Muse Funny Quotes

Discipline allows magic. To be a writer is to be the very best of assassins. You do not sit down and write every day to force the Muse to show up. You get into the habit of writing every day so that when she shows up, you have the maximum chance of catching her, bashing her on the head, and squeezing every last drop out of that bitch.

Lex malla, lex nulla,” said Julian with a regretful wave of his hand. It was the Blackthorn family motto: A bad law is no law. “I wonder what other family mottoes are,” Emma mused. “Do you know any?” “The Lightwood family motto is ‘We mean well.’ ” “Very funny.” Julian looked over at her. “No, really, it actually is.” “Seriously? So what’s the Herondale family motto? ‘Chiseled but angsty’?” He shrugged. ‘If you don’t know what your last name is, it’s probably Herondale’?” Emma burst out laughing. “What about Carstairs?” she asked, tapping Cortana. “ ‘We have a sword’? ‘Blunt instruments are for losers’?” “Morgenstern,” offered Julian. “ ‘When in doubt, start a war’?

Huh, another queen,” Puck mused, an evil grin crossing his face. “Maybe we should drop in and introduce ourselves, ice-boy. Do the whole, hey, we were just in the neighborhood, and we were just wondering if you had any plans to take over the Nevernever. Have a fruit basket.

It's funny about paths and rivers," he mused. "You see them go by, and suddenly you feel upset and want to be somewhere else--wherever the path or the river is going, perhaps.

You aren't a morning person, are you?" he mused. "No, I'm not. There is a reason mornin' and mournin' sound the same.

I don't know which is worse," Cassidy mused, "when people laugh at things that aren't funny, or when they don't laugh at things that are.

Our family was nearly torn apart on several occasions by arguments started when the refrigerator door was open for what my father deemed as ‘too long.

Remember, the village idiot was the spiritual man who built the ark and saved his family. Keep being you and never give up marching to the beat of your own drum!

Often the inspiration to write music comes from the voices in your head. You’re not crazy. Just be thankful they are not making you rescue people in 20-degree weather at 2:30 in the morning in the forest.

The first way not to shake hands is executed by receiving someone’s hand in yours and proceeding to squeeze it tightly, hurting the other party as if they were responsible for a past death in your family, or your adoption as a child.

Ever since the robot was first invented, there have been people who swear up and down that this marks the first step towards the fall of man … To be fair, their arguments are backed with scientific fact taken from documentary films such as The Terminator, The Matrix, and RoboCop.

An hour ago Cutwell had thumbed through the index of The Monster Fun Grimoire and had cautiously assembled a number of common household ingredients and put a match to them. Funny thing about eyebrows, he mused. You never really noticed them until they'd gone.

I met a queen once,” Dad muses. “She tried to put her hand down my trousers.” Dad looks over at me and raises his eyebrows. “Surely this can’t go any worse than that.

[The cats] scamper in front of my legs, causing me to fall and face plant into whatever furniture is closest. They especially like to play this game when I’m carrying piping hot coffee.

It wasn’t enough that I had to worry about playing well and winning the game, but I also had to deal with possibility that one of my teammates could be dragged off the field by the inhabitants of the mental hospital.

You think this is funny?” I snorted. “You would. Your sense of humor is so dark, even the lesser demons don’t get you.

How would you... like my legs?” “Out of my way.

Don't, but if at all, then, lie to the whole damn world - never to your own damn, silly stupid self.

I am not trying to be funny, it is just that you're a joke.

There’s this funny thing about empathy. It’s not actually in limited supply. Just because other people have it worse doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to be understood. To feel comfort.

After all, this was the place where I’d had my first meaningful conversation with a female, it was the site of a football’s first encounter with my groin, and above all, it was the location where I was first punched in the face by a bully. Somewhere out there, a tooth of mine lay deep within the soil.

The Decision ...I wiped my hands on my pinafore now sullied and stained not crisp or pressed as it had been before...

Most people are but a fake-art, and as real as a concealed fart.

Laugh, and the world laughs with you. Don't, and the world laughs at you.

Style is not how you write. It is how you do not write like anyone else. * * * How do you know if you're a writer? Write something everyday for two weeks, then stop, if you can. If you can't, you're a writer. And no one, no matter how hard they may try, will ever be able to stop you from following your writing dreams. * * * You can find your writer's voice by simply listening to that little Muse inside that says in a low, soft whisper, "Listen to this... * * * Enter the writing process with a childlike sense of wonder and discovery. Let it surprise you. * * * Poems for children help them celebrate the joy and wonder of their world. Humorous poems tickle the funny bone of their imaginations. * * * There are many fine poets writing for children today. The greatest reward for each of us is in knowing that our efforts might stir the minds and hearts of young readers with a vision and wonder of the world and themselves that may be new to them or reveal something already familiar in new and enlightening ways. * * * The path to inspiration starts Beyond the trails we’ve known; Each writer’s block is not a rock, But just a stepping stone. * * * When you write for children, don't write for children. Write from the child in you. * * * Poems look at the world from the inside out. * * * The act of writing brings with it a sense of discovery, of discovering on the page something you didn't know you knew until you wrote it. * * * The answer to the artist Comes quicker than a blink Though initial inspiration Is not what you might think. The Muse is full of magic, Though her vision’s sometimes dim; The artist does not choose the work, It is the work that chooses him. * * * Poem-Making 101. Poetry shows. Prose tells. Choose precise, concrete words. Remove prose from your poems. Use images that evoke the senses. Avoid the abstract, the verbose, the overstated. Trust the poem to take you where it wants to go. Follow it closely, recording its path with imagery. * * * What's a Poem? A whisper, a shout, thoughts turned inside out. A laugh, a sigh, an echo passing by. A rhythm, a rhyme, a moment caught in time. A moon, a star, a glimpse of who you are. * * * A poem is a little path That leads you through the trees. It takes you to the cliffs and shores, To anywhere you please. Follow it and trust your way With mind and heart as one, And when the journey’s over, You’ll find you’ve just begun. * * * A poem is a spider web Spun with words of wonder, Woven lace held in place By whispers made of thunder. * * * A poem is a busy bee Buzzing in your head. His hive is full of hidden thoughts Waiting to be said. His honey comes from your ideas That he makes into rhyme. He flies around looking for What goes on in your mind. When it is time to let him out To make some poetry, He gathers up your secret thoughts And then he sets them free.

I do not want to sound cynical or condescending, but your lips are moving, your mind unbending.

You know,' Tella mused, 'if I didn't hate you, I might actually enjoy your company.

It’s funny how sometimes our minds want to jump right to the reasons something might not work instead of considering how we can make something possible.

Around here people don’t walk their dogs—dogs walk their people.

So his flunkies are what, pirates?

I do not have a problem with people killing themselves, as long as they took at least a hundred years to think about what they are about to do.

I have to tell you the truth. But you are too ugly for it.

Little people make tall claims. As being this-that avatar or messiah. Some even say they're God. Well, if they are, I'm their grand-pop.

Yeah, I assure you I hear you perfectly. But my ears don't do so as deftly.

The thing with politicians is that though they spit differently yet they shit similarly.

You saw him as disapproving of you. I thought him disapproving of me. Funny, isn't it?" Not only funny, but a strange relief. Why hadn't she seen it? Rhys felt like an impostor here, too. [...] Tilting her head to the twilight sky, she mused, "Do you know what I think? I have a feeling that dour look on Lord Corning's face had nothing to do with either of us. Perhaps he'd just tasted something unpleasant.

If you seriously believe that your imaginary guy up in the sky told you to kill people of a differing faith and religion, your illusory pal is a dickhead. And of course and therefore, analogically speaking, so are you, shithead.

I was momentarily stunned by his odd announcement and told him as much. "Let’s just talk about the fact that you composed a sonnet to my vagina, shall we? You are sending off some major stalker vibes, which is odd because you’re gay. You are gay, right?" He narrowed his eyes at me and waved his hand in the direction of his 'muse' as he stated, "I don't want any part of that thing. I just want to honor it for being the only known thing in existence to be touched by the dick of a god.

It’s funny, Matt, everyone thinks Roman’s a nickname--but it’s not, it's just my name. We've got military names way back in our clan. I've got Great-Granddad Grant and Great Uncle Sherman and Uncle MacArthur and Cousin Audie and Cousin Achilles. No," he mused, "Roman's not a nickname. A nickname would be–oh, I don’t know, something like ... Caesar or something! The mighty Roman! ~ Roman Meister, nickname-loving manager of the San Carlos Coyotes in The Mighty Roman, broadly hinting for a nickname of his own.

Hey!” He snapped out of his musings as Destiny’s hand trailed down his body to cup his less than interested cock through his trousers. “Claws to self, Vampira, I assume you brush your teeth twice a day but I have no idea where those hands of yours have been.

It's funny how all the wisest people on Earth always comes back to this thought, know thyself, thy body, thy mind, they soul, thy emotions, thy history, thy spirit... the only knowledge that will ever serve you is the knowledge you yourself know of, and hopefully put into practice.

It's funny how all the wisest people on Earth always comes back to this thought, know thyself, thy body, they mind, they soul, thy emotions, thy history, thy spirit... the only knowledge that will ever serve you is the knowledge you yourself know of, and hopefully put into practice.

I wonder what other family mottoes are," Emma mused. "Do you know any?" "The Lightwood family motto is 'We mean we..'" "Very funny." Julian looked over at her. "No, really, it actually is." "Seriously? So what's the Herondale family motto? 'Chiseled but angsty'?" He shrugged. "If you don'tk now what your last name is, it's probably Herondale?

I wonder what other family mottos are." Emma mused. "Do you know any?" "The Lightwood family motto is "We mean well."" "Very funny." Julian looked over at her. "No, really, it actually is." "Seriously? So what's the Herondale family motto? Chiseled but angsty?" He shrugged. "If you don't know what your last name is, it's probably Herondale?

I thought John was funny, clever and wise. The only problem with him being my muse was that he was so open about his emotions--he wrote and talked about his mother, Yoko, even his aunt, all the time, acknowledging how important women were in his life--so I assumed all boys were like this--and to my huge disappointment, almost none of them were or are.

Of course- I loathe him. I can't stand the sight of him or the sound of his voice, and I want to get out of here before he returns so I never have to see him again.' 'Let's do that then. Although I would love to wait until he returns so that I can stab him in the heart and then cook it over a fire. But I suppose I can do that another day,' Lala mused.

It’s so funny,” Hannah muses. “Garrett told me that he and Logan have talked about the two of them in Bruins jerseys ever since freshman year. And now it’s actually happening.” She smiles. “I guess some dreams really do come true.” I follow her gaze, a smile touching my lips as I watch the man I love in the uniform he loves, flying across the ice to the roar of the crowd. “Yep,” I answer softly. “I guess they do.

And as we take up our positions on the stage, we call upon the nine Muses for assistance, Calliope, who helps with the epic ballads, Euterpe, who helps with the sad songs, Erato, who helps with the confessional songs, Clio, who helps with the oldies, Melpomene, who helps with the super-tragic stuff, Polyhymnia, who helps with the religious songs, Terpsichore, who helps with the dance numbers, Thalia, who helps with the funny songs, And Urania, who helps when it gets spacey and psychedelic.

He muses on the terrorists who brought down the World Trade Center (he muses on them often). Those clowns actually thought they were going to paradise, where they'd live in a kind of eternal luxury hotel being services by gorgeous young virgins. Pretty funny, and the best part? They joke was on them...not that they knew it. What they got was a momentary view of all those windows and a final flash of light. After that, they and their thousands of victims were just gone. Poof. Seeya later, alligator. Off you go, killers and killed alike, off you go into the universe null set that surrounds one lonely blue planet and all its mindlessly bustling denizens. Every religion lies. Every moral precept is a delusion. Even the stars are a mirage. The truth is darkness, and the only thing that matters is making a statement before one enters it. Cutting the skin of the world and leaving a scar. That's all history is, after all: scar tissue.

Tina, who worked at the Hampshire Gazette and drank like a journalist in a movie, was loudly musing about getting her shadow altered to have a cat tail. “Guys love a tail,” Tina proclaimed, to protests by nearly everyone. Aimee thought Tina shouldn’t consider fetishes along a gender binary. Ian wanted it to be known that he thought it was disgusting, and that men did not want to molest animals. The artist agreed it was kind of hot, but his comic was about saucy mice. Charlie told Tina that maybe she had misunderstood what “getting some tail” actually meant. “Mermaids, right?” Vince asked, in such a clueless just-joined-the-conversation tone that it was hard to know if he was joking, or if he’d misheard the earlier part. It didn’t matter. Everyone laughed. It was funny either way. As Charlie poured more bourbon—with ice this time—she decided she was glad she’d come. She was just buzzed enough to feel an expansive warmth for the people in the room. See, she was fine being a normal person and doing normal-person things.

Trump’s shortcomings stood out particularly during emergencies. I remember briefing the president in the Oval Office on the projected storm track of an Atlantic hurricane. At first, he seemed to grasp the devastating magnitude of the Category 4 superstorm, until he opened his mouth. “Is that the direction they always spin?” the president asked me. “I’m sorry sir,” I responded, “I don’t understand.” “Hurricanes. Do they always spin like that?” He made a swirl in the air with his finger. “Counterclockwise?” I asked. He nodded. “Yes, Mr. President. It’s called the Coriolis effect. It’s the same reason toilet water spins the other direction in the Southern Hemisphere.” “Incredible,” Trump replied, squinting his eyes to look at the foam board presentation. We needed him to urge residents to evacuate from the Carolinas, where it looked like the storm would make landfall, but the president mused about another potential response. “You know, I was watching TV, and they interviewed a guy in a parking lot,” Trump leaned back and recounted. “He was wearing a red hat, a MAGA hat, and he said he was going to ‘ride it out.’ Isn’t that something? That’s what Trump supporters do. They’re tough. They ride it out. I think that’s what I’ll tell them to do.” Sometimes his irreverence could be funny, even charming. That day it wasn’t. Worried looks filled the room. A clever communications aide piped up. “Mr. President, I wouldn’t take that chance. This is going to be a pretty bad storm, and you don’t want to lose supporters in the Carolinas before the 2020 election.” The president thought about it for a moment. “That’s such a good point. We should urge the evacuations.” You couldn’t write such a stupid scene in a movie, but it always got a little worse.

Traditions, Commander Roberts mused silently, were funny things. They started when you least expected them and endured through everything the universe could throw at them.

Madlon’s voice broke into his musings. “It’s kind of funny, but I just happened to notice that all the trail horses are males—” Her husband’s laughter cut off the rest of the question, but Ward had gotten the gist of it. “Shame on you, Pug, for checking out other guys’ equipment!” Madlon blushed at her husband’s teasing. “I noticed, that’s all. It stuck out.” Her husband whooped again. Ward fought a grin. “You’re right, our trail horses are geldings. We’ve found the rides go better with single sex horses, especially as we often have novice riders. Mares are great. They’re actually harder workers—” “Of course they are. That applies to females of all species,” Madlon said. “True. But when a mare goes into heat she sometimes gets a little tetchy and even gelded horses get distracted—” And just like that, an image of Tess and her huge dark eyes, saucy ponytail, and exquisite curves popped into his mind. He had no doubt she would do her best to clock—or geld—him if he were foolish enough to ask if she was in heat.

He let out a long-suffering sigh, which cheered her up. “Thanks for the tip,” he said dryly. “Huh. That’s funny. I could almost say the same,” she mused, recalling his excellent erection. “No one likes a funny veterinarian,” he said dryly.

the white tents. 17. Two views of The Wild West in Paris, igo5. Colonel Cody, a Hawkeye by birth, is personally lionized by the Parisians, and his unique exhibition, so full of historical and dramatic interest, made a wonderful impression upon the susceptible French public. The twenty lessons I took in French, at the Berlitz School of Languages, London, only gave me a faint idea of what the language was like, but as I was required to make my lectures and announcements in French, I had my speeches translated, and was coached in their delivery by Monsieur Corthesy, editeur, le journal de Londres. Well, I got along pretty fair, considering that I did not know the meaning of half the words I was saying. Anyway it amused them, so I was satisfied. I honestly believe that more people came in the side show in Paris to hear and laugh at my "rotten" French than anything else, and when I found that a certain word or expression excited their risibilities, I never changed it. I can look back now and see where some of my own literal translations were very funny. Colonel Cody's exhibition is unique in many ways, and might justly be termed a polyglot school, no less than twelve distinct languages being spoken in the camp, viz.: Japanese, Russian, French, Arabic, Greek, Hungarian, German, Italian, Spanish, Holland, Flemish, Chinese, Sioux and English. Being in such close contact every day, we were bound to get some idea of each other's tongue, and all acquire a fair idea of English. Colonel Cody is, therefore, entitled to considerable credit for disseminating English, and thus preserving the entente cordiale between nations. 18. Entrance to the Wild West, Champs de Mars, Paris, Igo5. The first place of public interest that we visited in Paris was the Jardin des Plantes (botanical and zoological garden) and le Musee d'Histoire Naturelle. The zoological collection would suffer in comparison with several in America I might mention, but the Natural History Museum is very complete, and is, to my notion, the most artistically arranged of any museum I have visited. Le Palais du Trocadero, which was in sight of our grounds and facing the

You, douche bags! Do not blame God. As a thumb rule, know that all evil thoughts are your own. And all good thoughts are God’s own. Own up, you, nutcases!

When I asked Stephen, age two, for a kiss he would say, “I’ll give you a smooch.” He'd put his hands on each side of his face and pucker up, musing contentedly, “What kind shall I give her? […Grandma Joy’s ducky kisses, butterfly kisses, or….]

As I’ve aged, I’ve come to prefer the idea to the reality of human company.

I particularly enjoy the great synchronized skeins of pelicans that fly above the waves in summer. How, being animals, they know how to write the letter V just so in the sky is anyone’s guess.

If I’m recovering from anything, I’m recovering from trying to recover from anything.

You Americans have such a funny relationship with ranch dressing,” he mused. “Am I really supposed to dip celery in it?

In Delirio Familiari by Stewart Stafford He devoured radioactive pizza, eyes bulging to breaking point. Every riddle imploded in a flash, daymare fission without a joint. He, the man of conjured letters; she, his spark that moderates. Janus creature, clockface duo, oddballs, but fitting mates. With dollops of ambrosial agony, in frenzied closeness, but witty, The Brain Surgeon’s Cookbook, A bromide concoction served as ditty. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.

That’s the funny thing about highborn women,’ Theo mused. ‘They’re the same height as any other when they’re down on all fours.

Life’s fuckin’ funny sometimes,” Knox mused.

It’s funny,” Peter mused out loud. “With you, I feel like I am in this pocket in the world. As if nothing can reach us here. We have this little place to ourselves. When we are here, we are all there is. Just you and me, our little chosen world in the world with nothing to disturb us.” I pulled the fleece blanket tighter to me. The fire had nearly died out and a chill crept into the air. I looked longingly at my clothes scattered on the floor and table but I was too lazy to reach for it. Peter turned his face and looked at me, as I lay nuzzled close with my head on his arm. “Just a story,” I offered. “Yes,” he nodded. “Just a story.

For the sonically challenged, the world would be much better indeed if architects and builders cared about noise pollution as much as profit margins.

Nothing, not an IRS audit, not even waterboarding, is worse than having country music forced on you.

He muses on the terrorists who brought down the World Trade Center (he muses on them often). Those clowns actually thought they were going to paradise, where they’d live in a kind of eternal luxury hotel being serviced by gorgeous young virgins. Pretty funny, and the best part? The joke was on them… not that they knew it. What they got was a momentary view of all those windows and a final flash of light. After that, they and their thousands of victims were just gone. Poof. Seeya later, alligator. Off you go, killers and killed alike, off you go into the universal null set that surrounds one lonely blue planet and all its mindlessly bustling denizens. Every religion lies. Every moral precept is a delusion. Even the stars are a mirage. The truth is darkness, and the only thing that matters is making a statement before one enters it. Cutting the skin of the world and leaving a scar. That’s all history is, after all: scar tissue.

I'm not sure that humiliating the wealthy would work in my favor, Theo mused. I believe there've been a few occasions in history where that didn't turn out so well.

The prince instructs us that as long as they don’t leave the penthouse, we are to do whatever she says.” Samuel grinned at me. “Looks like we have a new princess.” “Sam,” the other guard said, “I don’t think making friends with the prince’s muse is good for your health.” “Relax, Kyle. She’s all right.” Gwen’s grip on my arm had loosened by now. I gave the men a funny look. I had an odd feeling that I was going to like those two.

God of blind believers is most likely to be cock-eyed.

If you say your ancestral god is true, well then, my imaginary pal up there, Mr. NOT, is too. Oh! And my Mr. NOT says it is the duty of his ism's faithful to kick the butt of every other god, and of this illusory fellow's followers, like you. NOW, is ALL THIS it okay with YOU?

Would you care to share with the rest of the class what is so funny?” Madison gulped. Ms. Healy was staring hard at Madison’s PalmPilot, which was absolutely forbidden in class, along with cell phones, CD players, and any other distracting electrical equipment. Madison instantly started vamping. “Well, Ms. Healy, I was just musing on how ridiculous a scarlet would be today, and who would have to wear one--senators, actors, teachers, even a few of our presidents. In fact, there would probably be more people wearing the scarlet letter than not wearing it.” Ms. Healy’s cold blue eyes looked huge through her extra-magnified glasses. “This is funny?” Madison swallowed hard. “I guess it’s really more ironic, wouldn’t you say?” Ms. Healy, who knew Madison as a straight-A, straight-shooter kind of student, softened a little. “‘Ironic’ is indeed the perfect word for it,” she said with a brisk nod. “Now put the personal digital assistance away and pay attention, Ms. McKay.” As Ms. Healy walked back to the front of the room, Henry Cooney, Madison’s partner in chem lab, mouthed the words, “Nice save.” Madison wiped some imaginary sweat off her forehead with her hand and tried to focus once again on the lecture. She forced herself to keep her eyes glued to Ms. Healy and soon found herself wondering what had turned the teacher into such an old grump. She was clearly smart and sometimes very funny, in a droll sort of way. Take away those awful glasses, let her hair out of that tight metal barrette at her neck, and Ms. Healy could almost be considered attractive. Maybe she’d had some brush with failed love that had made her go sour. Or worse yet--what if she had never had any brush with love at all, and this dried-up old prune was what Ms. Healy had become?

All men, at some level or the other, are liars. Fortunately there is a cure. They can all become a fine creature, provided their nuts are taken off with pliers.

Don't you need to check on your mum, though? he asks Ali. "Nah, my brother or Holly are checking in on her tonight." Presumably she's on her own too, since Ali's father upped and offed to continental Europe. It's odd to think that we have something in common, Ali and I: we both grew up without a paternal presence. I reach for the photo of that immortalized dinner party that hasn't yet left the kitchen. "Is this your mum?" I'm pointing to a small but woman with a smile on her face who's standing next to Ali's dad. Even though I'm looking for similarities, I can't see how she turned into the shriveled old woman, with her spiteful pinched mouth, that I encoun tered in the hotel. curvy Ali takes it and squints slightly. "Aye. And my dad. Was that taken here, aye? God, she looks young then." There's a sadness around his eyes, and concern in Ben's as he looks at Ali. "Funny to think our parents all knew one another, and here we are, having a drink together," I muse. "That might be odd in London Town, but it's pretty much par for the course round here," says Ali, putting the photo down. "Very hard to escape the sins of our fathers when everybody around knows exactly what they were." He glances at me. "Shite. Sorry. Let's talk about some thing much less controversial. Like, erm, Scottish independence or something," he says, tongue in cheek.

Just like you silly bums, I have a personal sky god. I bow to him, as you do to your airy-fairy sod. He prefers I call him Mr. NOT.

So, am I too, like all other humans, just a rogue? Sure! Just a notch less than those rascals wearing godly robes.

Remember, you are as dispensable as the most indispensable king of kings, the mighty lord of silly worldly men.

So what’s the story your grandpa told you?” I leaned back against the blanket, propping my head in one hand and looking up at him. “It wasn’t about the pond, I guess. It’s more about the town. I didn’t ever come to Mona when I lived here. I never had reason to - so when I asked my grandpa if there were any good fishing spots around here, and he mentioned this pond, I asked him about the town. He said Burl Ives, the singer, was once thrown in jail here in Mona. It was before his time, but he thought it was a funny story.” “I’ve never heard about that!” “It was the 1940’s, and Burl Ives traveled around singing. I guess the authorities didn’t like one of his songs - they thought it was bawdy, so they put him in jail.” “What was the song?” I snickered. “It was called Foggy, Foggy Dew. My grandpa sang it for me.” “Let’s hear it!” I challenged. “It’s far too lewd.” Samuel pulled his mouth into a serious frown, but his eyes twinkled sardonically. “All right you’ve convinced me,” he said without me begging at all, and we laughed together. He cleared his throat and began to sing, with a touch of an Irish lilt, about a bachelor living all alone whose only sin had been to try to protect a fair young maiden from the foggy, foggy dew. One night she came to my bedside When I was fast asleep. She laid her head upon my bed And she began to weep She sighed, she cried, she damn near died She said what shall I do? So I hauled her into bed and covered up her head Just to keep her from the foggy, foggy dew. “Oh my!” I laughed, covering my mouth. “I don’t think I would have stuck Burl Ives in jail for that, but it is pretty funny,” “Marine’s are the lewdest, crudest, foulest talking bunch you’ll ever find. I’ve heard much, much worse. I’ve sung much, much worse. I tried to remain chaste and virtuous, and I still have the nickname Preacher after all these years - but I have been somewhat corrupted.” He waggled his eyebrows at his ribaldry. “I kind of liked that song…” I mused, half kidding. “Sing something else but without the Irish.” “Without the Irish? That’s the best part.” Samuel smiled crookedly. “I had a member of my platoon whose mom was born and raised in Ireland. This guy could do an authentic Irish accent, and man, could he sing. When he sang Danny Boy everybody cried. All these tough, lethal Marines, bawling like babies

Were I but perfectly normal, I would just not be.

Walter Brennan, the on-screen grandfather, was also a grandfather on his ranch. Tammy, Mike’s daughter, remembered this period during a tour of Lightning Creek we took with Mike in July 2014. “When the lights were off, the lights were off,” Tammy recalled, “because of the gas generator. You had to find the bathroom in the dark.” “Grampy loved it,” Tammy said, “surrounded by quiet.” Still standing is the cathedral sized, handmade barn Ray Pogue set up just before selling the ranch to Walter, “212 feet long, about 65 feet wide,” Mike said. “I don’t know if Grampy had any funny things happen to him out here,” Tammy mused, perhaps wanting to help out a biographer. “No, none.” Mike said. “He just came out here, sat, and left,” Tammy suggested. “He’d come up and go deer hunting with us,” Mike added. “I don’t recall him ever shooting anything. I’d shoot something. I took the liver out of a deer. I didn’t have anywhere to put it, so I just tucked it in my shirt, the whole bloody thing. He’d get a kick out of it.

This is the part of film acting that I was only too happy to leave behind, the part that became more agonizing as time went on. Yet you have to go through those terrifying times if you are ever to have the magic ones, the times when it all works—and to be truthful, those I have missed. There were perhaps only eight or nine of them out of forty-five films, but they were the times when I stepped into my light and my muse was with me, all my channels were open, the creative flow coursed through my body, and I became. Whether the scene was sad or funny, tragic or triumphant, never mattered. When it worked it was like being enveloped in love and light, as I danced the intricate dance between technique and emotion, fully inside the scene while simultaneously a separate part of me observed and enjoyed the unfolding. Ah, but just because it has happened once doesn’t mean it will again! Each time is starting new, raw; it’s a crapshoot—you just never know. Which is why this profession is so great for the heart—and so hard on the nerves. I always assumed that the more you did something the easier it would get, but in the case of my career I found the opposite to be true. Every year the work seemed to get harder and my fear more paralyzing. Once, on the set of Old Gringo, I watched Gregory Peck late in his career doing a long, very difficult scene over and over again all day long. I saw that he too was scared. I went up to him afterward and hugged him and told him how beautiful and transparent he had been. “But, Greg,” I asked, “why do we do this to ourselves? Especially you. You’ve had a long and incredible career. You could easily retire. Why are you still willing to be scared?” Greg sat for a moment, rubbing his chin. Then he said, “Well, Jane, maybe it’s like my friend Walter Matthau says. His biggest thrill in life is to be gambling and losing a bit more than he can afford and then have one chance to win it all back. That’s what you live for—that moment. The crapshoot. If it’s easy, what’s the point?

I get a kick out of cursing people for life on Sundays.

I'd have kicked your ass as too your head were both not full of shit, butthead.

Shaylah's sudden, sharp exclamation jerked Califa out of her musings. Dare dropped his cup, and it shattered on the table as his head snapped around to his mate. "I think the new prince of Trios wants to join us for this meal," Shaylah said a little breathlessly. Drake paled. "Oh, God." "No one to blame but yourself," Dax said to him with a grin. "Don't get brassy, Defense Minister Silverbrake," Califa said, setting down her own cup to help Shaylah rise. "You don't want to give him any smart remarks to use on you later." "To use on me?" Dax echoed, puzzled. Then, as her meaning hit, his eyes widened and he gaped at her. "Oh God." [...] "And I'll be there, my friend," Dare teased Dax, "rest assured.

What a disaster that was. I was utterly dismayed at the thought that I might take a wrong decision and perhaps miss out on marrying the one and only unique person in the cosmos that God had selected for me, who might be a mustachioed Christian goat-herd called Brawn Hilda living on the windswept hills of Estonia. If I messed up, not only would I be condemned to a ‘second choice’ marriage, but poor old Brawn Hilda would be consigned to a dull life watching goats swanning around (maybe that should be goating around) and reading Leviticus for slaughtering tips, her only joy the sight of her country occasionally winning the Eurovision Song Contest.

What could I possibly tell you. Religious nuts know it all. But for one thing - that they are butt-holes.

Every religious nut must have his or her say, condemning the infidels to hell, every which way. But then so should those opposing them, lampooning these nutcases as they choose, or as they may.

I often wonder, how come fundamentalists of every religion have nutcases akin themselves as their god?

Stop cribbing! Go, get a life. But then, perhaps you hate life. In that case, get a wife.

I concede your god is the only god, except for one - my pal up there nowhere, Mr. NOT.

Humans for most part are boorish, boastful, and beasts. They're pretentious, piss-full, pussy-led and penis-full as their priests.

A rascal at any age is a rogue. Till the time he dies of old age.

The truth is a farthing distance from god-ism and atheism. Were both of them, the religious nuts and the atheist bull-heads to stop farting, they would at the very least get a farthing of the Truth.

The quintessential 'make' of the Cosmos or Universe, is 'unity' and 'oneness'. Get it somehow, anyhow. Live accordingly. Or remain as you are. And die a dumbass. Your choice, douchebags.

Just now my god Mr. NOT kicked your imaginary pal's butt! If you did not hear of it but I did, should we at least agree that we both are nuts!

Forgiveness is a funny thing,” Cranfield mused. “So often, we spend time thinking about whether we want to forgive someone or not.” Cranfield stopped and turned to face Michael. “When in fact, the person we really need to forgive is ourselves. Until we do that, whatever else we do is empty. Meaningless.” Michael winced.

You know what’s funny?” she muses. “How sometimes you look at a man and it’s like, Oh, yeah, that. And then you look at a woman and it’s like, Ooh, yes, this.