Keyboard Funny Quotes

He started to touch the mechanism under the keyboard, then pulled his hand back with a snap. "Ah," he said. "Must deactivate the security....Turn around, please." "What?" "Turn around, Claire. It's a secure password!" "You have GOT to be kidding." "Why ever would I joke about that? Please turn.

That's us," I said smiling brightly. "The Udells." That seemed to wake Roger up a little, and he blinked at me, surprised. "Finally," the clerk muttered. "All right. Names?" he asked, fingers posed over his keyboard. "Oh," I said, "Well. That's... Edmund. And I'm Hillary." Roger glanced over at me, a little more sharply, and I tried to shrug as subtly as possible.

We have all been empowered by the web: everyone with a keyboard can now effectively broadcast to a national audience. In a sense, it puts each of us on the same footing as the major media conglomerates, except for AOL, who now apparently own all our thoughts and teeth.

Name a song. Any song at all." She thought for a moment and said, "'Claire de Lune.'" I placed my hands on the keyboard. I closed my eyes and tilted my head back and struck a key, sounding a single note. "There you go. Gimme another one. I can play the first note of anything. As long as I get to choose the key it's in.

To increase the chances of a writer trying to kill themselves, cut off their hands.

It's a queer thing is a man's soul. It is the whole of him. Which means it is the unknown him, as well as the known. It seems to me just funny, professors and Benjamins fixing the functions of the soul. Why, the soul of man is a vast forest, and all Benjamin intended was a neat back garden. And we've all got to fit into his kitchen garden scheme of things. Hail Columbia ! The soul of man is a dark forest. The Hercynian Wood that scared the Romans so, and out of which came the white- skinned hordes of the next civilization. Who knows what will come out of the soul of man? The soul of man is a dark vast forest, with wild life in it. Think of Benjamin fencing it off! Oh, but Benjamin fenced a little tract that he called the soul of man, and proceeded to get it into cultivation. Providence, forsooth! And they think that bit of barbed wire is going to keep us in pound for ever? More fools they. ... Man is a moral animal. All right. I am a moral animal. And I'm going to remain such. I'm not going to be turned into a virtuous little automaton as Benjamin would have me. 'This is good, that is bad. Turn the little handle and let the good tap flow,' saith Benjamin, and all America with him. 'But first of all extirpate those savages who are always turning on the bad tap.' I am a moral animal. But I am not a moral machine. I don't work with a little set of handles or levers. The Temperance- silence-order- resolution-frugality-industry-sincerity - justice- moderation-cleanliness-tranquillity-chastity-humility keyboard is not going to get me going. I'm really not just an automatic piano with a moral Benjamin getting tunes out of me. Here's my creed, against Benjamin's. This is what I believe: 'That I am I.' ' That my soul is a dark forest.' 'That my known self will never be more than a little clearing in the forest.' 'Thatgods, strange gods, come forth f rom the forest into the clearing of my known self, and then go back.' ' That I must have the courage to let them come and go.' ' That I will never let mankind put anything over me, but that I will try always to recognize and submit to the gods in me and the gods in other men and women.' There is my creed. He who runs may read. He who prefers to crawl, or to go by gasoline, can call it rot.

New Rule: Apple's next device must be a computer that you control with your tongue. Thanks for eliminating the keyboard and the mouse, but pointing and pushing at things already seems too complicated and tiring. We're Americans--and until you free our hands from the computer entirely, we can never attain our ultimate goal: Web surfing while eating and masturbating.

Brooding is more something I do when I'm working. I know so much more about sitting around worrying about a work project than I do about worrying about kids. This could just be a fact of life for older moms. We've worked and worked and worked and if we are lucky enough to finally have a child or two, we find ourselves suddenly catapulted into a most alien kind of chaos. Work is so much easier. Anyone will tell you that. To have a desk, where you have everything all lined up, and a schedule you more or less get to agree to. Work. I am a worker. This is so funny because I never really think of my work as work. I certainly never though of myself as having a career. Writing, work, this is just who I am. I am a person who sits at a desk and makes phone calls and taps at a computer keyboard and sips coffee and calls her mom at five. That I am anything better or smaller than that has come as sudden news to me. Brand new. News.

And yet I’d read only recently how their generation were riddled with self-doubt and the pressures of social media. How they worried about everything, the planet, global warming, their relationships, money, war, cosmetic surgery. Were their bottoms too big or not big enough? (Thanks Kardashians.) How very sad. So perhaps the perceived advantages between ‘us’ and ‘them’ were not quite so one-sided as I had thought. I couldn’t remember a single occasion when I had worried about photoshopping or being ‘beach ready’ in January. I’d only had my top lip waxed once – never again. And never any other bit of me either, for fear of the pain (if the lip experience was anything to go by). We hadn’t grown up with so many gadgets or television channels as the younger generations. Which in itself was a blessing. How many crime dramas did we actually need to watch, how many reality shows, how many un-funny comedies? We’d had to do our research in libraries, but now they had limitless information at the touch of a keyboard. In my day, if the school bullies had wanted a target, they did it out in the open. These women had to deal with faceless trolls. They had security worries, all sorts of privacy issues. So who really had the better experience of being a woman? Or had it always just been difficult for everyone? And what about men, come to think of it… If one believed the newspapers, it seemed half of the human race was being summarily dismissed as idiots or fiends.

Suddenly, everyone with a keyboard and an opinion fancy themselves as experts, making it harder to discern the real deal from the snake oil salesmen.

This is not funny, but still many people can not find the ‘Any Key’ key on the keyboard.

Fat fingers dance across the clattering keyboard Grinding out meaning Ennobling the actions Of real men doing something tangible for a living And not sitting on their asses “analyzing” shit. Pathetic. —Baseball Players’ Poems about Sportswriters and Sportswriting

Two assistants typed at keyboards projected onto antique desks, and their screens were polarized monoglass so thin that from the side, they vanished entirely. A funny juxtaposition of the old and the new

There are times you wake up in the middle of the night, fingers hit the keyboard and you allow words to flow. That is a writer.

With ‘You Gave Me the Answer,’ mixed on March 21, the challenge was to evoke the spirit of Funny Face, the Fred Astaire and Audrey Hepburn film that inspired the song, without surrendering the benefits of modern sound techniques. They started with the piano introduction, using the fact that the keyboard had been recorded using three microphones, spread across three tracks of the master (labeled ‘left piano,’ ‘right piano,’ and ‘middle piano’) to create an echo effect that suggested a pianist playing in a large, empty hall. The echo evaporated as Paul’s piano intro kicked into the faster tempo that leads into the song. From there, it was a matter of finding the right balance between the winds, strings, and basic track—plus making Paul’s voice sound like that of a vaudeville crooner, something O’Duffy accomplished using a Pultec equalizer that thinned out the high and low frequencies. “That was designed [to sound like it was] recorded through a vaudeville microphone,” O’Duffy explained. “You’re making a great singer’s voice sound thinner and squeakier—removing the warmth of the man’s humanity. You’re screwing it up, essentially. But it’s screwed up to give you an effect reminiscent of vaudeville.”28