Lame Dad Quotes

here’s the sick, twisted thing: part of me thinks i deserve this. that maybe if i wasn’t such an asshole, isaac would have been real. if i wasn’t such a lame excuse for a person, something right might happen to me. it’s not fair, because i didn’t ask for dad to leave, and i didn’t ask to be depressed, and i didn’t ask for us to have no money, and i didn’t ask to want to fuck boys, and i didn’t ask to be so stupid, and i didn’t ask to have no real friends, and i didn’t ask to have half the shit that comes out of my mouth come out of my mouth. all i wanted was one fucking break, one idiotic good thing, and that was clearly too much to ask for, too much to want.

I got the feeling Poseidon really didn't know what to think of me. He didn't know whether he was happy to have me as a son or not. In a strange way, I was glad that Poseidon was so distant. If he'd tried to apologize, or told me he love me, or even smiled. it would've felt fake. Like human dad, making some lame excuse for not being around. I could live with that. After all, I wasn't sure about him yet, either.

Damn girl. Is your daddy a thief?" "What?" I'd never actually met my dad. Maybe he was. All I knew was that he'd been mortal. Hopefully, he'd been nothing like these two ass-hats. Ren flexed his nonexistent muscles, smiling. "Well, then who stole those diamonds and put them in your eyes?" "Wow.

Then, Valentine’s Day came. There was a dance, and balloons and flowers and cheaply made rings and all sorts of lame teddy bears and stuffed animals, as if teenagers can be wooed with the same shit as five-year-olds. It was the Dietzes’ most hated holiday of the year, too, because it dealt with the consumerization of something sacred. Mom and Dad had agreed never to buy each other anything on the day. It was a false, Hallmark holiday. A sham. A moneymaking sideshow for insecure couples who didn’t have true love. I agreed with this, for the most part.

Well, I'm sorry you couldn't make it either. I'm sorry I had to sit there in that church--which, by the way, had a broken air conditioner--sweating, watching all those people march down the aisle to look in my mother's casket and whisper to themselves all this mess about how much she looked like herself, even though she didn't. I'm sorry you weren't there to hear the lame choir drag out, song after song. I'm sorry you weren't there to see my dad try his best to be upbeat, cracking bad jokes in his speech, choking on his words. I'm sorry you weren't there to watch me totally lose it and explode into tears. I'm sorry you weren't there for me, but it doesn't matter, because even if you were, you wouldn't be able to feel what I feel. Nobody can. Even the preacher said so.

What's that?" "My friend St. Clair bought it for me. So I wouldn't feel out of place." She raises her eyebrows as she pulls back onto the road. "Are there a lot of Canadians in Paris?" My face warms. "I just felt,you know, stupid for a while. Like one of those lame American tourists with the white sneakers and the cameras around their necks? So he bought it for me, so I wouldn't feel....embarrassed. American." "Being American is nothing to be ashamed of," she snaps. "God,Mom,I know.I just meant-forget it." "Is this the English boy with the French father?" "What does that have anything to do with it?" I'm angry. I don't like what she's implying. "Besides,he's American. He was born here? His mom lives in San Francisco. We sat next to each other on the plane." We stop at a red light.Mom stares at me. "You like him." "OH GOD,MOM." "You do.You like this boy." "He's just a friend.He has a girlfriend." "Anna has a boooy-friend," Seany chants. "I do not!" "ANNA HAS A BOOOY-FRIEND!" I take a sip of coffee and choke. It's disgusting. It's sludge. No, it's worse than sludge-at least sludge is organic. Seany is still taunting me. Mom reaches around and grabs his legs,which are kicking her seat again.She sees me making a face at my drink. "My,my. Once semester in France, and suddenly we're Miss Sophisticated. Your father will be thrilled." Like it was my choice! Like I asked to go to Paris! And how dare she mention Dad. "ANNNN-A HAS A BOOOY-FRIEND!" We merge back onto the interstate. It's rush hour,and the Atlanta traffic has stopped moving. The car behind ours shakes us with its thumping bass. The car in front sprays a cloud of exhaust straight into our vents. Two weeks.Only two more weeks.s

Honestly, my dad and her parents were so anxious to see what they wanted to see, it wouldn’t take much to convince them that their grand scheme was a success. Parents were lame like that. Make them think their idea worked, and it’d be smooth sailing from here.

Zane looks pensive, and then his lips twitch. “They say most girls end up marrying a guy just like their dad.” “Oh God … That’s so lame,” I say, spluttering as coffee dribbles down my chin. “I believe it’s a tried and tested theory,” he says, standing up and wiping my chin with the back of his hand. I jolt at his touch. “Now it’s a theory? I thought it was a saying? Next you’ll be telling me it’s a fact.” I flop back down on the couch. “Empirical evidence shows that sixty-eight percent of girls marry a guy who displays similar personality traits to her father ...” His voice trails off as I shake my head. “What?” he asks, his palms open and raised. “You really need to get out more. Where’d you glean that interesting nugget? The desperate men’s journal perhaps?

Dude, you tried to kidnap her to bait her mom into coming to you. Then you tried to turn her mom into a pixie. Come on. I mean, no offense, but you are not Daddy of the Year stuff here.‖ Issie steps a little forward. ―Plus, you didn‘t even show up on the scene for what? Sixteen years? That‘s lame. Seriously. That is very deadbeat dad stuff right there.

Dad had a thing about guns. Never liked them. Said guns might not kill people, but they sure made it easier. Now he didn't think they were dangerous so much as he thought they were ridiculously lame. "How effective do you think our guns are going to be against a technology thousands, if not millions, of years ahead of ours? It's like using a club and stones against a tactical missile.

According to the man, who identified himself as Morton Thornton, the night got real long and by midnight, he was darn well wed to one of the lovelier inhabitants of the dish, a comely middle-aged amoeba of unknown parentage named Rita. When he was rescued on the morning of the following day, Morton plumb forgot about his single-celled nuptials and went back to his daytime job tasting the contents of open pop bottles for backwash and cigarette butts. Only sixteen years later, when a brilliant Sacajawea Junior High roving reporter—who shall remain nameless—discovered the product of this union lurking among us right here at Sac Junior High, was Morton’s long-held secret discovered. “This intrepid reporter was present three weeks into Dale Thornton’s third try at seventh grade, when the young Einstein bet this reporter and several other members of the class that he could keep a wad of chewing tobacco in his mouth from the beginning of fifth period Social Studies until the bell. The dumb jerk only lasted twenty minutes, after which he sprinted from the room, not to be seen for the rest of the day. When he returned on the following morning, he told Mr. Getz he had suddenly become ill and had to go home, but without a written excuse (he probably didn’t have a rock big enough for his dad to chisel it on) he was sent to the office. The principal, whose intellectual capacities lie only fractions of an IQ point above Dale’s, believed his lame story, and Dale was readmitted to class. Our dauntless reporter, however, smelled a larger story, recognizing that for a person to attempt this in the first place, even his genes would have to be dumber than dirt. With a zeal rivaled only by Alex Haley’s relentless search for Kunta Kinte, he dived into Dale’s seamy background, where he discovered the above story to be absolutely true and correct. Further developments will appear in this newspaper as they unfold.

Age has finally crept up on a man when he develops an interest in lame jokes, comfortable cardigans and uncoordinated dancing.

I expect a reciprocal declaration - an "I love you, too." Or maybe condemnation - a "Why don't you say it more often?" Anything, really, but what he does say: Why? "What do you mean, why? You're my Dad, right?" Sounds lame, even to me. "So?

You can't run through a campground. You can only ran, because it's past tents.

You have gifts that people can only dream of having. They make you special and utterly unique in a way that is as far from weird as you can get. You blew my mind when you were a girl. I loved coming here to see what you could do, whether it was solving difficult math puzzles, destroying your dad at chess, memorizing the entire Human section of The Guinness Book of World Records, or trying to beat me at video games." She jolted up, her mouth curving in a grin. "Trying? Seriously? Was there a video game I didn't win?" Cheer-up mission accomplished, but his ego was taking a beating. "Guitar Hero was never your strong suit." "Don't even think about challenging me," Daisy warned. "I was a free-shredding machine." He gave a dismissive shrug, baiting his trap. "You were young, so Sanjay and I let you win..." She gave him a calculating stare and jumped to her feet. "The guitar is mine." "The guitar is lame. Drums are where it's at." He picked up the mugs and plates. "Two songs and I'll call an Uber." "What if we tie? It will have to be the best of three songs and I'll call an Uber." "Are you sure you're up for it?" He watched the gentle sway of her hips as she climbed the stairs. "I don't want you to feel bad when I destroy you." Daisy looked back over her shoulder and gave him a grin. "You are so going down in flames.

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know all about your tryst abroad with the sexy Lancaster.” My cheeks burn. “It wasn’t a tryst. We were dating.” “Were?” my mom questions. “Clearly he thinks you still are.” My eyes widen. “Really?” I stop my words. My family doesn’t need to know all the gory details. “He’s here, isn’t he?” My mom looks to where Spencer is standing. My dad grins. “Someone’s been bitten by Cupid.” I cringe at his lameness. “Seriously?” Lynn throws Dad a look of disappointment at his terrible joke. “What? I have to say something embarrassing.” “Mission accomplished,” I say. “Coffee break time. Everyone out. I’m sending over the Sexiest Bachelor of 2017,” Lynn jokes. I roll my eyes at her now. “What? Dad can’t be the only one with the bad jokes.” Everyone laughs at this. It’s good to be back with my family. I’ve spent so much time running away that I’ve missed out. I watch as they all quickly pile out, then I begin my internal freak-out. He’s here . . . He’s actually here! I have yet to look in a mirror since the accident. I’ve been so worried about Lindsey, I have thought of nothing but her. I’m probably a mess. I run my fingers through my hair, trying desperately to get some of the knots out to no avail. I’m still trying to tame the mess when he appears in front of me looking devastatingly handsome. His face is full of worry and my heart melts in this moment. “You’re here,” I say softly. “Of course I’m here.” He comes to my side, takes my hand in his, and brings his forehead down upon them. “Are you okay?” “I’m

Seriously, I only had two bags to last me a whole term in this place. This lame place had even lamer rules about our clothes. Apparently, we were only allowed to wear what we wanted after lessons on weekdays and on a Sunday after church. Even worse than the fact I had to wear a hideous uniform and go to church…was the fact that they had school lessons on a Saturday!!! I left dad lugging the suitcases and followed mom into the high ceilinged, musty smelling entrance. Portraits of stern-faced looking men and women filled the walls. “Jeez.” I rolled my eyes. It was official, this place was more like a prison than a school.

When people are lame, they love to blame.

I guess he thinks I want to inherit it when he’s gone or something. But I think it’s kinda lame. Right now my Dad has his hobby Abandoned Mineshaft and Minecart Rail set in there. He also has a Zombie Apocalypse set with Zombie and Human action figures, which I kinda like... But he won’t let me play with it, so it’s lame. Now, if he were to put in a 70 inch TV with a video game chair that comes

It can weigh on your mind, if you think very hard about a horse’s life.” He might have meant anything, but what came into her own head was Alfred Logerwell beating his horse with a pipe, and her dad’s horses, and other horses she had known, horses who were gaunt, thirsty, lame, wounded, broken-winded, frightened, discouraged.