Librarian Jokes And Quotes

When I tell people I went to library school, the most common reaction is either “You’re joking, right?” or “They have schools for librarians? Do they teach you how to properly sssh people?

Please don't worry. It's a psychological complaint, common amongst ex-librarians. You see, she thinks she's a coffee table edition...

So the librarians at UCLA worked very hard to find another copy of Villacorta’s rendition of the Dresden Codex, and lent it to me.

There is a somewhat time-worn joke about people taking up library work because they like to read : the joke consisting of the fact that librarians have so little time to read. But, I tell you, those who do not, and there are some, are in the wrong profession.

Yes. You read that right. Evil Librarians control the world. They keep everyone in ignorance, teaching them falsehoods in place of history, geography, and politics. It’s kind of a joke to them. Why else do you think the Librarians named themselves what they did? Librarians. LIE-brarians. Sounds obvious now, doesn’t it? If you wish to smack yourself in the forehead and curse loudly, you may proceed to do so. I can wait.

A librarian? You’re joking, right?” Something hotter, more intent, joins the twinkle in his eye. “That’s . . . Damn it, Dom. I want her. Gimme.

I’m not sure how the ponies happened, though I have an inkling: “Can I get you anything?” I’ll say, getting up from a dinner table, “Coffee, tea, a pony?” People rarely laugh at this, especially if they’ve heard it before. “This party’s ‘sposed to be fun,” a friend will say. “Really? Will there be pony rides?” It’s a nervous tic and a cheap joke, cheapened further by the frequency with which I use it. For that same reason, it’s hard to weed it out of my speech – most of the time I don’t even realize I’m saying it. There are little elements in a person’s life, minor fibers that become unintentionally tangled with your personality. Sometimes it’s a patent phrase, sometimes it’s a perfume, sometimes it’s a wristwatch. For me, it is the constant referencing of ponies. I don’t even like ponies. If I made one of my throwaway equine requests and someone produced an actual pony, Juan-Valdez-style, I would run very fast in the other direction. During a few summers at camp, I rode a chronically dehydrated pony named Brandy who would jolt down without notice to lick the grass outside the corral and I would careen forward, my helmet tipping to cover my eyes. I do, however, like ponies on the abstract. Who doesn’t? It’s like those movies with the animated insects. Sure, the baby cockroach seems cute with CGI eyelashes, but how would you feel about fifty of her real-life counterparts living in your oven? And that’s precisely the manner in which the ponies clomped their way into my regular speech: abstractly. “I have something for you,” a guy will say on our first date. “Is it a pony?” No. It’s usually a movie ticket or his cell phone number. But on our second date, if I ask again, I’m pretty sure I’m getting a pony. And thus the Pony drawer came to be. It’s uncomfortable to admit, but almost every guy I have ever dated has unwittingly made a contribution to the stable. The retro pony from the ‘50s was from the most thoughtful guy I have ever known. The one with the glitter horseshoes was from a boy who would later turn out to be straight somehow, not gay. The one with the rainbow haunches was from a librarian, whom I broke up with because I felt the chemistry just wasn’t right, and the one with the price tag stuck on the back was given to me by a narcissist who was so impressed with his gift he forgot to remover the sticker. Each one of them marks the beginning of a new relationship. I don’t mean to hint. It’s not a hint, actually, it’s a flat out demand: I. Want. A. Pony. I think what happens is that young relationships are eager to build up a romantic repertoire of private jokes, especially in the city where there’s not always a great “how we met” story behind every great love affair. People meet at bars, through mutual friends, on dating sites, or because they work in the same industry. Just once a coworker of mine, asked me out between two stops on the N train. We were holding the same pole and he said, “I know this sounds completely insane, bean sprout, but would you like to go to a very public place with me and have a drink or something...?” I looked into his seemingly non-psycho-killing, rent-paying, Sunday Times-subscribing eyes and said, “Sure, why the hell not?” He never bought me a pony. But he didn’t have to, if you know what I mean.

Hey, Annabel Lee. How’s your tomb in the sounding sea?” I shouldn’t be teasing her since I’m about to ask a favor, but it’s an old joke. “You’re not at all worth pleasing, Mr. Darcy,” she counters. Our mother is a librarian. She loves all things literature, hence our names.

If you like cool, funny entertainment, you might like this one. It's a first novel by a local author." She handed him a copy of Practical Demonkeeping. "A very different kind of buddy novel. I thought it was hilarious." "You're reading me like a book." The guy shook his head as if embarrassed by his own lame joke. Then he looked over at Blythe. Natalie saw his gaze move swiftly over her mother's red V-neck sweater and short skirt. "How can you tell that's exactly what would make me happy?" he asked. Oh boy. He was flirting. Guys did that a lot with her mom. She was super pretty, and Natalie knew it wasn't only because Mom was her mom and all kids thought their moms were pretty. Even her snottiest friends like Kayla said Blythe looked like a model. Like Julia Roberts. Plus, her mom had a knack for dressing cool and being social---she could talk to anyone and make them like her. Also, she had a superpower, which was on full display right now. She had the ability to see a person for the first time and almost instantly know what book to recommend. She was really smart and had also read every book ever written, or so it seemed to Natalie. She could talk to high school kids about Ivanhoe and Silas Marner. She ran a mystery discussion group. She could tell people the exact day the new Mary Higgins Clark novel would come out. She knew which kids would only ever read Goosebumps books, no matter what, and she knew which kids would try something else, like Edward Eager or Philip Pullman. Sometimes people didn't know anything about the book they were searching for except "It's blue with gold page edges" and her mom would somehow figure it out.

All philosophies are either monist or dualist. Monists believe that the material world is the only world -- hence, materialists. Dualists believe in a binary universe, that there is a spiritual world in addition to the material world." "Well, as a computer geek, I have to believe in the binary universe." The Librarian raises his eyebrows. "How does that follow?" "Sorry. It's a joke. A bad pun. See, computers use binary code to represent information. So I was joking that I have to believe in the binary universe, that I have to be a dualist." "How droll," the Librarian says, not sounding very amused. "Your joke may not be without genuine merit, however." "How's that? I was just kidding, really." "Computers rely on the one and the zero to represent all things. This distinction between something and nothing -- this pivotal separation between being and nonbeing -- is quite fundamental and underlies many Creation myths." Hiro feels his face getting slightly warm, feels himself getting annoyed. He suspects that the Librarian may be pulling his leg, playing him for a fool. But he knows that the Librarian, however convincingly rendered he may be, is just a piece of software and cannot actually do such things. "Even the word 'science' comes from an Indo-European root meaning 'to cut' or 'to separate.' The same root led to the word 'shit,' which of course means to separate living flesh from nonliving waste. The same root gave us 'scythe' and 'scissors' and 'schism,' which have obvious connections to the concept of separation." "How about 'sword'?" "From a root with several meanings. One of those meanings is 'to cut or pierce.' One of them is 'post' or 'rod.' And the other is, simply, 'to speak.'" "Let's stay on track," Hiro says. "Fine. I can return to this potential conversation fork at a later time, if you desire." "I don't want to get all forked up at this point.

All the creatures seemed happy to be at the library. The Headless Horseman gave horsey rides and the kids lined up! Someone brought out a ball and played fetch with the Hound of the Baskervilles. Dracula told jokes. The giant gently picked up some kids and lifted them high in the air. Everyone was enjoying the fun. The characters didn’t seem so scary now! Virginia Creeper’s happy smile suddenly changed to a worried frown when she looked out the window and saw the seniors’ book club coming up the walk. “Oh my,” said Ms. Creeper, “I almost forgot. It’s time for the book club! They can’t see this! It will give the seniors such a fright.” “Go and tidy up while I stall them at the door!” the librarian told Miss Smith. Virginia Creeper blocked the impatient readers from entering while Miss Smith ran around in a tizzy. She picked up overturned chairs and straightened the book shelves. Outside, the seniors were getting grouchy, but inside, the kids and the characters had become too silly to notice. “Can I help?” Zack asked Miss Smith. She handed the Incredible Storybook to Zack. “Remember,” Miss Smith said, “we have to finish each story so that the characters will go back into the book. Read the last page of each tale, while I deal with this mess!” Zack opened up the book and quickly finished all the stories. One by one, the characters went back into the Incredible Storybook. The puzzled book club burst into the room just as Zack finished the last page. “Okay, class, it’s time to check out your books,” Miss Smith said. She guided the class toward the big front desk. Everyone thanked Virginia Creeper before marching down the library steps and heading back to school. With borrowed books under their arms, the children were looking forward to reading more about all the characters they had just met. Zack smiled and wondered what they would read tomorrow.

A pair of chickens walks up to the circulation desk at a public library and say, “Buk Buk BUK.” The librarian decides that the chickens desire three books, and gives it to them...and the chickens leave shortly thereafter. Around midday, the two chickens return to the circulation desk quite vexed and say, “Buk Buk BuKKOOK!” The librarian decides that the chickens desire another three books and gives it to them. The chickens leave as before. The two chickens return to the library in the early afternoon, approach the librarian, looking very annoyed and say, “Buk Buk Buk Buk Bukkooook!” The librarian is now a little suspicious of these chickens. She gives them what they request, and decides to follow them. She followed them out of the library, out of the town, and to a park. At this point, she hid behind a tree, not wanting to be seen. She saw the two chickens throwing the books at a frog in a pond, to which

Nice shirt,” Rafe murmured in a low voice as she passed him. Baffled, she glanced down and then could have died from mortification. It was the Sleep with a Librarian shirt that Hope and Faith had given her one Christmas as a joke. She never wore it, of course—it wasn’t her style at all—but she’d thrown it on that morning under her sweater, knowing she was going to be painting the scenery later and it would be perfect for the job.

My penis was in the Guinness Book of World Records, but then the librarian told me to take it out

In 1928, my father, along with the rest of my country, was mocking Hitler. They saw him as a joke, someone who could be easily controlled, someone who would burn out after everyone heard his deranged spiels. Only a handful of years later, we had to flee Germany after my brother was dragged to a concentration camp, where he would be murdered for his beliefs.

Or you are hallucinating it. Or a plot has been mounted against you, so expensive and elaborate, involving items like the forging of stamps and ancient books, constant surveillance of your movements, planting of post horn images all over San Francisco, bribing of librarians, hiring of professional actors and Pierce Inverarity only knows what-all besides, all financed out of the estate in a way either too secret or too involved for your nonlegal mind to know about even though you are co-executor, so labyrinthine that it must have meaning beyond just a practical joke. Or you are fantasying some such plot, in which case you are a nut, Oedipa, out of your skull.

Change your name to Miles, Dean, Serge, and /or Leonard, baby, she advised her reflection in the hall; light of that afternoon's vanity mirror. Either way, they'll call it paranoia. They. Either you have stumbled indeed, without the aid of LSD or other indole alkaloids, onto a secret richness and concealed density of dream; onto a network by which X number of Americans are truly communicating whilst reserving their lies, recitations of routine, arid betrayals of spiritual poverty, for the official government delivery system; maybe even onto a real alternative to the exitlessness, to the absence of surprise to life, that harrows the head of everybody American you know, and you too, sweetie. Or you are hallucinating it. Or a plot has been mounted against you, so expensive and elaborate, involving items like the forging of stamps and ancient books, constant surveillance of your movements, planting of post horn images all over San Francisco, bribing of librarians, hiring of professional actors and Pierce Inverarity only knows what-all besides, all financed out of the estate in a way either too secret or too involved for your non-legal mind to know about even though you are co-executor, so labyrinthine that it must have meaning beyond just a practical joke. Or you are fantasying some such plot, in which case you are a nut, Oedipa, out of your skull. Those, now that she was looking at them, she saw to be the alternatives. Those symmetrical four. She didn't like any of them, but hoped she was mentally ill; that that's all it was. That night she sat for hours, too numb even to drink, teaching herself to breathe in a vacuum. For this, oh God, was the void. There was nobody who could help her. Nobody in the world. They were all on something, mad, possible enemies, dead. Old fillings in her teeth began to bother her. She would spend nights staring at a ceiling lit by the pink glow of San Narciso's sky. Other nights she could sleep for eighteen drugged hours and wake, enervated, hardly able to stand. In conferences with the keen, fast-talking old man who was new counsel for the estate, her attention span could often be measured in seconds, and she laughed nervously more than she spoke. Waves of nausea, lasting five to ten minutes, would strike her at random, cause her deep misery, then vanish as if they had never been. There were headaches, nightmares, menstrual pains. One day she drove into L.A., picked a doctor at random from the phone book, went to her, told her she thought she was pregnant. They arranged for tests. Oedipa gave her name as Grace Bortz and didn't show up for her next appointment.

So I go to the circulation desk, grab a piece of paper, and write, I like your books. Then I slip it to her as I walk by, which, in hindsight, was creepy as fuck and a terrible error in judgment.” “Why?” “Because I have abysmal penmanship.” I grab a paper napkin and ask Hollis if she has a pen—she does—then write I like your books. Hand it to her. “I like your boobs?” “It says books.” “It says boobs.” “See? Do you see now where this all went wrong? Do you see now where this story is headed?” “Don’t say another word or I’m going to choke on this taco.” Her skin is bright red and she’s about to burst out laughing; I can see her holding it in. She is about to freakin’ explode. Obviously I say more words. “So she thinks I’m telling her I like her tits—er, boobs—which were probably sagging down to the ground, mind you.” I shiver at the memory. “Instead of confronting me about it, the lady goes and tells the librarian there is a pervy sexual harasser on the premises. She goes and tells the security guard, and he yanks my audiobook selections out of my viselike grip and escorts me out. God, I was so humiliated—Betty from non-fiction and I made eye contact, and I’ve never felt so ashamed.” “Stop it.” Tears are welling up in her eyes. “No. She told her friend Ethel, who is a member of the Bellmont Readers, who told my mother.” “This is too much.” She’s swatting at the air between us. “You’re making this up.” “They took my card away, Hollis! You don’t joke about this shit. I’m no longer welcome at any library within the tri-state area, thanks to my shoddy handwriting

Because I worked that day, I did not go home after parting ways with Fay. I went straight to the library. I entered the front door, my gaze sweeping around the first floor. There were several men and women sitting at the tables, a book in front of them. I couldn’t tell what they were reading from this distance. However, while some of them looked engrossed in their books, a number of others were quietly conversing as they glanced at the door. They seemed disappointed that the person who entered was me. Ms. Nadine was sitting behind the counter. She looked up as I walked over, her eyes giving me a once-over as she raised a single eyebrow. “Who are you?” she asked. “Ha ha. That’s a good joke,” I said in a dry voice. “Maybe you should consider changing your career from librarian to jester.” “I am sorry,” Ms Nadine said slowly. “However, I don’t know anyone who has such a dry wit or wears such pompous looking clothes. Could you be at the wrong library?

I close the book and text Livia back. Okay, Fern Woman. I’ll meet you at 8. Then I add, Are you super sure about the Nite’s Inn? She responds right away. I’ll see you then, and I’m very sure. I’m doing this on a public servant’s budget! And it’s close to a Steak’n Shake, so you know it’s in a good neighborhood. ...Liv. Kitten. They found a body in that Steak’n Shake’s dumpster last year. One body and all of a sudden it’s a ‘bad’ place. You are so judgey! I, for one, won’t be scared away by that one tiny thing. I like to see the best in places. My radio goes off in my ear—a senior is causing a disturbance at a nursing home and they need all available units to respond. With a rueful smile to myself at my idealistic little librarian, I send her a final message and then climb out of my car. See you tonight, Livvy-girl. Don’t get thrown into a dumpster before I get there. Even though I was mostly joking about the Murder Steak’n Shake, I get to the Nite’s Inn half an hour early so that I can be extra sure she’s not in the parking lot alone