June Cleaver Quotes

I’m going to become a beat poet and a lesbian!

WARD: I’ll be home in time for dinner, honey. JUNE: Alright—I’m pregnant—Have a fine day at work, dear. WARD exits… WARD reenters. JUNE: Did you forget something, dear? WARD: What did you say? JUNE: I asked if you’d forgotten anything—

After a good roll in the hay, when he’s all peaceful and serene and he hasn’t a worry or a care in the world, and the euphoric calm of release is drifting through his cerebrum, that’s when you broadside him with the cold cruel fact that his life as he knows it is over!

Hey,maybe I could have a talk show, since you aren't going to be my June Cleaver anymore. I could call it the O'Neal Hour. Sounds important, doesn't it?" [Butch to Vishous] "First of all, you were going to be June Cleaver-" "Screw that. No way I'd bottom for you." "Whatever. And second, I don't think there's much of a market for your particular brand of psychology." "So not true." "Butch, you and I just beat the crap out of each other." "You started it. And actually, it would be perfect for Spike TV. UFC meets Oprah. God, I'm brilliant." "Keep telling yourself that.

I’m not about to let somebody stick a Bissel vacuum attachment up my cootch.

The key to a happy marriage is this: Every day when you wake up, commit yourself to making him feel like Superman. Light up when he enters the room. Let him know as often as you can how much you appreciate him and everything he does for you. If he wants to get it on, honey, get it on. And when he’s tired, or ill, or grouchy, take care of him in any way you can.” When I’d offered her a (very) skeptical frown, she’d added, “That doesn’t mean turning yourself into June Cleaver, Abby.

Why the testicles are we listing sex organs?

A boy and a girl, a man and a woman, a pervert and a slut...

June Cleaver fused with a Suicide Girl.

SEN. McCARTHY: You will teach morality, ethics, and good house-keeping to these 48 states, and to the world. By order of this committee, June Cleaver, you will be a beacon! You will sire the future and teach it what we tell you to teach it! Echo effect, echo effect, echo effect...

What’s wrong with your father? Huh? Can’t he do this? Or have you been reading Freud? WARD, have you been reading the baby Freud?

At the end of the day, a choice was made and it wasn’t ours. So why get all bugabooed about it?

You’ve missed the bus. Are you calling in sick again? It’s the second time in two years. The boss will frown upon it.

Oh Ward, you animal. It gets me so hot and squishy when you call it intercourse.

There is also the ceaseless outpouring of books on toilet training, separating one sibling's fist from another sibling's eye socket, expressing breast milk while reading a legal brief, helping preschoolers to "own" their feelings, getting Joshua to do his homework, and raising teenage boys so they become Sensitive New Age Guys instead of rooftop snipers or Chippendale dancers. Over eight hundred books on motherhood were published between 1970 and 2000; only twenty-seven of these came out between 1970 and 1980, so the real avalanch happened in the past twenty years. We've learned about the perils of "the hurried child" and "hyperparenting," in which we schedule our kids with so many enriching activities that they make the secretary of state look like a couch spud. But the unhurried child probably plays too much Nintendo and is out in the garage building pipe bombs, so you can't underschedule them either. Then there's the Martha Stewartization of America, in which we are meant to sculpt the carrots we put in our kids' lunches into the shape of peonies and build funhouses for them in the backyard; this has raised the bar to even more ridiculous levels than during the June Cleaver era.

Stay out of this, buddy. You’re lucky I’m not booking you for that F-word you let slip. America doesn’t tolerate that kind of potty-mouthing.

JUNE: My mother always said, “Why should a man buy a cow when he can get the milk for free?” WARD: I don’t think your mother is very bright.

Stubborn people make the best lovers. You tell them no, they say yes, you tell them get lost, they hang around, you get a restraining order, they get a megaphone...Eventually you have to kill them or marry them.

?-: Yes, I must say, that part distressed me a bit. I had no idea girls could do that... (JUNE and RUTH look at him.) RUTH: Do what, exactly? ?-: Be nude. I thought they just spontaneously combusted or something if they even tried taking off their sweaters. JUNE: But, how did you think we bathed? ?-: I just assumed you just never got dirty, with the exception of your hair. You know, cause girls are always washing their hair... JUNE: But this is ridiculous. How did you think sex happened? ?-: To be honest, I’d never really thought about sex. Oh, dear... Am I going to have to do that someday? Are we? I need to read up on this. (He takes out a memorandum and begins scribbling.)

All around the smell of that necro-smoke, that nether-weed. And up and at the hedonist impulse, rejoice, rejoice, in the disconnect my pretty things, fly monkeys, fly! The hip chick in the back, her legs uncrossed to let in air and let out pretention as the lights are down and it’s not necessary, nor should it be even with the lights up, all around faces, turned away and yet minds knowing, knowing there is a presence, a power about the room, the charge is different than it was before this small chick came in. Rejoice, simpatico, rejoice. It’s her night. A night of the explosion. Pow—bang-ka-boom and yet it’s whispered and yet it’s heard through the walls at 3 A.M. by attentive ears and hands clenching in the frustration of being unsolicited by the owner of this spectacle. A woman’s sigh of ecstasy, and his tears at being not the cause.

She had to know, and I’m certain she did, that even the simple matter of dark skin would be a cause of consternation for her parents. I came to imagine them as Ward and June Cleaver. I recalled my mother happening upon me watching that television show one afternoon. It launched her into such a fit of hysteria that I was afraid she might become pregnant again. “How dare they put that propaganda on the television?” my mother barked. “But of course that’s what the box is for, isn’t it? Here is my black son sitting here in his black neighborhood watching some bucktoothed little rat and his washed-out, anally stabbed Nazi-Christian parents.” “There’s a brother, too,” I said, being six or so and not really understanding the tirade. “Oh, a brother, too. I see him there, an older lily white acorn fallen so close to the tree. Turn that crap off. No, leave it on. Study the problem, Not Sidney. Soak it in.” With that she marched off to make cookies.

Bellatrix Lestrange, the Death Eater who made Lady Macbeth look like June Cleaver.

And I was cooking for three, and teaching, and taking care of a man who’d just collapsed in my house; learning to cook like June Cleaver didn’t exactly seem an option.

Until then (& I really do hate to admit this), I believed that everyone pretty much lived exactly the way we did where I grew up... at Reseda, California, USA. I thought everyone believed the same things, wanted the same things, read the same things, & thought the same things were funny. You grew up, got married, had children, & lived happily ever after. This was the way life worked. Ask Ozzie & Harriet, June & Ward Cleaver, Pollyanna's Aunt, or The Cunningham's. It seemed that's how it was for my parents, how it would be for me, & how it was everyone. But this couple lived in a way I'd never heard of, or imagined, & yet, it all seemed to work out fine.

And: there are so many paths we could have traveled—so many other people we could have been. Staying would not have rendered me weak—an inconsequential June Cleaver—just as cheating didn’t make me a coldhearted monster. The clean reduction of a woman to any prime number is always a lie, even if some lies are prettier than others.

Like Ward Cleaver finding out that June had

White Christian America had its golden age in the 1950s, after the hardships and victories of World War Ii and before the cultural upheavals of the 1960s. June Cleaver was its mother, Andy Griffith was its sheriff, Norman Rockwell was its artist. and Billy Graham and Norman Vincent Peale were its ministers.