Naughty Forty Quotes

Having perfected his arrangements, he would get my pipe, and, lighting it, would hand it to me. Often he was obliged to strike a light for the occasion, and as the mode he adopted was entirely different from what I had ever seen or heard of before I will describe it. A straight, dry, and partly decayed stick of the Hibiscus, about six feet in length, and half as many inches in diameter, with a small, bit of wood not more than a foot long, and scarcely an inch wide, is as invariably to be met with in every house in Typee as a box of lucifer matches in the corner of a kitchen cupboard at home. The islander, placing the larger stick obliquely against some object, with one end elevated at an angle of forty-five degrees, mounts astride of it like an urchin about to gallop off upon a cane, and then grasping the smaller one firmly in both hands, he rubs its pointed end slowly up and down the extent of a few inches on the principal stick, until at last he makes a narrow groove in the wood, with an abrupt termination at the point furthest from him, where all the dusty particles which the friction creates are accumulated in a little heap. At first Kory-Kory goes to work quite leisurely, but gradually quickens his pace, and waxing warm in the employment, drives the stick furiously along the smoking channel, plying his hands to and fro with amazing rapidity, the perspiration starting from every pore. As he approaches the climax of his effort, he pants and gasps for breath, and his eyes almost start from their sockets with the violence of his exertions. This is the critical stage of the operation; all his previous labours are vain if he cannot sustain the rapidity of the movement until the reluctant spark is produced. Suddenly he stops, becoming perfectly motionless. His hands still retain their hold of the smaller stick, which is pressed convulsively against the further end of the channel among the fine powder there accumulated, as if he had just pierced through and through some little viper that was wriggling and struggling to escape from his clutches. The next moment a delicate wreath of smoke curls spirally into the air, the heap of dusty particles glows with fire, and Kory-Kory, almost breathless, dismounts from his steed.

A middle-aged woman has a heart attack and is rushed to the hospital. While on the operating table she has a near-death experience. Seeing God, she asks if this is it. God says, “No, you have another forty-three years, two months, and eight days to live.” Upon recovering, the woman decides to stay in the hospital and have some cosmetic surgery. She has a facelift, liposuction, breast augmentation, and a tummy tuck. She even has someone come in and change her hair color. Since she has so much more time to live, she figures she might as well make the most of it. She finally leaves the hospital, and as she crosses the street she is struck and killed by an oncoming ambulance. Arriving in front of God, she demands, “I thought you said I had another forty-three years!” “I didn’t recognize you.

The madam opens the brothel door to find a dignified, well-dressed, good-looking man in his late forties. “May I help you?” she asks. “I want to see Valerie,” the man replies. “Sir, Valerie is one of our most expensive ladies. Perhaps you would prefer someone else?” “No. I must see Valerie.” So Valerie is summoned and she tells the man that she charges a thousand dollars a visit. Without hesitation, the man pulls out ten one-hundred dollar bills and hands them to her, and they go upstairs. After an hour, the man leaves. The next night, the man appears again, demanding to see Valerie. Valerie is surprised. She tells him that no client has ever come back two nights in a row, because of her high price. She warns him that there are no discounts—the price will still be a thousand dollars. Again the man calmly pays the fee and they go upstairs. After an hour, he leaves. The next night, there he is again, and again he pays Valerie and they go upstairs. Valerie’s curiosity is getting the better of her. “No one has ever been with me three nights in a row. Where are you from?” she asks. “South Carolina.” “Really? I have family in South Carolina.” “I know. Your father died, and I am your sister’s attorney. She asked me to give you your three thousand dollar inheritance.

A progress of degradation with glowing phraseology, cajoleries and falsity. They put on exaggerated airs of mock-modesty, and assume a scornful pose before their admirers, all the time longing to be noticed. The old punctilious sense of honor have ceased to exist while finally the practices of the man of pleasure, the libertine modes, in full completeness, count at most only some forty years of life, – after which the reign of hypocrisy sets in. What is lighter than a feather? A woman. What is lighter than a woman? Nothing. Phrase found in a Latin satire. It means nothing more nothing less than this: women have always hated morality and seriousness, precise knowledge and deliberate wisdom, which in their eyes are merely silly and hypocritical pretensions that mark the class of professional phrase-mongers. Writers like Gorgias or Appolodorus, or orators like Hyperides, masters of the eloquence that thrills mankind. The Gown, whence springs the type of creatures that tear each other to pieces with tongue and pen. pg84 A kind o f a code of revenge, a guiding principle a point of honor that was held more sacred than life itself Vulsenade Pg94 Such extravagances were admitted by the principles of chivalry, an institution sane enough at its origins, but run mad before its end.” Dr Johannes Scheer, Society and Manners in Germany, Chivalry at Court Pg138 And many another indiscreet, prying teller of naughty tales, are far and away more instructive than formal history, which is either pedantic by convention or else dumb by constraint. In investigations of any kind details should be studied first, in order at a subsequent stage to elaborate the series of special observations made into a general survey of the subject. This is the only way to get good results pg154 A phrase well expressing an easiness of morals at once very frank and very French. Pg166 That treacherous gentleness women practice toward one another – every woman instinctively hates every other. pg164 A woman will allow herself to be told: you belong to a sex possessing a small brain and a half-developed organization; your disposition and instinctive are all disproportionate, inconsequent hypocritical, illogical and futile; your moral sense is deformed, your selfishness without a scruple and your vanity without a limit. All this will hardly so much as annoy her; but dare to say: you have short legs, and you have committed a dire offense woman’s nature can never forgive. Further on, Schopenhauer adds another curiously insulting passage: “The ancients,”he says, “would have laughed at our gallantry of the old French fashion and our stupid veneration for number two of the perfect realization of German-Christian silliness.” pg169 “A married woman’s first thought and care is to devise how to be a widow.” Brantley, Dames galantes, Fourth Discourse

This is where you take back your life and give a giant fuck you to that dipshit of an ex-husband. And that hot piece of man meat out there in the audience who has no idea what’s about to hit him.” My eyes start to burn as they fill with tears, and I quickly blink them back before they ruin the perfect cat-eye eyeliner and false lashes she applied for me in the dressing room an hour ago. “That was the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me,” I tell her with a sniffle. “Just think: Instead of having that giant pole up your ass, you’ll have it in the palm of your hands and be swinging on it in about forty-five seconds,” she says with a smirk. “And then you go and completely ruin it,” I mutter with a shake of my head,

It's been forty years of terrible waste,' she said, 'a whole country of wasted lives. It's a country of big children, people being naughty behind the teacher's back, people tattling on each other, people getting their dumb certificates for being good little socialists. People submitting to the system because they're German and because it's a system. The whole thing was stupid and a lie. But they're not arrogant, not know-it-alls. They give what they have and they take me the way I am.' The closer she came to dying, the more sure of herself she became. She'd concluded that the meaning of a life was in the form of it. There was no answering the question of why she'd been born, she could only take what she'd been given and try to make it end well. She intended to die in her mother's bedroom, in the company of her brother and her only offspring, without the indignity of a colostomy bag.

Inspired by Mitra and the other animals, I got my own little dog—a beagle whom I named Jane Austen because she had the same brow line. It was a rash, ill-advised pet-shop purchase. I bought her for her adorable little face and sad pleading beagle eyes without a thought for breed behavioural characteristics. I didn’t care. I adored her. I found her naughtiness trying but hilarious, especially when she was a puppy. When she was nearly two she followed her nose off the edge of a forty-metre cliff and broke her leg in six places.