to Claire. “Idiots,” she stated flatly. There was another long moment as the Two Stooges struggled to regain their composure. “Come on, Vi. If we can’t joke about new-Jay, who can we joke about?” Chelsea asked, finally getting herself under control. She used a paper napkin to dab at her watering eyes. “Joke about whatever you want,” Violet stated as blandly as possible. “It’s not your fault you’re not funny.

Deshani regales them with tales of her misogynist assistant, who can’t manage to hide how disgusted he is to be reporting to a woman, and her own delight in offering him a demotion if he’d prefer a male boss. It’s sharp and funny, and Eddison gets the feeling that the only reason the idiot hasn’t been fired is because Deshani finds him entertaining. It’s a little disturbing. It’s

Not making meatloaf! That should be your safeword.” “What?” Scout began to laugh so hard he doubled over. “Oh my Goddess, that’s a great one.” “What’s so funny?” Bailey asked. Logan groaned. “Because I would do anything for love…” “But I won’t do that.” Bailey glared down at Aleron. “You’re an idiot. No dessert for you.” “What? It’s a good one. Who says meatloaf in the middle of sex?

... The Sirens of Titan …. … ‘That’s a funny name for a book,’ I said with a gulp. ‘Are those women going to get arrested?’ Mr Peterson didn’t know what the hell I was talking about. ‘They’re not wearing many clothes,’ I pointed out. ‘What’s your point?’ he asked. ‘So I thought maybe the sirens might be for them.’ Mr Peterson frowned. ‘ I think the police are allowed to arrest you for wearing too few clothes,’ I explained. Comprehension dawned on Mr Peterson’s face. ‘No, kid. Not sirens as in police sirens. Sirens as in Homer.’ I frowned. ‘Simpson?’ ‘The Odyssey!’ I looked at him blankly. At some point in the last thirty seconds, we’d stopped speaking the same language. Mr Peterson sighed and rubbed his wrinkled forehead. ‘The Odyssey’s a very old Greek story by a very old Greek man called Homer. And in The Odyssey there are these very beautiful women called sirens …… ‘oh’, I said. ‘So the women are the sirens? And that’s why they’re not wearing very many clothes?” ‘Right. Except in Kurt Vonnegut’s book the Sirens don’t live in the Mediterranean. They live on Titan, which is one of Saturn’s moons.’ ‘Yes, I know that,’ I said. (I didn’t want Mr Peterson to think I was an idiot). ‘It’s the second largest moon in the solar system, after Ganymede, Jupiter’s largest moon. It’s actually larger than Mercury, though not nearly so dense.’ Mr Peter frowned again and shook his head. ‘I guess these days school puts a big emphasis on sciences instead of the arts, huh?’ ‘No, not really. School puts a big emphasis on exam questions. Do sirens breathe methane?

Fuck ’em. Fuck ’em to death. Fuck this town, and its preppy, judgmental residents, and every idiot who looks at us funny. Don’t you get it? We’re the outliers. The rejects. We’re free. Free to do whatever the hell we want, because it won’t matter. We’ll never fit in here, so we don’t have to try. We’re liberated from all this bullshit.” He motioned around us with his hand. “They can’t hurt you if you don’t give them permission to. So don’t.

Because she’s jealous! Anna, I was there that first night he called you. I’ve seen how he looked at you in pictures.” I protest, but he interrupts. “Any bloke with a working prick would be insane not to like you.” There’s a shocked pause, on both ends of the line. “Because, of course, of how intelligent you are. And funny. Not that you aren’t attractive. Because you are. Attractive. Oh, bugger ...” I wait. “Are you still there, or did you hang up because I’m such a bleeding idiot?

Professor Severus Snape, master of this school, commands you to yield the information you conceal!" Snape said, hitting the map with his wand. As though an invisible hand were writing upon it, words appeared on the surface of the map. "Mr. Moony presents his compliments to Professor Snape, and begs him to keep his abnormally large nose out of other people's business." Snape froze. Harry stared, dumbstruck, at the message. But the map didn't stop there. More writing was appearing beneath the first. "Mr. Prongs agrees with Mr. Moony, and would like to add that Professor Snape is an ugly git." It would have been very funny if the situation hadn't been so serious. And there was more... "Mr. Padfoot would like to register his astonishment that an idiot like that ever became a professor." Harry closed his eyes in horror. When he'd opened them, the map had had its last word. "Mr. Wormtail bids Professor Snape good day, and advises him to wash his hair, the slimeball." (286 & 287)

I predict that I'll be breaking out the 'right to a trial defense’ again,” I said, trying to not act any weirder than I already was. “You don't think he'll be willing to plead guilty?” “Probably not. He firmly believes that claiming to be a complete idiot will get him off.” “You're very funny,” he said, leaning against the defense table right next to me again. “Mr. Pierce, in my line of work, one either laughs or cries and I would rather laugh.” Oh Jesus H. Christ! I sounded like a country western song.

You may be a big fan of something like, say, cake. You can be eating cake for years without any bother, then one day you eat some cake that makes you sick. Could be some of the cream in it has gone sour; it might contain an ingredient you’re allergic to; or (and here’s the annoying one) it could be that something else entirely made you sick shortly after eating cake. But, from then on, your brain has made the connection and considers cake out of bounds; if you even look at it again it can trigger the nausea response.

Rocky admonished me for leaving the sample at (human) room temperature for so long. He had a lot to say on that subject, actually. We had to add “reckless,” “idiot,” “foolish,” and “irresponsible” to our shared vocabulary just so he could fully express his opinion on the matter. There was another word he threw around a lot, but he declined to tell me what it meant. Three days off the painkillers and I'm a lot smarter than I was. At least he understands that much- I wasn't just some stupid human. I was a human with enhanced stupidity.

Ralph and I had met the previous summer at a program for high school juniors where you spent five weeks in a house in New Jersey studying the interdisciplinary history of the Northern European Renaissance. The thing that had brought us together was how the art history teacher mentioned the Doge of Venice, whom she called simply “the Doge,” in every lecture, regardless of subject. She could be talking about the daily lives of burghers in Delft and somehow the Doge would come into it. Nobody else seemed to notice this, or to think it was funny.

Dating yes. But she thinks we're, uh, more than dating." "Oh," he says, thoughtful. Then he grins. "Oh." The reason her lips are turning his favorite color is because Emma's mom thinks they've been dating and mating. The blush extends down her neck and disappears into her T-shirt. He should probably say something to make her feel more comfortable. But teasing her seems so much more fun. "Well then, the least she could do is give us some privacy-" "Ohmysweetgoodness!" She snatches her backpack from the seat and marches around her car to the driver's side. Before she can get the door unlocked, he plucks the key from her fingers and tucks it into his jeans' pocket. She moves to retrieve it, but stops when she realizes where she's about to go fishing. He's never seen her this red. He laughs. "Calm down, Emma. I'm just kidding. Don't leave." "Yeah, well, it's not funny. You should have seen her this morning. She almost cried. my mom doesn't cry." She crosses her arms again but relaxes against her door. "She cried? That's pretty insulting." She cracks a tiny grin. "Yeah, it's an insult to me. She thinks I would...would..." "More than date me?" She nods. He steps toward her and puts his hand beside her on the car, leaning in. A live current seems to shimmy up his spine. What are you doing? "But she should know that you don't even think of me like that. That it would never even cross your mind," he murmurs. She looks away, satisfying his unspoken question-it has crossed her mind. The same way it crosses his. How often? Does she feel the voltage between them, too? Who cares, idiot? She belongs to Grom. Or are you going to let a few sparks keep you from uniting the kingdoms? He pulls back, clenching his teeth. His pockets are the only safe place for his hands at the moment. "Why don't I meet her then? You think that would make her feel better?" "Um." She swipes her hair to the other side of her face. Her expression falls somewhere between shock and expectation. And she had every right to expect it-he's been entertaining the idea of kissing her for over two weeks now. She fidgets the door handle. "Yeah, it might. She won't let me go anywhere-especially with you-if she doesn't meet you first." "Should I be afraid?" She sighs. "Normally I would say no. But after this morning..." She shrugs. "How about I follow you to your house so you can drop off your car? Then she can interrogate me. When she sees how charming I am, she'll let you ride to the beach with me." She rolls her eyes. "Just don't be too charming. If you're too smooth, she'll never believe-just don't overdue it, okay?" "This is getting complicated," he says, unlocking her car. "Just remember, this is your idea and your fault. Now would be the time to back out." He chuckles and opens the door for her. "Don't lose me on the road.

It won't work. You see, he is a liar and a thief. And he's been one for too long. He can't retire now. In addition to which. He has become, I'm afraid, a hack.' 'He may be all those things but she knows he's not.' 'What gives her that curious idea?' 'She's been with him constantly for the last few days. She's seen him shaking with terror, exhausted, ready to quit. She's watched him pull himself together again and she's also seen him be warm and tender. And funny. Not famous-international-wit funny but really funny.' 'Do you think she's an idiot? Do you think she doesn't know what kind of man he is? Or what he needs?' 'And what he needs is L-O-V-E? Uh-uh it's too late. He is 43 years old. Or will be this October. He's been married twice, both times disastrously and there have been too many years of... too much dough, too much bad writing and too much whiskey. He's got nothing left inside to give. Even if he could, which he can't.' 'But that's not true. You can, you have. I just know it.' 'No, you don't. It's lousy. In any case, the problem is you're not in love with the script. You're in love with me. And why shouldn't you be? When suddenly, waltzing into your life comes this charming and relatively handsome stranger. Me. Smooth as silk, with a highly practised line of chatter, specifically designed to knock relatively unsophisticated chicks like you Miss Simpson, right on their ears. Which I'm terribly afraid I've done. Well if it's the last decent thing I do in this world, and it very well may be, I'm going to fix that. I'm going to send you packing Miss Simpson before I cause you serious and irrevocable harm. You want the truth? Of course you don't. I'll give it to you anyway. I do not give one damn about anything.

You're fixing everything I set down." He nods at my hands, which are readjusting the elephant. "It wasn't polite of me to come in and start touching your things." "Oh,it's okay," I say quickly, letting go of the figurine. "You can touch anything of mine you want." He freezes. A funny look runs across his face before I realize what I've said. I didn't mean it like that. Not that that/i> would be so bad. But I like Toph,and St. Clair has a girlfriend. And even if the situation were different, Mer still has dibs. I'd never do that to her after how nice she was my first day.And my second. And every other day this week. Besides,he's just an attractive boy. Nothing to get worked up over. I mean, the streets of Europe are filled with beautiful guys, right? Guys with grooming regimens and proper haircuts and stylish coats.Not that I've seen anyone even remotely as good-looking as Monsieur Etienne St.Clair.But still. He turns his face away from mine. Is it my imagination or does he look embarrassed? But why would he be embarrassed? I'm the one with the idiotic mouth. "Is that your boyfriend?" He points to my laptop's wallpaper, a photo of my coworkers and me goofing around. It was taken before the midnight release of the lastest fantasy-novel-to-film adaptation. Most of us were dressed like elves or wizards. "The one with his eyes closed?" "WHAT?" He thinks I'd date a guy like Hercules Hercules is an assistant manager. He's ten years older than me and,yes, that's his real name. And even though he's sweet and knows more about Japanese horror films than anyone,he also has a ponytail. A ponytail. "Anna,I'm kidding.This one. Sideburns." He points to Toph,the reason I love the picture so much.Our heads are turned into each other, and we're wearing secret smiles,as if sharing a private joke. "Oh.Uh...no.Not really.I mean, Toph was my almost-boyfriend.I moved away before..." I trail off, uncomfortable. "Before much could happen.

I have always felt that putting emotions into words was an exercise in futility, they're often more complex than words can manage and it seems often impossible. And like an injustice to the emotions, like I will never have explained them well enough and it will just feel incomplete and wrong. Also I'm pretty sure you made me do this before heh. All of that said, I shall do my best to manage this. You are incredibly passionate. Straightforward. Funny. I feel like such a god damn idiot spouting random adjectives but I don't know what else to do. O.O You are those things though and I love them. You see the world in a way I feel I can understand at least somewhat, a way many don't. You embrace things others try to stifle. You aren't ashamed of being yourself and yourself is wonderful. Kind and compassionate. You sure helped me and I think I helped you too, we connected on some issues even if our issues weren't the same. We... ugh, I can't do it, I can't distill something as complex, intricate, beautiful, amazing as YOU into mere words. But you are who you are and you stole my heart and I don't mind. I like it. I love you. Can't go wrong with someone that loves music and wants to have lotr snuggle fests! I'm here darlingness. I just kept trying and trying to find the right words. It's difficult. NOT because I have anything less than the utmost massive lovelberry tree gem pie for you. It's just... emotions, y'know? They're hard to explain. o.o

Hop on." "What?" "Hop on. You're bored, I can see it. Terribly bored, and I'm just as bored just floating here with you ground-ridden. So get on." "I don't like to fly, Ginny, you know that--" "Oh, yes. The big, tough Gryffindor afraid of heights." Hermione glowers and Ginny laughs. "Come on." Hermione eyes the broom in speculation, and then the woman astride it. "I don't know." Ginny dips her head before making her voice deeper. "I promise I'll be gentle." Hermione barks a laugh and shakes her head. "Will you hold me tight?" "With my rippling muscles, love." "You're an idiot." "And you're a coward." Ginny grins, dropping the manly act and tapping the front of the broom. "Come here and ride my stick." "Oh, my God! Ginny!

But Eugene was untroubled by any thought of a goal. He was mad with such ecstasy as he had never known. He was a centaur, moon-eyed and wild of mane, torn apart with hunger for the golden world. He became at times almost incapable of coherent speech. While talking with people, he would whinny suddenly into their startled faces, and leap away, his face contorted with an idiot joy. He would hurl himself squealing through the streets and along the paths, touched with the ecstasy of a thousand unspoken desires. The world lay before him for his picking – full of opulent cities, golden vintages, glorious triumphs, and lovely women, full of a thousand unmet and magnificent possibilities. Nothing was dull or tarnished. The strange enchanted coasts were unvisited. He was young and he could never die.

Every night, I sit in the rocking chair in the nursery when I give Willow her bedtime bottle. Tonight, I burped her halfway through her feeding like always. Then I sat her on my knees facing me and made funny faces. She looked right into my eyes. And she smiled. She’s ten weeks old and she just gave me her very first smile. I wish I’d taken a picture. I’m probably supposed to be documenting everything better for her baby book or whatever. She’s going to have a terrible baby book. But at least she’ll have a father who loves her. Because when she smiled at me tonight, I finally felt it. Love. A rush of love. I was so blown away by it I laughed, which made her smile at me even more. Then I hugged her small body and breathed in the smell of her Johnson’s baby shampoo. I could feel her heartbeat. Up until tonight, I was pretty sure Willow didn’t like me, and I understood why she didn’t. I didn’t blame her for resenting the idiot, bumbling guy who started doing for her all the things her gorgeous, familiar mother had done before. But tonight . . . tonight my little girl smiled at me. She gave her very first smile to me because I’m her person now. I’m her daddy and, in her way, I think she might love me, too. When I laid her against the inside of my elbow to feed her the rest of her bottle, her hand made a fist in the fabric of my shirt. She watched me as she drank down her formula. I’m tired and lonely. Parenting is far more difficult than I understood when I was a son and not yet a father. I miss my freedom and my friends and the life I had before Sylvie told me she was pregnant. I miss who I used to be. But tonight my daughter, a tiny girl in pink pajamas, smiled at me. Because I’m her person. Letter

Another intriguing experiment, lead by Tania Singer from the Max Planck Institute, showed that there are other limits to this compensatory mechanism, by exposing pairs of people to varying tactile surfaces (they had to touch either something nice or something gross).39 They showed two people experiencing something unpleasant will be very good at empathising correctly, recognising the emotion and intensity of feeling in the other person, but if one is experiencing pleasure while the other is enduring unpleasantness, then the pleasure-experiencing person will seriously underestimate the other’s suffering. So the more privileged and comfortable someone’s life is, the harder it is for them to appreciate the needs and issues of those worse off. But as long as we don’t do something stupid like put the most pampered people in charge of running countries, we should be OK.

Fred gets married and on his wedding night he calls his Father for some tips on what to do, since he has never been with a woman before. "So what do I do first?"? His father replied, "Take her clothes off and lay her on the bed." 5 minutes later Fred’s on the phone again. "She’s naked and in bed, what do I do now??? His father can’t believe what he is hearing, "Take your damn clothes off and get into bed with her." After another 5 minutes poor Fred is on the phone again. "Dad, I’m naked and in bed with her, what do I do now?" His dad’s patience is now running thin so he says, "Shit son! Do I have to spell everything out for you? Just put the hardest thing on your body where she pees. Goodnight!!!" Just when the old man starts snoring, his son is on the phone once again. "Ok Dad, I have my head in the toilet bowl what do I do next" "DROWN YOURSELF, YOU F**KING IDIOT!!

It's only second period, and the whole school knows Emma broke up with him. So far, he's collected eight phone numbers, one kiss on the cheek, and one pinch to the back of his jeans. His attempts to talk to Emma between classes are thwarted by a hurricane of teenage females whose main goal seems to be keeping him and his ex-girlfriend separated. When the third period bell rings, Emma has already chosen a seat where she'll be barricaded from him by other students. Throughout class, she pays attention as if the teacher were giving instructions on how to survive a life-threatening catastrophe in the next twenty-four hours. About midway through class, he receives a text from a number he doesn't recognize. If you let me, I can do things to u to make u forget her. As soon as he clears it, another one pops up from a different number. Hit me back if u want to chat. I'll treat u better than E. How did they get my number? Tucking his phone back into his pocket, he hovers over his notebook protectively, as if it's the only thing left that hasn't been invaded. Then he notices the foreign handwriting scribbled on it by a girl named Shena who encircled her name and phone number with a heart. Not throwing it across the room takes almost as much effort as not kissing Emma. At lunch, Emma once again blocks his access to her by sitting between people at a full picnic table outside. He chooses the table directly across from her, but she seems oblivious, absently soaking up the grease from the pizza on her plate until she's got at least fifteen orange napkins in front of her. She won't acknowledge that he's staring at her, waiting to wave her over as soon as she looks up. Ignoring the text message explosion in his vibrating pocket, he opens the contain of tuna fish Rachel packed for him. Forking it violently, he heaves a mound into his mouth, chewing without savoring it. Mark with the Teeth is telling Emma something she thinks is funny, because she covers her mouth with a napkin and giggles. Galen almost launches from his bench when Mark brushes a strand of hair from her face. Now he knows what Rachel meant when she told him to mark his territory early on. But what can he do if his territory is unmarking herself? News of their breakup has spread like an oil spill, and it seems as though Emma is making a huge effort to help it along. With his thumb and index finger, Galen snaps his plastic fork in half as Emma gently wipes Mark's mouth with her napkin. He rolls his eyes as Mark "accidentally" gets another splotch of JELL-O on the corner of his lips. Emma wipes that clean too, smiling like she's tending to a child. It doesn't help that Galen's table is filling up with more of his admirers-touching him, giggling at him, smiling at him for no reason, and distracting him from his fantasy of breaking Mark's pretty jaw. But that would only give Emma a genuine reason to assist the idiot in managing his JELL-O.

I HATE Unnatural, Abnormal, Disgusting, Sick, Ugly, Unfit, Funny, Idiotic, Stupid, Nonsense, Immature, SICK minded, Narrow Minded, Uncultured, Filthy, Cheap, Superstitious, Ignorant, Perverted, Paraphilic, Illogical Gender Biased/sexist, Stereotypical female sex Objectification based ABNORMAL inappropriate activities and Sexism or Sexist Mentality. And people who practice this Abnormality, they are Unnatural, Abnormal, Disgusting, Sick, Ugly, Unfit, Funny, Idiotic, Stupid, Nonsense, Immature, SICK minded, Narrow Minded, Uncultured, Filthy, Cheap, Superstitious, Ignorant, Perverted, Paraphilic, Illogical Gender Biased/sexist, Stereotypical female sex Objectification based SICK minded humanoid Species But They Are NOT HUMAN. And I Support Solid Male Sex Objectification or Male Sexualization based world or Male Sex Symbol or Male Sexual Image or whatever you say. Because This world is Natural, Normal, Real and Truth. And Male Sex Objectification or Male Sexualization is a Part of The Real Sex. Because Male Beauty and Male Body is a Work of Art and It's A Gift for women From God. And That's The Truth.

I cooked with so many of the greats: Tom Colicchio, Eric Ripert, Wylie Dufresne, Grant Achatz. Rick Bayless taught me not one but two amazing mole sauces, the whole time bemoaning that he never seemed to know what to cook for his teenage daughter. Jose Andres made me a classic Spanish tortilla, shocking me with the sheer volume of viridian olive oil he put into that simple dish of potatoes, onions, and eggs. Graham Elliot Bowles and I made gourmet Jell-O shots together, and ate leftover cheddar risotto with Cheez-Its crumbled on top right out of the pan. Lucky for me, Maria still includes me in special evenings like this, usually giving me the option of joining the guests at table, or helping in the kitchen. I always choose the kitchen, because passing up the opportunity to see these chefs in action is something only an idiot would do. Susan Spicer flew up from New Orleans shortly after the BP oil spill to do an extraordinary menu of all Gulf seafood for a ten-thousand-dollar-a-plate fund-raising dinner Maria hosted to help the families of Gulf fishermen. Local geniuses Gil Langlois and Top Chef winner Stephanie Izard joined forces with Gale Gand for a seven-course dinner none of us will ever forget, due in no small part to Gil's hoisin oxtail with smoked Gouda mac 'n' cheese, Stephanie's roasted cauliflower with pine nuts and light-as-air chickpea fritters, and Gale's honey panna cotta with rhubarb compote and insane little chocolate cookies. Stephanie and I bonded over hair products, since we have the same thick brown curls with a tendency to frizz, and the general dumbness of boys, and ended up giggling over glasses of bourbon till nearly two in the morning. She is even more awesome, funny, sweet, and genuine in person than she was on her rock-star winning season on Bravo. Plus, her food is spectacular all day. I sort of wish she would go into food television and steal me from Patrick. Allen Sternweiler did a game menu with all local proteins he had hunted himself, including a pheasant breast over caramelized brussels sprouts and mushrooms that melted in your mouth (despite the occasional bit of buckshot). Michelle Bernstein came up from Miami and taught me her white gazpacho, which I have since made a gajillion times, as it is probably one of the world's perfect foods.

It was simply the way with Harry, like waiting for sunrise. But once you made clear that you wouldn't be going to bed with him, he'd look oddly relieved and calm down. And the matter once raised would not be revisited, I will say that for him. He didn't make a nuisance of himself. Funny old skellum. Never dull. There are men whom it is important not to take the slightest notice of when they're talking, if it's after ten o'clock at night and they've had a glass of beer. Harry was one such mammal. They really and truly don't mean to be idiots. But it's like a Roman Catholic person not wanting to feel guilt. Might as well ask water to run uphill. Except that might conceivably be contrived. With a pump. Once, he asked my sister to run away with him, to Rotterdam I think it was. She said no and he asked my brother. That was the most important thing to understand about Harry. Essentially, what he wanted--darling, who wouldn't--was someone to run away with him to Rotterdam. It's what all of us want, isn't it? Of course, nobody gets it. Probably not even those misfortunates who are in Rotterdam already. One wonders where they want to run away to. Crouch End?

Life was well enough, she thought; well enough, and a gay enough business for those who had the means to make it so, and the temperament to find it so. Life was no great matter, and nor, certainly, was death; but it was well enough. We come and we go; we are born, we live, and we die; this poor ball, thought Rome, serves us for all that; and on the whole, we make too much complaint of it, expect, one way and another, too much of it. It is, after all, but a turning ball, which has burst, for some reason unknown to science, into a curious, interesting and rather unwholesome form of animal and vegetable life. (…) Funny, hustling, strutting, vain, eager little creatures that we are, so clever and so excited about the business of living, so absorbed and intent about it all, so proud of our achievements, so tragically deploring our disasters, so prone to talk about the wreckage of civilization, as if it mattered much, as if civilizations had not been wrecked and wrecked all down human history, and it all came to the same thing in the end. Nevertheless, thought Rome, we are really rather wonderful little spurts of life. The brief pageant, the tiny, squalid story of human life upon this earth, has been lit, among the squalor and the greed, by amazing flashes of intelligence, of valor, of beauty, of sacrifice, of love.

cell phone. Hmmm...it should be about 11:00 in New York. I punch in my sister’s phone number. She answers after two rings. “Chloe! How’s London?” she asks enthusiastically, without even saying hello. “Oh my goodness Abby, you won’t believe what happened to me,” I say. I tell Abby about my embarrassing run in with Blue Mohawk and his friends. She laughs hysterically, clearly thinking the whole incident was as comical as they did. “It’s so not funny,” I groan. “What if they live here? What if I see them again? They probably think I’m an idiot. The girl who gets all mumbley and runs away! Who does that anyway?” “Well don’t worry about it. I’ll be out in a few weeks to visit. We can do some damage control then,” she laughs. “Thanks Abby. I’ll talk to you later,” I say and we both disconnect. Damage control...I’m hoping there won’t be any need for damage control seeing as I honestly don’t plan on running into Ole Blue and his buddies anytime soon. I bet none of them live here anyway so I’m probably worrying over nothing. It suddenly occurs to me just how much time I spent on an airplane and I feel absolutely disgusting. A nice, warm shower sounds like heaven right about now. I reluctantly pull myself up off the couch and I walk towards my bedroom, grabbing my suitcase along the way. I wheel it up next to my bed, open it and grab my bag of toiletries.

Here’s a sentence in a book I’m reading: ‘We belong, of course, to a generation that’s seen through things, seen how futile everything is, and had the courage to accept futility, and say to ourselves: There’s nothing for it but to enjoy ourselves as best we can.’ Well, I suppose that’s my generation, the one that’s seen the war and its aftermath; and, of course, it is the attitude of quite a crowd; but when you come to think of it, it might have been said by any rather unthinking person in any generation; certainly might have been said by the last generation after religion had got the knock that Darwin gave it. For what does it come to? Suppose you admit having seen through religion and marriage and treaties, and commercial honesty and freedom and ideals of every kind, seen that there’s nothing absolute about them, that they lead of themselves to no definite reward, either in this world or a next which doesn’t exist perhaps, and that the only thing absolute is pleasure and that you mean to have it — are you any farther towards getting pleasure? No! you’re a long way farther off. If everybody’s creed is consciously and crudely ‘grab a good time at all costs,’ everybody is going to grab it at the expense of everybody else, and the devil will take the hindmost, and that’ll be nearly everybody, especially the sort of slackers who naturally hold that creed, so that they, most certainly, aren’t going to get a good time. All those things they’ve so cleverly seen through are only rules of the road devised by men throughout the ages to keep people within bounds, so that we may all have a reasonable chance of getting a good time, instead of the good time going only to the violent, callous, dangerous and able few. All our institutions, religion, marriage, treaties, the law, and the rest, are simply forms of consideration for others necessary to secure consideration for self. Without them we should be a society of feeble motor-bandits and streetwalkers in slavery to a few super-crooks. You can’t, therefore, disbelieve in consideration for others without making an idiot of yourself and spoiling your own chances of a good time. The funny thing is that no matter how we all talk, we recognise that perfectly. People who prate like the fellow in that book don’t act up to their creed when it comes to the point. Even a motor-bandit doesn’t turn King’s evidence. In fact, this new philosophy of ‘having the courage to accept futility and grab a good time’ is simply a shallow bit of thinking; all the same, it seemed quite plausible when I read it.

This dog, is dog, a dog, good dog, way dog, to dog, keep dog, an dog, idiot dog, busy dog, for dog, 30 dog, seconds dog! … Now read without the word dog.” -- Unknown

An idiot is a 44th floor window washer who steps back to admire his work.” -- Unknown

Never argue with an idiot they’ll drag you down to their level and beat you through experience.” -- Unknown

True laziness is being excited when plans get canceled.” -- Unknown “Why do grandparents and grandchildren get along so well? They have the same enemy – the parents.” -- Unknown “There is a fine line between fishing and just standing on the shore like an idiot.” – Steven Wright

Oh my god!” she said in horror. “What’s wrong?” Jeremy asked. “I had a sparkly unicorn painted on my face when I met your mother!” She’d totally forgotten the stupid thing was there. Jeremy, Hannah, and Lacey all dissolved into laughter. “It’s not funny,” Melody said, burying her face in her hands. “The CEO thinks I’m an idiot now.” “Don’t worry about it,” Jeremy said. “You look adorable. She’s not gonna hold it against you.” “Yeah, she’ll be too busy holding the fact that you’re friends with me against you,” Lacey offered helpfully.

You know the funny thing about truth is that it’s like raw chicken. You can hide it. You can freeze it. You can bury it, but eventually, that shit starts to smell. Bad. One day the power will go out, and that frozen, nasty ass chicken will stink up the house. Your girl will come home and want to know what the hell is with that stench. And you’ll be standing there like an idiot, twiddling your thumbs, saying you just didn’t get around to putting it in the trashcan when you should’ve, five years ago.

We’d all started for the front hall when my father’s throat-clearing stopped us. “Where do you think you’re going?”   Jack and I exchanged wary looks. Parents pretending to be stupid was usually a sign that they were about to try to be – eugh – funny.   “Out, Mr Yamato,” Rachel said patiently, falling for it. “We’re going to walk to this nexus place. Aren’t you coming?”   Dad got out of the armchair and stretched fluidly. “Yes, but I’m not walking it. I assume you’re up for a ride in the Dad Taxi?”   I might be a barely functioning, emotionally shattered control freak, but I wasn’t an idiot. The next word out of my mouth was “Shotgun!”   The others groaned.

Why should idiots keep hairdryers away from their ears? Because they’ll blow their mind! What do you call a theme park for kittens? A mews-ment park! Why are chickens so rude? Because they’re all fowl-mouthed! What do you call a cow for sale? Afford-a-bull! What do you call a cow with plastic horns? Like-a-bull! Who are the most patient people in the world? Queue-waitees!

She tries to dribble past him, but—" Todd leaped onto the blanket and dived for Elizabeth, tackling her to the ground. "He bumps her to the floor! It's a foul for Wilkins! Free shot for the beautiful forward." Todd smothered her face in tiny kisses. "Your shot, Liz," Todd whispered. Elizabeth fended him off, but she couldn't help laughing. "Todd, sometimes you can be so idiotic." "That's just because I'm so happy," Todd said, picking up his plate and taking a bite of salad. "Last week I was a wrecked man. My girlfriend was leaving me, and I was out for the season. Now I've got the two most important things in the world back again: basketball and my girlfriend." Elizabeth feigned hurt. "You mean I'm only as important as basketball?" Todd paused, pretending to be deep in thought. "Hmm, which is more important?" "Todd, that's not funny," Elizabeth said, picking up her champagne flute and taking a sip of apple cider. Todd nodded solemnly. "You're right, basketball is obviously more important." Elizabeth whacked him in the arm, sending his fork flying out of his hand. Todd put his plate down and his expression turned serious. "Liz, you know you're the most important thing in the world to me." He turned and looked at her, his coffee-colored eyes warm with love. Elizabeth's stomach fluttered at the intensity of his gaze. "Liz, it's so nice to have you back again," Todd said in a husky voice, taking the glass out of her hand and setting it down. "For good." He took her in his arms and kissed her deeply. Elizabeth closed her eyes and returned the embrace with ardor, wrapping her arms around his neck.

To someone else, we're all idiots

Fate, I have a question," Max began. "Err, it's a bit awkward right now, but okay?" I squirmed beneath Verga, my face still shoved against the dirt. "What are you?" Max asked me this while holding Verga in his stare, ensuring the blue dragon didn't move. "I'm...a dragon?" I didn't see the point of this, and Max sighing with impatience was new to me. "Urgh, no. You're an idiot." Max huffed. "What are dragons famed for?" "I dunno. Being cryptic old bastards?!" I roared angrily, sick of this shit. "Lady Fate, what is your greatest weapon?" Max frowned. "My extensive fucking vocabulary and razor-sharp wit!" I wanted to cry. This was stupid. "Oh, for fuck’s sake, kid." Max roared. "BURN THE FUCKER!

just poured milk into the washing machine. Sometimes i think I’m an idiot. ME: Oh, I do that all the time. FRIEND: What? Put your milk into the washing machine? ME: No, think you are an idiot.

So unrealistic.” “Excuse me?” Liam asked, eyeing the offending book. “Nothing,” I huffed. “Doesn’t look like nothing,” he countered. “Freaking Natalie and her fairy tale bullshit.” I let out a breath so heavy a lock of hair blew away from my face. The tiniest smirk curled on Liam’s lips. “Now we’re getting somewhere.” “Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled she got the happy ending she was searching for, but that’s not for everyone. These books she reads—there’s no way ninety-nine percent of these scenarios would ever happen. It’s false advertising for how life and love actually unfold, creating unrealistic expectations for men and women alike.” How so?” Narrowing my eyes across the table at him, I challenged, “Have you ever read one of these romance novels?” “Can’t say that I have,” he admitted. “Well, let me enlighten you. They’re all variations of the same story—the girl usually has some kind of a hang-up, and this perfect man comes along and makes her believe in love. Blah, blah, blah. Then something happens, a conflict, and they break up—every damn time. Then someone realizes they’re an idiot and apologizes—sometimes there’s a grand gesture—but they always end up back together. Life doesn’t work like that. Not all women are broken, and not all men are perfect. And don’t even get me started on how all the men are gods in bed with huge dicks.” Liam snorted. “Are they not, then?” “Don’t.” I was not in the mood and threw him a death glare. Throwing his hands up in defense, he asked, “What? I can only speak for myself, so I don’t know what all the other men are up to.” “Not funny, Liam.” Those piercing blue eyes found mine. “Who said I was joking, Amy?

You know when you nearly fainted, that time?’ ‘Yes?’ ‘I walked back on set completely distracted and I kept thinking: Who is she? There’s something completely compelling about you. Not just the beauty, or the being funny, or bright. You’re someone who you meet, and can’t get out of your head afterwards. It’s an enchantment so powerful even my idiot brother felt it. Charisma, that’s the word for it, but “charisma” always makes me think of smarmy gits. It’s genuine. OK, maybe I’m overthinking all of this and it is your eyes. Edie … why are you crying, you spoon?’" [end scene]

These were idiotic, wasteful, hapless deaths, and they could, in certain retellings, be darkly funny. Never anything so bland and dreary as a body turning against itself, of resilient, inventive cells dividing industriously, spreading and conquering as in a game of Risk.

Welcome to Canada idiot

Chris isn’t an idiot,” she finally said. “Sure, he might not get straight A’s in school, but most of that is because he doesn’t really try. And he’s so kind, and funny, and brave… it sounds corny, but I’m happiest when I’m around him. Being around him makes me feel like a better person—like the kind of person who can fight the Titans, and who can win. Does that make sense? Or do I sound totally crazy?

Family politics comes in three sizes. Nasty, nastier, nastiest.

Thank you.” “Thank you, sir.” “You’re welcome.” “I’m not thanking you, you idiot. Always use sir when speaking to a superior officer.

Uh, puedo hablar con Andrew Nelson, por favor?" I asked, feeling like an idiot. "Quien?" "El americano," I explained. "Muy grande americano." In trying to describe my father, I sounded like I was ordering coffee. But it worked.

People may feel that I am materialistic, ideal, idiot, cool, funny. Its not their perception but my projection and I always have my own reasons for my being.

Then, with great relish, Lyndon Johnson spun a Texas tale. It was his pièce de résistance, the crescendo of an expansive, four-hour performance. “When I got [Kennedy] in the Oval Office,” Johnson began, “and told him it would be ‘inadvisable’ for him to be on the ticket as the Vice President-nominee, his face changed, and he started to swallow. He looked sick. His adam’s apple bounded up and down like a yo-yo.” For effect, the president gulped, audibly, at the reporters. He mimicked Bobby’s “funny voice” and proceeded to tell, in lavish detail and with evident delight, his version of the meeting. Finally, LBJ ran down a list of possible running mates and explained the ways each would hurt his chances. “In other words,” recalled Folliard, “he would do better in the November election if he had no running mate. This left Wicker, Kiker and me baffled—and that is just what the man evidently wanted us to be.” Within days Johnson’s story was the talk of Washington. His portrait of RFK as a “stunned semi-idiot” left columnist Joseph Alsop and other Washington insiders feeling rather stunned themselves. It was not long before the gossip found its way to Bobby Kennedy, who stormed back to the White House and accused the president of mistruths and a violation of trust. I knew the meeting was taped, he said, but I never expected this. Wasn’t our talk a matter of confidence? Aren’t we honorable men? LBJ was unrepentant: I’ve revealed nothing, he assured Kennedy, gesturing wanly at an empty page in his appointment book. He promised to check his notes for any conversations that might have slipped his mind. Bobby stalked out, seething, and caught a plane to Hyannis Port. “He tells so many lies,” Kennedy said of Johnson the next week, echoing the words of George Reedy, “that he convinces himself after a while he’s telling the truth. He just doesn’t recognize truth or falsehood.

I saved you,” Andersen said at last, slowly but firmly, like Pat was an idiot child who had to be reminded of the basic rules of the universe. To wit: Gravity exists. Time purports to flow in a linear fashion, but it’s only trying to fool us. I saved you.

It’s also a shame because I didn’t have John McEnroe pegged as an idiot. He seems bright, funny and quite liberated. Only a couple of weeks ago, he posted a great vlog about equal marriage in reply to some dodgy comments about lesbians by Margaret Court.

Dear God, Why don't you ever get inspired by those carmakers who recall defective models? Please be humble, accept that you made and mistake and recall all idiots, criminals, haters, terrorists and replace their defective minds.

Well, get up and kiss her, you idiot!

Only an idiot can apologize for being called an idiot!

fear the day when technology overlaps with our humanity. The world will consist of a generation of idiots. ALBERT EINSTEIN

Madison! This is too perfect. Join us.” Reed stood coolly in the middle of the hall, oblivious to the swarm of kids around him. “Reed, I’d love to join you,” Madison shouted above the bustle. “But I told Piper I’d meet her in the parking lot.” “This’ll just take a minute,” Reed insisted. Madison hesitated. Much as she wanted to avoid talking to Jeremy, she didn’t want to look like a rude jerk. She maneuvered her way around Jeremy and stood next to Reed. “Of course you know Jeremy,” Reed said, not letting her off the hook. Jeremy answered for her. “We’re like this,” he said, holding up two fingers at arm’s length. “Funny,” Madison replied without a smile. Reed seemed oblivious to their awkwardness. “Listen up. My mom’s a marketing specialist and she might be able to get us some airtime on some of the local radio stations. What do you think?” Jeremy nodded. “That would be extremely cool.” “Would the interviews be separate?” Madison asked, not wanting to spend any time in close proximity to Jeremy. “I’d prefer to do mine alone--or with you, Reed.” Jeremy scowled. “What is it with you, Madison? Can’t you at least be civil?” “Not to you,” Madison said with an angry toss of her head. “Give me a break,” Jeremy snapped. “Whoa! Time out! Truce!” Reed quickly stepped between them and draped his arms around their shoulders. “Look, this is just an election. You don’t need to get so malignant.” “Save the lecture for someone who needs it,” Jeremy grumbled. “Like Miss Stuck-up.” Madison clutched her chest as if she’d been shot in the heart. “Oh, you got me,” she said melodramatically. “I’m mortally wounded.” Jeremy’s cheeks flared a deep red. Clenching his fists at his sides, he took several deep breaths. Clearly he was trying not to say anything back to Madison. At last he turned to Reed and said evenly, “The radio station idea is a good one. I’ll catch you later to discuss it.” He turned on his heel and strode away. Madison felt the heat creep into her own face. Most of the students nearby had witnessed the entire exchange. Madison felt pretty certain that, at this moment, she looked like a complete, raving idiot. Reed shook his head in amazement. “Wow. I don’t need to do a thing to win this election,” he said with a chuckle. “I’ll just stand back and let you two destroy each other.

Zane knew that he and Phoebe were no longer talking about the same thing. At least not when it came to hunger. She would be thinking fish and chips, and he was thinking more along the lines of naked. He wanted to tell himself it was simply because he was a man and she was a woman, but he knew it was more than that. As he’d admitted, he liked her. She was cute and funny. When she looked at him with her big brown eyes, he wanted to grab Tango and ride his horse into the sunset to save something for her. Talk about idiotic. He barely knew her. Yet there was something about Phoebe Kitzke. An innocence, maybe. No, that wasn’t right. It was how she seemed trusting. More fool her. Or maybe him.

Given the language and cultural barriers, the tests involved sorting items into groups. The researchers decided that sorting items into categories (tools, animals, items made of stone, wood, and so on), something that required abstract thinking and processing, was more intelligent. But the Kpelle always sorted things into function (things I can eat, things I can wear, things I can dig with). This was deemed ‘less’ intelligent, but clearly the Kpelle disagreed. These are people who live off the land, so sorting things into arbitrary categories would be a meaningless and wasteful activity, something a ‘fool’ would do. As well as being an important lesson in not judging people by your own preconceptions (and maybe about doing better groundwork before beginning an experiment), this example shows how the very concept of intelligence is seriously affected by the environment and preconceptions of society.

We are all born idiots. Most of us never become any better. Hence, idiotically we live, die too in the same state as we were born . O' wise one, be not one of them!

I love you and your hate-spouting, utterly intolerant lovely little toad! Are you sure he is really the one and the only god? For, even an idiot could have done a better job, choosing a more sane little bugger off the road.

Any idiot can point out a problem. So, bosses do.

I’m talking about you, you idiot. You have seen you, right?” [...] “Of course I have. I saw myself last Wednesday. My hair was doing this woo-woo thing,” I say, but only because I’m panicking. My palms have gone all sweaty and my mouth has dried to a crisp. It’s like my saliva has disappeared down into my hands. And all because he said I had nice lips. “Can you give me a demonstration of this woo-woo?” “Well, my fringe was kind of going out here like – Christ, what am I doing? Don’t ask me to do stupid things.” “Why?” “Because I might do them.

Were one to call your stupid ism good, well then, one would either be equally idiotic, or a fool, or no good.

gave it a shove as far north as she could get it.   96.)

I walked to the drawing room door and opened it, expecting to find Alan listening in. Instead I found Alan face down on the floor with Diana standing above him, her foot on the small of his back. “Trouble?” Diana shook her head. “He was unflattering. I corrected him.” “I only grabbed her behind. It was very friendly,” Alan pleaded. “Did I ask you to grab my bottom?” Diana asked. “A gentleman knows when a woman wants her bottom grabbed,” Alan said. Diana looked down at Alan with disgust. “Can I tear his arms off ?” “Later,” I said. “Alan, at what point in your life were you led to believe that grabbing the behind of any woman who has stated her desire to tear you apart was a good idea?” “I thought it would break the ice a little,” Alan explained. “You know, I grab her, she laughs, and I make a funny joke.” “And that works?” Diana asked. Alan remained quiet for a second. “There’s always a first time.” “You’re an idiot,” I told him and motioned for Diana to let him up. She did as I asked and then punched him in the jaw the second he was upright. The blow lifted him off his feet and dumped him some distance back, where he tried to get back to his feet and thought better of it. “Now I’m good,” Diana said with a smirk.

my view of medical experts has become extremely jaundiced. At times I feel they are like those highly decorated generals in North Korea with the funny hats. They look splendid, and important, but the only point of their existence is to suppress dissent and keep an idiotic regime in place.

We’ll meet you at Ringrose’s Inn tomorrow for a late breakfast. Say, around ten A.M.?” Tristan barked a laugh. “What?” Jane asked. “Is that too late?” Now Dom laughed, too, and Tristan laughed even harder. “What’s so funny?” Jane snapped. “It’s not about you,” Lisette said dryly. “They’re laughing at me. My brothers think me incapable of rising early. Or getting off in a timely fashion.” “That’s because, dear girl, we have yet to see you rise before eleven or leave by noon for a trip,” Dom teased. Tristan grinned at Jane. “Better schedule that meeting in York for a bit later, Freckles.” Freckles. Tristan had dubbed her with the nickname during Dom’s courtship of her, and that reminder of her past with Dom and his family roused an ache in her chest. She avoided Dom’s gaze. “How about midafternoon then?” “Nonsense.” Lisette rolled her eyes. “I can rise early, no matter what my idiot brothers think. We’ll be there midmorning for breakfast if I have to dunk my head in ice water to accomplish it. Max wanted to get an early start, anyway.” Dom chuckled. “Max always wants to get an early start. But he’d have to have a different wife in order to manage that.” The two men nudged each other with smug looks. “Yes, he would,” Lisette said in a voice of pure sweetness, “one he wasn’t quite so enamored of. But since sampling my particular charms always takes him so very long in the morning, I admit that we do end up lying abed late more times than not.” Jane knew she ought to be shocked by such frankness, but she was having too much fun watching the men’s mouths fall open, and a red flush creep up their faces. Lisette flashed them a coy look. “But I shall endeavor to prevent my husband from enjoying his usual pleasures tomorrow morning. That should resolve the matter.” She threaded her arm through Jane’s. “Now come, my dear, let’s join the others for dinner. I’d love a glass of wine, wouldn’t you?” The two women had barely made it out into the hall before they burst into laughter. “That’ll teach…them,” Lisette gasped. “Did you see…Tristan’s face?” “And Dom’s,” Jane choked out. “Oh, Lord, you are so wicked!” “Why, of course.” Lisette’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “What’s the point of being a duchess if you can’t shock people from time to time?

Across the Reich, the Gestapo recorded increased the activity of anti-state elements. It’s kind of a helpless protest by those wretches against our celebration of victory. They organize bomb attacks against representatives of the Reich or against the civilian German population. We’ve also noticed murder-suicides. Eighty-seven civilians killed have been reported during the last week. From the Protectorate of Bohmen und Mahren, the destruction of Peter Brezovsky’s long-sought military cell was announced. From Ostmark…” “Enough,” Beck interrupted him, “I’m interested only in Brezovsky.” That name caused him discomfort. In his mind, he returned to the Bohemian Forest in 1996. It was in a different dimension, before he had used time travel. At the time, Peter Brezovsky was the only man who had passed through the Time Gate. He’d offered him a position by his side during the building of the Great German Reich. He’d refused. Too bad, he could have used a man like him. These dummies weren’t eager enough to fulfill his instructions. He also remembered Werner Dietrich, who had died in the slaughter during an inspection in the Protectorate. “… in the sector 144-5. It was a temporary base of the group. There were apparently targeted explosions of the surrounding buildings,” the man continued. “This area interests me. I want to know everything that’s happening there. Go on,” he ordered the man. He was flattered at the leader’s sudden interest. Raising his head proudly, he stretched his neck even more and continued, “For your entertainment, Herr Führer, our two settlers, living in this area from 1960, on June the twenty first, met two suspect men dressed in leather like savages. The event, of course, was reported to the local department of the Gestapo. It’s funny because during the questioning of one of Brezovsky’s men we learnt an interesting story related to these men.” He relaxed a little. The atmosphere in the room was less strained, too. He smiled slightly, feeling self-importance. “In 1942, a certain woman from the Bohemian Forest made a whacky prophecy. Wait a minute.” He reached into the jacket and pulled out a little notebook. “I wrote it down, it’ll certainly amuse you. Those Slavic dogs don’t know what to do, and so they take refuge in similar nonsense.” He opened the notebook and began to read, “Government of darkness will come. After half a century of the Devil’s reign, on midsummer’s day, on the spot where he came from, two men will appear in flashes. These two warriors will end the dominance of the despot and will return natural order to the world.” During the reading, men began to smile and now some of them were even laughing aloud. “Stop it, idiots!” screamed Beck furiously. In anger, he sprang from behind his desk and severely hit the closest man’s laughing face. A deathly hush filled the room. Nobody understood what had happened. What could make the Führer so angry? This was the first time he had hit somebody in public. Beck wasn’t as angry as it might look. He was scared to death. This he had been afraid of since he had passed through the Time Gate. Since that moment, he knew this time would come one day. That someone would use the Time Gate and destroy everything he’d built. That couldn’t happen! Never! “Do you have these men?” he asked threateningly. Reich Gestapo Commander regretted he’d spoken about it. He wished he’d bitten his tongue. This innocent episode had caused the Führer’s unexpected reaction. His mouth went dry. Beck looked terrifying. “Herr Führer,” he spoke quietly, “unfortunately…” “Aloud!” yelled Beck. “Unfortunately we don’t, Herr Führer. But they probably died during the action of the Gestapo against Brezovsky. His body, as well as the newcomers, wasn’t found. The explosion probably blew them up,” he said quickly. “The explosion probably blew them up,” Beck parodied him viciously, “and that was enough for you, right?

How’s that beer?” Jack asked, dishtowel in hand, eyeing the nearly empty glass. “I’m good,” Ian said. “Just let me know,” he said, turning away. “Ah,” Ian said, getting his attention but not exactly calling him back. Jack turned, lifted an eyebrow. Silent. “She tell you to leave me alone?” A small huff of laughter escaped Jack. “Pal, the first thing you learn when you open a bar—talk if they talk, shut up if they don’t.” Ian tilted his head. Maybe he could stand this place once in a while. “She tried to explain me to the librarian in Eureka as an idiot savant.” Jack smiled and Ian felt an odd sensation—it was a funny story; he liked sharing a funny story. He used to make the guys laugh when he wasn’t making them work. “She tell you she was looking for me?” “She did.” For some reason unclear even to him, Ian did something he hadn’t done since finding himself in these mountains—he pushed on it a little bit. “She tell you anything about me?” “Couple of things.” “Like?” “Like, you and me—we were in Fallujah about the same time.” “Should’ve known. You have that jarhead look about you. Just so you’re clear—I don’t talk about that time.” Jack smiled lazily. “Just so you’re clear, neither do I.” *

I WAS INTIMIDATED BY YOU, AND I DONT KNOW WHY I'm an Anxious Idiot™ but your super funny and I wish I weren't shy so we could talk.

All humans learn from each other's mistakes. Intelligent humans learn how to avoid them, idiots how to do them.

A man walks by the sea and suddenly hears someone yelling: - Help, help! I’m drowning, I don’t know how to swim! He turns around, notices a man drowning, and asks: - Parla Italiano? The drowning man says: - Si, si! Parlo Italiano! Aiuto, per favore! - You idiot! It would have been better for you to learn how to swim than to learn Italian.