Koala Bear Quotes

Does koala bear poop smell like cough drops?

These people invented emojis, for god’s sake! They were texting and they thought, Yeah, this is great, but it’d be really dope to be able to send a small image of a koala bear too.*

Especially with four insanely angry, sword-carrying pirates bearing down on you, followed closely by an alien with a genetic malfunction that posed like Elvis Presley and looked slightly like a cross between a koala and a cuddly dog.

They say koala bears have tiny brains and eat grass. I say to be good at golf you must go full koala bear, and forget about all the greens you've chewed up and focus only on this hole and this swing.

I had no clue; you can achieve all that, with one hug. But hey, I am Kay Kay! The first super hero koala bear and I give the best hugs!

I golf like a Jackson Pollock painting. I splatter my shots all over the place—and then I act like I just produced a masterpiece.

A cigarette is just rolled up leaves, which makes it a smokable salad burrito. That makes the golfer John Daly a health advocate.

I shimmy so much before teeing off, people are probably thinking, "Are you going to golf—or dance?” Well, why not both?

I once played golf. That day I caught five new ducks to add to my farm collection.

John Daly is from Arkansas, but now lives in Florida. I'm from Florida, but now I live in Arkansas. I am the inverse John Daly, and I think my golf game proves it.

Golf is probably a CIA psyop. Think about it. Golf is the only thing that tames the wild FloridaMan. It turns even the hilariously hostile into the docile.

I have told Mrs. Jones that I was pretty sure that stars were just like super heroes and that if she really wanted to become one, she just needed to be herself.

Zebras are piano horses. I think about that when I’m swinging a golf club, and it brings a musical cowboy element to my game that another player might not be able to buy in a vending machine.

You have to have balls to golf. That’s why The Securities and Exchange Commission doesn’t play.

The moon is a golf ball in the sky. My motto is this: If you can’t hit a hole in one, fake it in a film studio.

People watch my unique style of play, and they want to know my top three golf influences. That's easy. John Daly, practicing daily, and an orange and white cat surrounded by yellow ducklings.

I watched the cheese melt in the microwave—along with the surrounding plastic. I forgot to take it out of its package before use, just like my golf game.

I love how golf courses have water hazards. But the ponds feel empty without ducks. I'd like to start a business renting my ducks out to country clubs.

I have a golf swing like a Rosary dangling off a car's rearview mirror. I hope watching me play makes you realize Catholicism isn't for you.

When I golf, I use just enough strokes to create a masterpiece, like I'm a painter. The score I post up would look great on a museum wall.

They say those who can't do, teach. That's why today I'm pleased to announce I'm giving golfing lessons.

He has a golf swing like a Bukowski line. It's slightly rough, but it's got a shape that knifes through time.

I golf like a Jackson Pollock painting, but that's balanced out by the fact that I paint like Jack Nicklaus golfs. My record is finishing in 63 strokes.

Many people have accused me of having a Coach Face. I may not be able to get you to improve your golf game, but I sure will have fun verbally abusing you while you play.

I told the joke, but someone else got the high five. That’s like me drinking a cup of coffee and a guy in a coma waking up. Go back to bed, buddy, your golfing days are over.

Even I realized that money was to politicians what the eucalyptus tree is to koala bears: food, water, shelter, and something to crap on.

Do you know who profits most in a gold rush? Mining suppliers—merchants. Today that includes marketers, because they're selling an idea or lifestyle. It's why golf's richest men aren't the pro players.

Bryson DeChambeau uses science in the true sense of the word to improve his golf game. He experiments and analyzes data to get better, and this separates golf fans, because those who think that's not cool use all of their brain capacity just breathing, like amoebas, but dumber.

I can golf in 17 different languages. I don’t speak any of them, but that’s balanced out by your inability to listen and understand.

I played a round of golf, but I didn't get an eagle. No, that symbol of American FREEDOM flew away faster than I could say Francis Scott Key.

I got a new golf bag. I keep it full of sad harmonica tunes that I hand out like Halloween candy to all the rainy-eyed players.

I'll bet playing classical music to plants would make them grow taller. When my ducks listen to Mozart, they become more cultured and have done things like taken up golf.

Some men are dedicated to golf like I'm addicted to cheese. We have real problems, but somehow only the alcoholics get to claim a disease.

People ask me if I like golfing, and I look at them and reply, "Does The Pope wipe his ass with tuna fish sandwiches?" That response is NOT sponsored by Subway.

Golf is the only sport where you can't tell how good a player might be by glancing at their physical form. I've seen some real slobs shoot scores so low the number is almost their age.

I was allowed exclusive access to Project Looking Glass' future-viewing telescope, and there's good news and bad news. The good is the game of golf manages to live on after you starve to death, and the bad is you'll never get to realize just how meaningless you are to the sport.

Golfers flexing on other golfers for having Androids will never not be inadvertently hilarious. iPhones are also owned by Janitors, the job that's at the bottom of the perceived status pile, and I'd rather golf with a man who spends his time cleaning than a dirty pseudo snob.

There's a thought process that says if you don't use every club in your golf bag every round, you're doing your game a disservice. Bryson DeChambeau could use every club in a golf bag from the 1800s and still make you look like a beginner.

I love cola-flavored soda—especially if it's authentically brown colored and manufactured by the government. It reminds me that Soviet Russia never produced any great golfers, and that is the only mistake made by the game over the centuries.

Everything had happened so fast, I was not sure I had really understood all of the events. My owner Mala said I was not supposed to understand, since I was just a toy. And her mom, Mrs. Jones, said I was not the sharpest pencil in the box! What ever that meant…

I use Fiction to face Reality And write sweet Stories to avoid the bitter ones.

I'd fight a bear for you, you know? Not a grizzly, or brown bear … or a koala … But like a Care Bear? I'd fight one of those sonsabitches for you. ;)

I play golf like a machine. That machine is a tractor.

I created an Excel spreadsheet full of golf terms like eagle and birdie. I’m surprised one under isn’t called duck, because isn’t that what you do when you go under, duck?

Hidden Valley is a golf course in Springfield. Hidden Valley is also the name of a brand of ranch dressing, and that’s more suited to my game.

My golf swing is like a James Cagney smile. It curves with sincerity, but it's also slightly sinister.

Inflation hurts us all. Today I'm seeing inflation at the grocery store, the leisure sector, and even on my golf scorecard. Yes, The Central Bank is to blame for my horrendous game.

Girl, how small is your brain?” I heard a familiar voice coming from behind. That was Wonder Woman. “Sorry, was I thinking out loud?” I apologized. “No, but I am Wonder Woman! I can read minds, you know”, she answered with pride. I have to admit, I was really impressed, I did not know my minds could write.

Mrs. Jones had always distanced herself from me and I figured that note had the answer: Mrs. Jones was a secret agent! And I was not planning to share that information with anybody. After all, that was the definition of a secret. Even I knew that!

I watch people play golf in silence. Even after they hit I remain quiet, because my commentary won't help the ball roll into the hole, but it will saturate the air with unwanted pressure. Spoken words are like direct energy weapons, and I don't deploy them at an unarmed target.

The world will constantly try to tell you that it's possible to divide every single human quality or skill or characteristic into those that are "male" and those that are "female." But I don't know. I might win a fight against your mother. It wouldn't exactly be "gorilla vs. bear," you know? More "gorilla vs. koala. But she would destroy me in a footrace, no matter the distance. And she's way funnier than I am. And she gets people. She's someone everyone trusts. I can easily think of a hundred people who would follow her blindly into war. I can barely get people to follow me on Twitter. In terms of brains, though, it's harder to measure for sure. I mean, on the one hand she's definitely smarter than I am, everyone knows that. But on the other hand: I got her to marry me. So I still feel like I have one up on her.

Separation anxiety was the very first label Joy heard applied to her oldest child, the first of many labels she’d hear over the years, but Joy had felt no sense of foreboding when she heard that first one. She’d felt foolish pride: my child can’t bear to be separated from me! That’s how much she loves me. Amy used to cling to her like a koala, her face pressed against Joy’s collarbone.

Why aren’t koalas actual bears? The don’t meet the koalafications.

Even when behaviors are clearly stress-related, they can be difficult to interpret. Mel Richardson was once asked to examine a tree kangaroo at the San Antonio Zoo that the keepers said was acting bizarrely. With the ears of a teddy bear, the rounded chub of a koala, and the tail of a fuzzy monkey, tree kangaroos are very cute. But this female was acting vicious. She was attacking her babies, and the keepers had no idea why. Mel went to check on her. Sure enough, as soon as he approached, the kangaroo ran to her babies and started hitting and clawing at them with her paws. He stepped back, and she stopped. He walked forward, and she ran at the babies again. “I realized,” said Mel, “that she wasn’t viciously attacking her babies at all. She was trying to pick them up off the floor, but her little paws weren’t meant for that. In her native Australia and Papua New Guinea her babies never would have been on the ground. Her whole family would have been up in the trees.” The mother kangaroo wanted to move the babies away from the humans. What looked like abnormal attacks on her young were actually her way of trying to protect them. Her behavior wasn’t mental illness at all but a response to the stress of being a mother in an unnatural environment. After the keepers redesigned the kangaroos’ cage so that more of it was elevated and farther from the door, she relaxed and stopped hitting her babies. Mel explained, “As flippant as it might sound, the truth is that in order to know what’s abnormal, you must first know what’s normal. In this case in order to determine pathology, I had to understand the animal’s psychology. It’s pretty easy for people to get this wrong.

When I turn, I find that Ben is still talking to Gabby down the street and clench my jaw. What the hell does he want with her? Blonde hair pops into my vision, and I barely have time to school my expression before Miranda leaps up, wrapping all of her tanned limbs around me like a koala bear. “Whoa.” I laugh half-heartedly. Guess I won’t be locking myself in my room for a nap. Grabbing Miranda’s bikini-clad ass with both of my hands, I hoist her over my shoulder, and she squeals so loudly, my ear rings. Everyone on my yard stops to stare. The guys take a long look at this girl’s rear, which wiggles against my shoulder. I don’t even have it in me to glare. Mira and I have always had fun, but we have an agreement—nothing serious. Ever. That’s why it works between us. Because I have never felt that pull toward her, and she never wants more. My eyes dart to Gabby across the street, still talking to fucking Ben.

Good night, Bray,” Mia says, amusement in her voice. “Night, Mia.” “Good night, Drew,” she sings. “Night, beautiful.” “Good night, Ashy C.” “Night, MiMi.” I drift off with Brayden wrapped around me like a goddamn koala bear, Mia nuzzled against my neck, and Drew’s hand in mine. If this is a dream, I don’t want to wake up.

I’ve always wanted to go to Australia," said Volant the eagle. "Just think of it: kangaroos and koala bears, wallabies and wombats!” “Cool enough,” returned Gabby the seagull. “But I’ve always wanted to see a platypus. Sort of a beaver with a duckbill?! How can that possibly be?” “Nothing surprises me much anymore,” said Volant. “Seems like almost anything is possible.

I can’t remember all the places we visited or what hotels or motels we stopped at to spend the night. We stopped along the coast where there were waterholes to feed the fish, rivers to ride in a boat, and see the crocodiles, trees, to see the koala bears, and grassy areas to observe the kangaroos. I remember stopping at places where small groups were playing and singing music. Some even had singing contests I joined and won a couple of times. There were a number of areas that had birds of different colors...

Kenny the Koala bear

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It’s not a panda or a koala!