No Jokes Quotes

Percy wouldn't notice a joke if it danced naked in front of him wearing one of Dobby's hats.

Investigation?" Isabelle laughed. "Now we're detectives? Maybe we should all have code names." "Good idea," said Jace. "I shall be Baron Hotschaft Von Hugenstein.

I was smiling yesterday,I am smiling today and I will smile tomorrow.Simply because life is too short to cry for anything.

Forgive, O Lord, my little jokes on Thee And I'll forgive Thy great big one on me.

I don't mind making jokes, but I don't want to look like one.

Electricity is actually made up of extremely tiny particles called electrons, that you cannot see with the naked eye unless you have been drinking.

There are certain queer times and occasions in this strange mixed affair we call life when a man takes this whole universe for a vast practical joke, though the wit thereof he but dimly discerns, and more than suspects that the joke is at nobody's expense but his own.

And when he died, I suddenly realized I wasn’t crying for him at all, but for the things he did. I cried because he would never do them again, he would never carve another piece of wood or help us raise doves and pigeons in the backyard or play the violin the way he did, or tell us jokes the way he did. He was part of us and when he died, all the actions stopped dead and there was no one to do them the way he did. He was individual. He was an important man. I’ve never gotten over his death. Often I think what wonderful carvings never came to birth because he died. How many jokes are missing from the world, and how many homing pigeons untouched by his hands? He shaped the world. He did things to the world. The world was bankrupted of ten million fine actions the night he passed on.

There’s a kind of time travel in letters, isn’t there? I imagine you laughing at my small joke; I imagine you groaning; I imagine you throwing my words away. Do I have you still? Do I address empty air and the flies that will eat this carcass? You could leave me for five years, you could return never—and I have to write the rest of this not knowing.

The best ideas come as jokes. Make your thinking as funny as possible.

Looking but not seeing is the hearing but not understanding of the eye.

Finally, I said that I couldn’t see how anyone could be educated by this self-propagating system in which people pass exams, and teach others to pass exams, but nobody knows anything.

The fight unfolded like background noise. White noise. In the foreground, even with his ghastly pale face looking dead in my hands, my fingers clenching his ragged hair, all I could see was random images of Fang, not dead. Fang telling me stupid fart jokes from the dog crate next to mine at the school, trying to make me laugh. Fang asleep at Jeb's old house, and me jumping wildly on his bed to wake him up. Him pretending to be asleep. Me laughing when I "accidentally" kicked him where it counts. Him dumping me off the bed. Fang gagging on my first attempt at cooking dinner after Jeb disappeared. Him spitting out the mac and cheese. Me dumping the rest of the bowl on him in response. Fang on the beach, that first time he was badly injured. Me realizing how I felt about him. Fang kissing me. So close I couldn't even see his dark eyes anymore. The first time. The second time. The third. I could always remember each and every one of them. Would always remember them. Fang. Not. Dead.

What of the firefly, the one I love to chase? The old man smiled Love her he said but leave her wild, and the old oak tree I love to climb? Love her, he said, but leave her wild the bird that sings that song I love? Love her, he said, but leave her wild and the wolf that cries to the old joke moon? Love her, he said, but leave her wild and the horse that loves to run with storms? Love her, he said, but leave her wild. And what of her, the one I love most? And the old man smiled. Yes, he said, you must love her too but love her wild and she’ll love you

You'll have to excuse Zo's manners. She was raised by a group of indigenous swamp wallabies and is at times uncomfortable conversing with civilized humans." "Look, it's like this-" Zo started to say, but then she interrupted herself. "Swamp wallabies?

Even now, at this very moment, I feel like he’s going to pop up somewhere, laugh wholeheartedly, and say, ‘Hey everyone, I’m still here. This was all just a big practical joke.

I try not to be angry, bitter at the unfairness of it all. I wish I could make sense of it. I once met an ex-Iranian pilot who was traveling through Canada looking for a place to settle down. He said that Americans are the only people he’s ever met who just can’t accept that bad things can happen to good people. Maybe he’s right. Last week I was listening to the radio and just happened to hear [name withheld for legal reasons]. He was doing his usual thing—fart jokes and insults and adolescent sexuality—and I remember thinking, “This man survived and my parents didn’t.” No, I try not to be bitter.

A LETTER FROM ROMANIA Do you see me? Squinting beneath the half-light, Searching for a key to The locked door of the world, Lost within my own shadow Amidst an empire of fear. Do you feel me? Heating a brick To warm my sleep. Drifting into dreams, In search of myself, In search of a conscience, a country. Do you hear me? Reciting jokes Laughing to hide tears of truth That we are denied the present With empty promises Of an emptier future. Do you pity me? Lips that know no taste of fruit, Lonely in a country of millions, Stumbling toward the gallows Of bad decisions While the walls listen and laugh. Will you remember me? A boy with wings of hope Strapped to his back That never had a chance to open, Denied forever knowing What he could have become. What we all could have become.

I clear my throat. “If you’re about to make a cowgirl joke, you can save it.” “Nah, it was gonna be Taylor Swift–themed.” “In that case, you may proceed. But with caution. I was really into her when she was still country.

Oh, those are all our very best moments, when we’re wasting our lives. It’s an act of magnificent rebellion to do meaningless things, to waste time, to swim and drink soda and sleep late. To be silly and frivolous, to laugh at stupid little jokes and tell stupid little stories. Or to paint big paintings, the biggest you can manage, and to try to learn to whisper in color. To look for a way to show other people: this was me, these were my humans, these were our farts. These were our bodies, and they were small, far too small, because they couldn’t contain all our love. That’s all of life. All we can hope for. You mustn’t think about the fact that it might end, because then you live like a coward, you never love too much or sing too loudly. You have to take it for granted, the artist thinks, the whole thing: sunrises and slow Sunday mornings and water balloons and another person’s breath against your neck. That’s the only courageous thing a person can do.

Mike glanced at the two computer towers lying half-autopsied on her kitchen table. One had a bag of chips in it, the top held shut with a binder clip. A stack of motherboards rested on the chair in Mylar bags. “Maid’s been on vacation, I see,” said Mike. “Yeah. She ran off with the guy who writes your jokes.” “Ouch.” “There’s a postcard from them here somewhere. Want me to look for that instead?” “No, no. Just the logs will be fine.

Oh! There's a straw!" she exclaimed excitedly, pushing her face toward the straw and straight into the bush of blooming oregano, inhaling its fresh aroma as she sucked up a creamy warm liquid. It was a soup, but it took her a few minutes to figure out exactly what kind of soup--- it was sweet and buttery and soft. And then she placed it. "Potato!" she cried, her eyes darting across the table to Eamon. Eamon's eyes sparkled in return, and he submerged his face into the tiny herb garden. "Point proven, once again," he added, after coming up for air. She tried to sip it slowly, savoring the sweet flavor and velvety texture, but it was too delicious.

We've got fried cod cakes, salmon salad with trout roe, Swedish shrimp, and liver pâté, because I can never say no to pâté. And a big fat cheeseburger." "Yes!" Cassie cried. "I'm so excited. I can't wait for that cheeseburger," she joked.

Cassie perused the offerings, her mouth watering with excitement. Lemon cream, raspberry ricotta and meringue, Parmesan, creamed corn, cassis, persimmon, summer fig, bergamot, tiramisu, creamed coffee, watermelon cream... the list went on and on. "Oh my god, how do you even decide?" Her head was spinning. "Well, I like to do a combination. One fruit, one nut, one cream--- or chocolate, depending on my mood. So tonight I'm going to have wild strawberry, pistachio, and salted caramel. Pistachio is my constant. I always order it. It's my litmus test to judge the gelateria." "Excellent strategy." She nodded and perused the case while Eamon ordered. She decided on Parmesan, fig, and blue honey with walnuts. "I'm going for the cheese plate combo," she joked.

It is a truth,” Eli said, “a truth that we joke about, but a truth nonetheless. Married women sacrifice. I do not deny that, especially the one married to my brother.” Eli and Josh both laughed. “But there is something about women that allows this sacrifice to come more fully and more easily. Certainly, I speak in generalities, but on the whole, men struggle most in marriages, to learn and understand who they are in relation to their wives and children. Men struggle most with selfishness that does not allow them to see their wives as someone they give to, rather than take from. Jonah, you have always been giving, but you have always been selfish. I say this not to hurt you but to love you. Bria, while you struggled so long to see yourself as worthy, you have been worthy all along. Your heart is pure, so very pure, and I understand clearly why my brother began falling in love with you the instant he saw you on that deserted highway. Sacrifice will be easy for you, but you must allow Jonah to walk beside you. You must allow him to sacrifice and give as well, or you will be withholding from him a key part of his vocation and you will both suffer.

Fred, you next,” the plump woman said. “I’m not Fred, I’m George,” said the boy. “Honestly, woman, you call yourself our mother? Can’t you tell I’m George?” “Sorry, George, dear.” “Only joking, I am Fred,” said the boy, and off he went. His twin called after him to hurry up, and he must have done so, because a second later, he had gone — but how had he done it?

If you got mad, you were crazy, and if you didn't react, you were a bitch. The only thing you could do was smile from the corner they'd backed you into. Implicate yourself in the joke even if the joke was always on you.

He could be a joke to everyone else, but he was never a joke to me.

Perhaps the attribute of David’s that Sydney found so attractive was his sense of humour. ‘She should really have married a more social man,’ one of her children said, ‘but she never complained . . . and she laughed tremendously at my father’s jokes; he could be brilliantly funny.

My selective hearing only picked up dropping to your knees,” I say, trying to make a joke, and she rolls her eyes. “Do you remember what Hudson and I told you before practice? I know you don’t give a shit about me. I know we’re not friends, but loyalty is kind of my thing. I take care of the people in my life, Hartwell, which now includes you. If someone told you that what you’re doing—what you’ve done—as an athlete isn’t deserving of recognition, I’d like to know names so I can kindly tell them to fuck off and stop messing with my left winger’s head on what should be the biggest day of her career.

Thinking about what I look like shirtless, Hartwell?” I joke. “I’m flattered.” A smile—the tiniest, faintest smile I’ve ever seen—pulls at her lips, and I’m the proudest motherfucker in the world. I want to set off a confetti cannon. Hang a banner from the rafters of the Civic Center that says I MADE EMERSON HARTWELL SMILE. Put it on a T-shirt and wear it around town. I think she’d actually strangle me if I did that, but it makes me want to do it even more.