Naughty Kids Quotes

Dream Caroline and Dream Simon were some naughty kids.

Accepting necessary conflicts for the sake of improving the lives of children is the only fundamental moral crusade that matters.

Exactly. Believe in yourself. Believe that no one can hurt you. Because, the truth is, Sam, no one can hurt you. The only person who can hurt you is yourself. Other kids might hit you, but you’re the one who decides if that’s a problem or not.

The gist of it was that there were two types of men who absconded from their marriages: the naughty and the needy. The naughty absconder was a simple dick-driven creature who just couldn't help himself. However much he might love his family, it always came second to his main object in life, namely, chasing women. The needy absconder was basically insecure and forever trying to prove to himself how much everybody loved him. His family was, in effect, one big love machine that needed his constant control and attention. When his kids grew older and got lives of their own and didn't need him so much, he suddenly got scared and felt old and useless. So he ran off to look for a new love machine someplace else.

My four-year-old is…what is he doing, exactly? I’m not entirely sure, but knowing Knight, it can’t be anything remotely constructive, and it will probably earn him an indefinite amount of naughty spot time. This kid has seen more walls than a mural painter. He is my mini-me on steroids. Swag, attitude, and mischief all wrapped up in an innocent smile.

Every single child is gifted. And every single child has challenges. It's just that in the educational system, some gifts and challenges are harder to see...We can help our kids who struggle in school believe that they're okay. It's just that there's only one way to help them. And it's hard. We have to actually believe that our kids are okay. We can start believing by erasing the idea that education is a race. It's not. We unwrap our gifts at different times. In the meantime, we have to believe that every last one of our kids is okay. The straight-A ones and the ones with autism and the naughty ones and the chunky ones and the shy ones and the loud ones and the so-far-behind ones.

Fine. I’m just kidding. But I’m telling you, if we can’t come up with something quick, I am not opposed to selling my body on a street corner. I haven’t gotten laid in forever, and I wouldn’t mind a little action that doesn’t include a few grunts, a few pumps, and the guy rolling over and snoring.” “My word, what kind of men have you been with?” I ask. “Your ex,” she says with a blank expression.

Homie caught a body Got a naughty shawty Throw her in the trunk of my purple buggati Opps on my tail damn making this a party Firing shots man I think they might’ve got me Bleeding and speeding on the 401 This is hood economics 101 Got that gangsta archetype like Carl Yung Damn making me ask who am I running from? When I know I got balls and a fuckin loaded gun Roll out on the freeway while takin some heat One cop two cop three’s on his feet Yeah bullseye put one his knee Cryin oh please don’t hurt me you know I got family Put him to sleep with nice slick kick As I head to his home to go meet his kids His wife’s crying in the corner as I fire from the hip Yeah there’s heart in this clip I put my all in this shit Leaving their home while unfulfilled Got a taste for killing need more blood to spill God looking down asking me to chill Fire shots in the air tellin him no deal Already dug my grave and wrote my will Therapist tells me just stay home and masturbate man Tell him fuck off you know I’m Patrick Bateman Killers don’t discriminate you know I still kill women Brutally beat them into mush on the pavement Screaming for help with no-one here to save them My life has purpose and I know who I am A cold blooded killer with two glocks in his hands Better run mothafucka you know you stand no chance Cause it takes two to tango and damn I wanna dance

Bobby ran up on the deck and skidded to a stop in front of them. “It’s time for the Kowalski Fourth of July Football Game of Doom!” Cat laughed and pushed herself out of her seat. “We’ll talk about this some other time, Emma. Go have fun.” “I’m not sure I want to play football. Especially if there’s doom involved,” she said, but Bobby grabbed her hand and dragged her off the deck. They were divvied up into teams roughly by size, each with an assortment of men, women and children. Emma was on Sean’s team, which was good. She’d just hide behind him, because the only thing she knew about football was that it involved a lot of hitting. It only took a few plays to see that the Kowalskis played by their own rules and the few they had were fluid. Mostly they served to ensure the smaller kids didn’t get plowed over, victims of the adults’ competitive streak. Five minutes into the game, Emma somehow ended up with the ball. She squealed and looked around for somebody—anybody—to hand it off to, but there was nobody. Well, there was Danny, but he was doubled over in laughter. “Run, Emma,” Lisa yelled. She ran in the direction her friend was frantically waving her hand, but she only went a few feet before two very strong arms wrapped around her waist and then she was falling. Luckily, she landed on a body instead of the ground. “I love football,” Mitch said, grinning up at her. Emma grimaced and managed to get one of her knees on solid ground so she could push herself to her feet. He was quicker and freed himself to stand and help her up. “They should give you the ball more often,” he said, his blue eyes sparkling and the grin so like Sean’s—but not quite as naughty—in full force. “Hands off my girl,” Sean told him, pulling on Emma’s elbow. “You should do a better job of blocking for her. “Let’s go,” Brian shouted. The very next play, Mitch intercepted Mike’s pass to Evan and turned to run toward the other end zone. He was halfway there when Sean took him down hard. They hit the ground with a bone-jarring thud that made Emma wince, and came up pushing and shoving. When Sean drew back his arm to throw the first punch, Mary blew her whistle from the sidelines. “Boys! Enough!” Instead of heading straight for the huddle, Sean walked to Emma and pulled her into his arms for a hard, almost punishing caveman kiss that made her skin sizzle and her knees go wobbly. Then he glared at his brother for a few long seconds and went back to his team, leaving Emma standing there breathless and discombobulated.

What do you call kids born in whorehouses? Brothel sprouts.

A guy walks into a bar with a dog under his arm, puts the dog on the bar, and announces that the dog can talk and that he has a hundred dollars he’s willing to bet anyone who says he can’t. The bartender quickly takes the bet and the guy turns to his dog and asks, “What’s the thing on top of this building that keeps the rain from coming inside?” “ROOF,” answers the dog. “Who are you kidding?” says the bartender. “I’m not paying.” The dog’s owner says, “How about double or nothing and I’ll ask him something else?” “Well...okay.” The guy then turns to his dog and asks, “Who was the greatest ballplayer of all time?” “RUTH,” replies the dog. With that, the bartender picks them both up and throws them out the door. As they hit the sidewalk the dog looks at his owner and says, “Do you think I should’ve said DiMaggio?

A man walks into a bar and sees a good-looking, smartly dressed woman perched on a barstool. He walks up behind her and says, “Hi there, good looking, how’s it going?” She turns around, faces him, looks him straight in the eye and says, “Listen, I’ll screw anybody, anytime, anywhere, your place, my place, it doesn’t matter. I’ve been doing it ever since I got out of college. I just flat out love it.” “No kidding? I’m a lawyer, too! What firm are you with?

Mr. Smith, the president of a large corporation, calls his vice president into his office and says, “Dave, we’re making some cutbacks, so either Jack or Barbara will have to be laid off.” “Well,” says Dave, “Barbara is my best worker, but Jack has a wife and three kids. I don’t know whom to fire.” The next morning, Dave waits for his employees to arrive. Barbara is the first to come in. Dave says, “Barbara, I’ve got a problem. I’ve got to lay you or Jack off—and I don’t know what to do.” “You’d better jack off. I’ve got a headache.

A guy has been asking the prettiest girl in town for a date and finally she agrees to go out with him. He takes her to a nice restaurant and buys her a fancy dinner with expensive wine. On the way home, he finds a secluded spot and pulls over to the side of the road. They start necking and he’s getting pretty excited. He starts to reach under her skirt and she stops him, saying she’s a virgin and wants to stay that way. “Well, okay,” he says, “how about a blow job?” “Yuck!” she screams. “I’m not putting that thing in my mouth!” “Well then... how about a hand job?” “I’ve never done that. What do I have to do?” “Well, remember when you were a kid and you used to shake up a Coke bottle and spray your brother with it?” She nods. “Well, it’s just like that.” So, he pulls out his dick and she grabs hold of it and starts shaking it. A few seconds later, his head snaps back against the headrest, his eyes roll up in his head, wax blows out of his ears, and he screams in pain. “What’s wrong?” she cries out. “Take your thumb off the end!!!

What were you playing?” I ask. “Nothing yet,” she says with a smile. “I can take requests.” I shake my head. This is one area where I can’t bond with her. “I don’t know anything at all about music,” I say. “Sorry.” I know it’s important to her. Kind of like a mainstay in her life. “You can’t hear this at all?” she asks. Her fingers strum across the strings again. “That?” I shake my head. I wish I could hear it, but I can’t. “Can you hear any music?” She’s curious. I like that. I nod. “I can hear the rock bands at the club. Or rather, I can feel the beat and the rhythm of the song when rock and roll is playing.” “Can you dance?” I roll my eyes. “Can I dance? You have to be kidding me.” I motion to my body. “I have rhythm.” Her face colors. That’s not quite the rhythm I meant, but I’ll take it. “Someone is thinking naughty thoughts,” I tease. I reach for her toe, but she jerks it back before I can tug on it. “I’m sorry I can’t enjoy your music,” I confess. “There’s nothing I would like more than to hear you play. I want to experience everything that makes you happy.” I shake my head. I don’t usually feel left out of anything, but I do now.

Noelle, would you mind grabbing the other phone?” The silver clattered as the girl set it down. “Turn down the heat, set the table, answer the phone . . .” she grumbled playfully. As soon as Noelle left the room, Jake pulled Meridith close. “You just wanted to be alone with me.” She thought of denying it, but then she looked into his eyes. Oh, who was she kidding? He brushed his lips across hers. Heaven. She heard Noelle’s muted answer from the other room. “Summer Place, may I help you?” Jake deepened the kiss and Meridith slid her arms around his waist. “Hi, Rita,” Noelle continued. “Yeah, she’s here. Just a minute.” Meridith forced herself to push Jake away. “Naughty boy,” she whispered. She dragged her eyes from his and retrieved the salad dressing, trying to gather her wits before Noelle entered. “It’s

Lori and Smith were heading over to his office when she grabbed his arm, grinned widely and said, “You’re Valentina’s mystery guy that she can’t shake, aren’t you?” Knowing Lori was completely beside herself with glee at realizing he was Valentina’s un-boyfriend, Smith muttered, “This is making your day, isn’t it, Naughty?” “Are you kidding? This has just made my year!

I knew the one thing I wanted to do more than anything was to get to Steve. I needed to bring my kids home as fast as possible. I didn’t understand what had been going on in the rest of the world. Steve’s accident had occurred at eleven o’clock in the morning. The official time of death was made at twelve noon, the exact time that Bindi had looked at her watch and said, for no apparent reason, “It’s twelve o’clock.” Now I had to go out to the car and tell Bindi and Robert what had happened to their daddy. How do you tell an eight-year-old child that her father has died? A two-year-old boy? The person they loved most in the world was gone, the person they looked up to, relied on, and emulated, who played with them in the bubble bath and told them stories about when he was a naughty little boy, who took them for motorbike rides and got them ice cream, went on croc-catching adventures and showed them the world’s wildlife. I had to tell them that they had lost this most important person, on this most beautiful day. Emma came in and I told her what had happened. Suddenly I felt very sick. I didn’t know if I could stand up, and I asked to use the restroom. Then I realized this was the exact time for me to be strong. For years I had counted on Steve’s strength. At six feet tall and two hundred pounds, he was a force to be reckoned with. But he always told me there were different kinds of strength. Steve said he could count on me to be strong when times were hard. I thought about that, and I suddenly understood there must be a reason that I was here and he was gone. I needed to help his kids, to be there for our children. All I wanted to do was run, and run, and run. But I had to stay. With Emma at my side, I went outside and climbed into the car. Bindi had opened up the raspberries again. I put them away and sat her down. She knew instantly by my face that something was wrong. “Did something happen to one of the animals at the zoo?” she asked. “Something happened to Daddy,” I said. “He was diving, and he had an accident.” I told her everything that I knew about what had happened. She cried. We all cried. Robert still slept.

I knew the one thing I wanted to do more than anything was to get to Steve. I needed to bring my kids home as fast as possible. I didn’t understand what had been going on in the rest of the world. Steve’s accident had occurred at eleven o’clock in the morning. The official time of death was made at twelve noon, the exact time that Bindi had looked at her watch and said, for no apparent reason, “It’s twelve o’clock.” Now I had to go out to the car and tell Bindi and Robert what had happened to their daddy. How do you tell an eight-year-old child that her father has died? A two-year-old boy? The person they loved most in the world was gone, the person they looked up to, relied on, and emulated, who played with them in the bubble bath and told them stories about when he was a naughty little boy, who took them for motorbike rides and got them ice cream, went on croc-catching adventures and showed them the world’s wildlife. I had to tell them that they had lost this most important person, on this most beautiful day.

What are you looking at?” she finally snips at him. “Take a picture, why don’t you? It lasts longer.” “Okay.” Cullen pulls out his phone and takes a picture. “You did not just do that.” Cullen shrugs his shoulders. As if to say I’ll do whatever I want. “I charge for pictures.” It’s true. She makes money off her pictures. It’s normally her with food or a knife, but still. “How about we leave these two kids alone and I’ll buy you coffee and something from the bakery?” “No.” MJ grabs her purse from the table by the front door. “I want a beer and steak.” Cullen full-on smiles at her stern look. For the first time I can really see how much he and Maddox do look alike, only Cullen’s eyes are blue. You’d think she was an adorable puppy who did something naughty but is too cute to be mad at with the way Cullen is smiling down at her. “After you, shortcake.” He doesn’t move but motions for her to pass. MJ looks to me. “He’s pushing it.” She nods to Cullen as if he can’t hear her.

Naughty? Me? I'm just a sheepdog puppy who wants to have fun.

I think I keep calling him Mav because I want him to loosen up a little. Get dirty. Be a kid. Isn’t that why all the Williams of the world were called Billy as kids and the Richards were called Dicks? Actually maybe a bully came up with that one.

It’s a common thing for Xhosa parents to say to their kids. Any time I heard it I knew it meant the conversation was over, and if I uttered another word I was in for a hiding—what we call a spanking. At the time, I attended a private Catholic school called Maryvale College. I was the champion of the Maryvale sports day every single year, and my mother won the moms’ trophy every single year. Why? Because she was always chasing me to kick my ass, and I was always running not to get my ass kicked. Nobody ran like me and my mom. She wasn’t one of those “Come over here and get your hiding” type moms. She’d deliver it to you free of charge. She was a thrower, too. Whatever was next to her was coming at you. If it was something breakable, I had to catch it and put it down. If it broke, that would be my fault, too, and the ass-kicking would be that much worse. If she threw a vase at me, I’d have to catch it, put it down, and then run. In a split second, I’d have to think, Is it valuable? Yes. Is it breakable? Yes. Catch it, put it down, now run. We had a very Tom and Jerry relationship, me and my mom. She was the strict disciplinarian; I was naughty as shit. She would send me out to buy groceries, and I wouldn’t come right home because I’d be using the change from the milk and bread to play arcade games at the supermarket.

Mama’s so naughty she packed dog poop in a sack and went to deliver it as Christmas gifts to poor kids in the neighbourhood.

I wasn’t getting along with Trouble and for good reason. He strolled over and made a snide remark. “Patches,” he meowed, “why do you look so worried? Has Santa got you on the Naughty List this year? Oh, look, someone left some muddy shoes by the back door. Meowr.” “GRmpf.” I snarled. “Oh. And is this a Patch-of-mud on the doormat?” mewed Trouble. “Look, Cat,” I said, “My status with Santa is a private affair. Someone with a name like yours shouldn’t be pointing paws!” “That’s so. That’s so,” he purred. “Pointing paws usually lead to flying fur and the need for hair ex-ten-sions.” Trouble did say things that made sense sometimes, in a weird sort of way. (He was trying to mes-mer-ize me with those purrs, but it wouldn’t work). “Purr--cise-ly. Oh, uh-hum, I meant to say, pre-cise-ly,” I growled, “So let’s drop the subject.” Then he PURRED at me.

gifts, and the nice kids do. But an interesting thing happens to Fred as he does this task. Looking at the kids who have been labeled naughty, he begins to see things differently. The kids are not naughty. Sure, they do naughty things, but there’s something special about every one of them. What’s more, often the reason they do naughty things is because they were hurt or wounded or misled or misguided. Fred comes to believe that the kids most in need of a gift are the naughty ones. Maybe that gift—receiving kindness when they don’t deserve it—would change them.

Greg matched my passion and pulled me close. We stood there kissing until my legs were wobbly. When our lips parted, he smiled and asked, "What has gotten into you?" I whispered in his ear, "I need you inside me as soon as possible.", and stepped away from him, casually dragging my hand across the bulge in his khaki pants. Both of us were ready to rip off of our clothes and hit the bed,  the problem was the kids were still up for about another four hours. Since I was feeling particularly naughty, I decided to tease Greg until the kids were fast asleep and I could extinguish the fire that was stirring in my jeans.

Naughty eggs. Stop that. You scared the hell out of me. Don’t do that again. The lilac egg blinked away, blinked back, then laughed. Kids.

Parents have no right to expect more from their children than they expect from themselves. When a parent has personal permission to throw temper tantrums, lash out, yell, belittle, or disrespect, it is reasonable to extend that same courtesy to the children. I have a little secret to share—your children are not picking up their pesky behaviors and attitudes from the other children in class, or from video games, television, music, or the “naughty” cousin they see on holidays. They are mimicking you.

good preachers should be like bad kids. They ought to be naughty enough to tiptoe up on dozing congregations, steal their bottles of religion pills … and flush them all down the drain. The church, by and large, has drugged itself into thinking that proper human behavior is the key to its relationship with God. What preachers need to do is force it to go cold turkey with nothing but the word of the cross—and then be brave enough to stick around while [the congregation] goes through the inevitable withdrawal symptoms. But preachers can’t be that naughty or brave unless they’re free from their own need for the dope of acceptance. And they won’t be free of their need until they can trust the God who has already accepted them, in advance and dead as doornails, in Jesus. Ergo, the absolute indispensability of trust in Jesus’ passion. Unless the faith of preachers is in that alone—and not in any other person, ecclesiastical institution, theological system, moral prescription, or master recipe for human loveliness—they will be of very little use in the pulpit.

Did you say naughty?” she asked. “Yes. They read steamy romance and then meet over drinks to discuss.” “Are you kidding me? Our mom?” “Let’s say she and her lady friends have an extensive knowledge of firefighters and all of their… equipment.” Anna chuckled. “Wow. That is a surprisingly clear visual, so thank you for that.

I know many folks who have business cards made up that state that their child has Autism and explain what it is. They feel that educating these judgmental, tisk-tisking, disrespectful types will help. My husband and I always joked that we were going to have our own cards made up that said, “My son has autism. He is not intentionally being naughty or rude, but you are!

I’ll never understand how they could waste perfectly good food on a strange man breaking into your home to check on little kids who bribes them with toys. Santa should totally be on the sex offender registry, a naughty list of his own making, if he’s not already. Just my two cents. The creepy fuck.