No Pun Intended Quotes

I'll take Shadowhunter, then. Because from what I've experienced of vampires, you mostly suck. No pun intended.

I was supposed to watch you, yeah. They thought it was weird that Atherton would send his own kid to Hecate, so we wanted to keep an eye on you. No pun intended.” (Archer)

Los vampiros," she whispered. "Oh God, not the bloody vampires again," said Magnus. "No pun intended.

From what I experienced from vampires, you mostly suck. No pun intended.

You’re a bright girl, aren’t you? No pun intended.

You forgot to cross off anal sex.” “I tried it once. Didn’t like it. If you’re better at it, I’ll have another crack.” I paused. “No pun intended.

I couldn't help it: Brendan was abs-olutely pec-tacular, horrible puns intended and very accurate.

I’ve never met an IceWing,” Clay said, edging back a step. “I’ve never met much of anyone, really. I mean, I guess I read that you were all the color of ice, but I didn’t realize ice came in so many colors. Like, you know, blue. Very surprising. It’s cool, though. Oh, ha ha, no pun intended.

Human beings are more or less formulas. Pun intended. We are not any one thing that is mathematically provable. We are more or less than we are anything. We are more or less kind, or more or less not. More or less selfish, happy, wise, lonely.

Red?" I asked. "I've decided I'm going to call you Red from now on." "All right, I'll bite - no pun intended. Why?" He snickered in a very masculine way and lowered his voice. "'Cause I like the idea of the big bad wolf visiting you and Grandma.

Raphael bared his teeth. “ You must decide if you are a vampire or a Shadowhunter, Daylighter.” “ I’ ll take Shadowhunter, then. Because from what I’ ve experienced of vampires, you mostly suck. No pun intended.

But things were different now. I finally had my head -pun intended- on straight.

It is. If it's too late for me . . . Well, I'll be damned - no pun intended - if I'll let them keep you out, too.

Apollo is hot, no pun intended.

We are defined by what we believe in. Identity is shaped by what we believe is right. Culture is cultured, pun intended; by what we believe is right.' Kita diertikan dengan apa yang kita percaya sebagai benda betul. Dan budaya serta nilai itu sendiri, memang dibentuk dengan benda yang sama juga, apa yang kita percaya sebagai benda yang betul baik. Cuma yang membezakan antara manusia tu ialah apa yang difahami sebagai benda yang betul dan benda yang baik. Contoh, 'Westerners' percaya minum wain merah baik untuk kesihatan jantung. Tapi kalau untuk orang Islam, sah la benda tu haram. Contoh lain, 'Englishmen are all about tea, and Americans are all about coffee.

It’s impossible to explain the emotions cycling through me to someone who never forgot her life, later remembered it, and now has all these memories bleeding into each other. Every day feels more like chaos, like I’m never going to get my life straight—no pun intended—like starting over again is better than game over.

...occasionally I like carrying raw steel to remind myself of an important lesson. The blade's an extension of the hand, the agent--no pun intended--of my will. Most people understand this immediately of edged weapons... The trick--and few are subtle or sophisticated enough to master it--is to see that this is equally true... by implication, of all machines.

My dominant (no pun intended) discourse seems to be needy as fuck.

People who say "no pun intended" are cowards. Intend your puns, weaklings

Knight steps forward, rubbing the back of his neck. “My dick is not six inches long. It is actually a full seven and a half inches. When flaccid. It’s really uncomfortable, and my junk gets hit practically anytime anyone goes for my legs on the field. It’s been really hard for me. All puns intended.

I hate the phrase ‘No pun intended.’ It’s pointless.

It makes me sick NO PUN INTENDED It’s sad We criminalize the poor Everything is broken

Yes, that pun was wholly intended, and yes, I do find myself amusing. The audience doesn’t get it, but that’s what laugh tracks are for.

There must have been some mistake. It took me a while to get a flight here, so I can see why you would have appointed a community lawyer to fill in.” “Community lawyer!” Damon’s face grew red with indignation. “I’m one of the most renowned lawyers among American Moroi.” “Renowned, community.” Abe shrugged and leaned back on his heals. “I don’t judge. No pun intended.” Mead, Richelle (2010-05-18). Spirit Bound: A Vampire Academy Novel (p. 475). Penguin Young Readers Group. Kindle Edition.

Quote taken from Chapter 1: A grave matter has just arisen.” Etta hadn’t intended to make the pun. She went on. “It’s a problem right up your alley.

You’re not gonna believe what just happened to me,” Jase says the minute I flip my cell open, taking advantage of break at the B&T. I turn away from the picture window just in case Mr. Lennox, disregarding the break sign, will come dashing out to slap me with my first-ever demerit. “Try me.” His voice lowers. “You know how I put that lock on the door of my room? Well, Dad noticed it. Apparently. So today, I’m stocking the lawn section and he comes up and asks why it’s there.” “Uh-oh.” I catch the attention of a kid sneaking into the hot tub (there’s a strict no-one-under-sixteen policy) and shake my head sternly. He slinks away. Must be my impressive uniform. “So I say I need privacy sometimes and sometimes you and I are hanging out and we don’t want to be interrupted ten million times.” “Good answer.” “Right. I think this is going to be the end of it. But then he tells me he needs me in the back room to have a ‘talk.’” “Uh-oh again.” Jase starts to laugh. “I follow him back and he sits me down and asks if I’m being responsible. Um. With you.” Moving back into the shade of the bushes, I turn even further away from the possible gaze of Mr. Lennox. “Oh God.” “I say yeah, we’ve got it handled, it’s fine. But, seriously? I can’t believe he’s asking me this. I mean, Samantha. Jesus. My parents? Hard not to know the facts of life and all in this house. So I tell him that we’re moving slowly and—” “You told him that?” God, Jase! How am I ever going to look Mr. Garret in the eye again? Help. “He’s my dad, Samantha. Yeah. Not that I didn’t want to exit the conversation right away, but still . . .” “So what happened then?” “Well, I reminded him they’d covered that really thoroughly in school, not to mention at home, and we weren’t irresponsible people.” I close my eyes, trying to imagine having this conversation with my mother. Inconceivable. No pun intended. “So then . . . he goes on about”—Jase’s voice drops even lower—“um . . . being considerate and um . . . mutual pleasure.” “Oh my god! I would’ve died. What did you say?” I ask, wanting to know even while I’m completely distracted by the thought. Mutual pleasure, huh? What do I know about giving that? What if Shoplifting Lindy had tricks up her sleeve I know nothing about? It’s not like I can ask Mom. “State senator suffers heart attack during conversation with daughter.” “I said ‘Yes sir’ a lot. And he went on and on and on and all I could think was that any minute Tim was gonna come in and hear my dad saying things like, ‘Your mom and I find that . . . blah blah blah.’” I can’t stop laughing. “He didn’t. He did not mention your mother.” “I know!” Jase is laughing too. “I mean . . . you know how close I am to my parents, but . . . Jesus.

My parents are locked in their room, so I don’t have to engage in mindless chitchat. Sometimes Sidney walks around in his underwear. I’m used to dealing with his abundance of chest hair, but the white briefs are too much. I have a solid understanding—pun completely intended—why my mom married him, beyond his stellar personality.

The world moves at a geological pace, no pun intended. That is, there’s lots of standing still, doing nothing much, and then the occasional short, sharp yank. Once in a while, there’s a huge kaboom, and nothing is quite the same afterward.

Then, he smiled. And my consciousness came crashing back down to earth, bitch-slapped out of its reverie, by the worst teeth I had ever seen. Fuck, they were bad. You could have parked a double-wide between those discolored front tusks, and the rest of them looked like they were engaged in fisticuffs, scrambling over each other in a desperate attempt to leap from that hellhole—pun fully intended—and finally put an end to their suffering.

You and him are both alpha males and usually that never works because…well, because one ends up destroying the other. But in very rare situations, some alphas actually enjoy that fight. Someone to push them back, challenge them. You’re turned on by his assholery and he’s turned on by your cockiness. No pun intended

Ms. May,” I said, “I promise you’ll be out of here before you know it. What this other client was telling me just a few days ago: the older you get, the faster the time goes. By now it’s all a blur, she says.” “Wrong,” Maud May said firmly. “Wrong?” “Time has stopped dead still,” she said. Then she gave a snort and said, “No pun intended.

The cultivation of mindfulness is ultimately a matter of life and death, not in a scary way, but in the sense that we are always at risk, in every moment, for missing what is deepest and richest in our lives, the texture of the tapestry itself. We might say (every pun intended) that the richness lies right beneath our noses in any and every moment.

I was confident, but I still loved a good stroking. Pun one hundred percent abso-fucking-lutely intended.

If you decide, you know, that an abortion is the thing, I’ll scrape up the cash.” “Pun intended?” “No,” he said. “Not at all.

Even though his name was Norberto, everybody called him Alberto, except for my grandmother, who called him Alfredo.

I often reflect on what an extraordinary time (pun intended) it is to be alive here in the beginning of the twenty-first century. It took life billions of years to get to this point. It took humans thousands of years to piece together a meaningful understanding of our cosmos, our planet, and ourselves. Think how fortunate we are to know this much. But think also of all that’s yet to be discovered. Here’s hoping the deep answers to the deep questions—from the nature of consciousness to the origin of life—will be found in not too much more time.

Hungry?” he asks. “The wager?” I remind him. “I’m getting there—it’s related to my question.” He lifts his chin to the meat locker. “They have good steaks here.” And just like that, I’m interested in whatever he’s suggesting. “They do. What’re you thinking?” “They have a porterhouse for two, three, or four.” I haven’t eaten in nearly twenty-four hours, and the idea of a big juicy steak has me salivating. “Yeah?” “So, I say we split the one for three, and whoever eats more wins.” “I’m going to guess their porterhouse for three could feed us both for a week.” “I’m betting you’re right.” His adorable grin should be accompanied by the sound of a silvery ding. “And your dinner is on me.” For not the first time, it occurs to me to ask him how he makes ends meet, but I can’t—not here, and maybe not when we’re alone, either. “You don’t have to do that.” “I think I can handle treating my wife to dinner on our wedding night.” Our wedding night. My heart thuds heavily. “That’s a lot of meat. No pun intended.” He grins enthusiastically. “I’d sure like to see how you handle it.” “You’re betting Holland can’t finish a steak?” Lulu chimes in from behind me. “Oh, you sweet summer child.” *** As we get up, I groan, clutching my stomach. “Is this what pregnancy feels like? Not interested.” “I could carry you,” Calvin offers sweetly, helping me with my coat. Lulu pushes between us, giddy from wine as she throws her arms around our shoulders. “You’re supposed to carry the bride across the threshold to be romantic, not because she’s broken from eating her weight in beef.” I stifle a belch. “The way to impress a man is to show him how much meat you can handle, don’t you know this, Lu?” Calvin laughs. “It was a close battle.” “Not that close,” Mark says, beside him. We went so far as to have the waiter split the cooked steak into two equal portions, much to the amused fascination of our tablemates. I ate roughly three-quarters of mine. Calvin was two ounces short. “Calvin Bakker has a pretty solid ring to it,” I say. He laugh-groans. “What did I get myself into?” “A marriage to a farm girl,” I say. “It’s best you learn on day one that I take my eating very seriously.

I would go toe to toe with anyone who argued books weren’t life savers. They were the work of whatever god kept us functional when the world seemed too hard to handle. They were the air when we couldn’t breathe. The blood when it wouldn’t pump in our veins. The beat of our heart when we were done trying to force life to go on. Books saved lives. End of story, pun intended.

Outer space is fucking terrifying. I’m thankful for the ozone layer and the gravitational pull of the moon and whatnot, but they’d have to tie me like a spit-roasted pig to send me out there. The universe keeps expanding and getting colder, chunks of our galaxy are sucked away, black holes hurl through space at millions of miles per hour, and solar superstorms flare up at the drop of a hat. Meanwhile NASA astronauts are out there in their frankly inadequate suits, drinking liters of their own recycled urine, getting alligator skin on the top of their feet, and shitting rubber balls that float around at eye level. Their cerebrospinal fluid expands and presses on their eyeballs to the point that their eyesight deteriorates, their gut bacteria are a shitshow—no pun intended—and gamma rays that could literally pulverize them in less than a second wander around. But you know what’s even worse? The smell. Space smells like a toilet full of rotten eggs, and there’s no escape. You’re just stuck there until Houston allows you to come back home. So believe me when I say: I’m grateful every damn day for those two extra inches.

Perhaps the most important single step in the whole history of writing was the Sumerians’ introduction of phonetic representation, initially by writing an abstract noun (which could not be readily drawn as a picture) by means of the sign for a depictable noun that had the same phonetic pronunciation. For instance, it’s easy to draw a recognizable picture of arrow, hard to draw a recognizable picture of life, but both are pronounced ti in Sumerian, so a picture of an arrow came to mean either arrow or life. The resulting ambiguity was resolved by the addition of a silent sign called a determinative, to indicate the category of nouns to which the intended object belonged. Linguists term this decisive innovation, which also underlies puns today, the rebus principle.

No more pranks." Even as I say it, I'm not sure if it's true. "Well, only the good kind." "No Kool-Aid showers?" "And no lemonade bedsheets." I smile, remembering one of my favorite pranks of all time. "That's one of the few times I was actually pissed at you. No pun intended. But that was truly twisted." I smile. "Yeah, but you love how twisted I am." "I think it's more like I love you, and you just happen to be twisted.

My parents always reminded me to count my blessings and be grateful for the things that were good in my life and that it could always be worse. I was raised not to focus on the negative, but be thankful for the positive.

Quite often I was questioned as to why I had chosen a sex toy business. My professional answer was that I’d seen a hole in the market and stepped in to fill the void. Pun intended. The real answer was far more straightforward. I. Loved. Pussy.

As pets, I rank fish at the bottom of the scale (pun intended). I mean, what do you do with pet fish? You can't rough house with them, take them for walks, teach them tricks (unless it's a pet dolphin which technically isn't even a fish), or scratch behind their ears.

The distributed nature of solar energy is a problem only if you are thinking like a utility, trying to produce all of your power in one place. But it can be a good thing if you think about making every building into its own energy source, about making whole cities into their own grid, about bringing power to the billions who are not hooked up to the grid at all. Just thinking about a space-based solar power system highlights (pun intended) that solar power’s weaknesses from an old-style industrial perspective may be its strength in the Next Great Generation’s point of view.

We’re not out of the woods yet, people,” I said, and grimaced, my eyes cheating toward the trees growing on all sides. “No pun intended. Sloane, were you being serious when you said that most of that was Demi’s blood? Because I’m not quite ready to condone beating her to death.” “She got a nosebleed,” said Sloane, reaching forward and taking my hand in hers. Her fingers left red stains on my skin. “Sure, I had to punch her four or five times to make that happen, but nosebleeds are a normal part of being a traitorous bitch who goes over to the dark side at the first sign of trouble.

Anyhow, high school is just…The. Worst.” “Funny that you became a high school teacher, then,” I say, and she laughs again. “Something I should talk to my therapist about. Speaking of which, you could speak to the school counselor if you want. We have a psychiatrist on staff. A life coach too.” “Seriously?” “I know, right? Finding ways to justify the tuition. Anyhow, if not them, feel free to come talk to me anytime. Students like you are the reason I chose to teach.” “Thanks.” “By the way, I look forward to your and Ethan’s ‘Waste Land’ paper. You’re two of my brightest students. I have great expectations.” Dickens is next on the syllabus. A literary pun. No wonder Mrs. Pollack was destroyed in high school. “We intend to reach wuthering heights,” I say, and as I walk by, she reaches her hand up, and I can’t help it—dorks unite! nerd power!—I give her a high five on my way out.

She was trouble. Trouble...the kind of trouble you want to get yourself into. Pun intended. Also, the kind of trouble you knew you couldn’t afford getting mixed up in. I know what you’re probably going to ask; Then why the hell did you hire her, Foster? And I have only one really shitty answer for you. Evidently I’m one sick, sadistic fucker.

The problem here is that most people who get caught cheating apologize and give the 'It will never happen again' spiel and that's that, as if penises fell into various orifices completely by accident. Many cheatees accept this response at face value, and don't question the values and fucks given by their partner (pun totally intended); they don't ask themselves whether those values and fucks make their partner a good person to stay with. They're so concerned with holding on to their relationship that they fail to recognize that it's become a black hole consuming their self respect. If people cheat, it's because something other than the relationship is more important to them. It may be power over others. It may be validation through sex. It may be giving in to their own impulses. Whatever it is, it's clear that the cheater's values are not aligned in a way to support a healthy relationship. And if the cheater doesn't admit this or come to terms with it, if he just gives the old 'I don't know what I was thinking; I was stressed out and drunk and she was there' response, then he lacks the serious self-awareness necessary to solve any relationship problems.

I know porn stars are supposed to be the height of sexual immorality or some bullshit. The way I see it, we’re providing a service. We’re here for all the sexually confused men out there, all the women who want to explore their own sexuality more, couples who want to spice up their love life, and all the millions of men and women who are bored and horny. We’re practically fucking saints. Pun intended.

No story about Las Vegas should begin in Vegas. It is a place one goes, often rashly, and from which one returns often poorer in money and richer in experience. It is a crapshoot—pun intended—if the outcome will match the intention. Las Vegas will not disappoint, becoming a story one can tell in a bar, how one got an unfortunate tattoo, or drunkenly married a new acquaintance at the Little Vegas Chapel in front of an Elvis impersonator.

No, for some unknown reason, I feel more at home in the Italian Alps than I do in the brutal heat of Puglia. I like brisk autumns, snowy winters, rainy springs, and temperate summers. The change of seasons allows for a change in one’s wardrobe (I’m sartorially obsessed) and, most important, one’s diet. A boeuf carbonnade tastes a thousand times better in the last days of autumn than when it’s eighty degrees and the sun is shining. An Armagnac is the perfect complement to a snowy night by the fire but not to an August beach outing, just as a crisp Orvieto served with spaghetti con vongole is ideal “al fresco” on a sunny summer afternoon but not nearly as satisfying when eaten indoors on a cold winter’s night. One thing feeds the other. (Pun intended.) So a visit to Iceland to escape the gloom of what is known in London as “winter” was an exciting prospect. However, my greatest concern, as you can probably guess, if you’re still reading this, was the food.

Unfortunately, Primrose, while delighted to be asked, was equally unhelpful. "Oh, Percy, simply see if she'd like to be wooed and then woo her. Must you make everything so complicated?" "I hardly think wandering up and saying, Pardon me, Dr Ruthven, but would you like to be courted by, well, me? is particularly romantic. Or is it? I really don't know. Prim rolled her eyes. "Say it in Latin." Percy actually considered that. But it seemed just as daunting. If not more so. Latin made it real. The thing was, his entire life, Percy had been good at anything he put his mind to. But only those things. He was perfectly well aware that in matters convivial he was an abysmal failure. Arsenic was important, so he didn't want to fail her. It was a bitter pill to swallow, doctor pun intended, but he figured he ought to read up on such things as love poetry and romance before he attempted anything like a direct approach.

Sitting on the poop deck with my infinitely beloved wife who has acquired an even greater weight of love. I keep on mentally looking around to make sure she's there. For why this new and massive re-affirmation of adoration and worship and a promise to myself that I shall never be nasty to her ever again? I will tell you for why. For because for about three minutes this afternoon I thought that I was about to be killed instantaneously and at once, without time to re-tell her how much I love her, to apologize for breaking my contract to look after her forever, for letting her down with a bang (hysterical pun intended) and for having no time to tell her the million things yet to be told and for not realizing and demonstrating my full potential as a husband, provider, lover, and all. (He goes on to describe how he was in a helicopter with others going to a film location in some mountainous area in Sarajevo in the fog and the came right up to some mountains and barely swerved just in time, this went of for a full three minutes of desperate danger) He goes on to say, "There was one blazing mental image that seemed to last right through the enormity. it was E lying in bed on the yacht with a book open at the page where she'd stopped reading with the title front cover and publisher's blurb on the other face up on the bed near her right hand which was out of the covers. She was wearing one of my favorite nightgowns, a blue thing and shorty which she may have been wearing this morning when I said goodbye to her. (I just asked her and she was) She had one leg bent and the other straight. On another level I was telling her over and over again that I loved her, I loved her...The mind is a remarkable instrument. If I wrote down everything I could remember from those interminable seconds it would be a million words....A shorter catastrophe of this kind happened to me before when I was perhaps 19-20 years old but I hadn't learned to love then and to love obsessively.

For fifteen years, John and Barbara Varian were furniture builders, living on a ranch in Parkfield, California, a tiny town where the welcome sign reads “Population 18.” The idea for a side business came about by accident after a group of horseback riding enthusiasts asked if they could pay a fee to ride on the ranch. They would need to eat, too—could John and Barbara do something about that? Yes, they could. In the fall of 2006, a devastating fire burned down most of their inventory, causing them to reevaluate the whole operation. Instead of rebuilding the furniture business (no pun intended), they decided to change course. “We had always loved horses,” Barbara said, “so we decided to see about having more groups pay to come to the ranch.” They built a bunkhouse and upgraded other buildings, putting together specific packages for riding groups that included all meals and activities. John and Barbara reopened as the V6 Ranch, situated on 20,000 acres exactly halfway between Los Angeles and San Francisco. Barbara’s story stood out to me because of something she said. I always ask business owners what they sell and why their customers buy from them, and the answers are often insightful in more ways than one. Many people answer the question directly—“We sell widgets, and people buy them because they need a widget”—but once in a while, I hear a more astute response. “We’re not selling horse rides,” Barbara said emphatically. “We’re offering freedom. Our work helps our guests escape, even if just for a moment in time, and be someone they may have never even considered before.” The difference is crucial. Most people who visit the V6 Ranch have day jobs and a limited number of vacation days. Why do they choose to visit a working ranch in a tiny town instead of jetting off to lie on a beach in Hawaii? The answer lies in the story and messaging behind John and Barbara’s offer. Helping their clients “escape and be someone else” is far more valuable than offering horse rides. Above all else, the V6 Ranch is selling happiness.

and by staff doctors, at least one of which resulted in a pregnancy. Earlier in the chain—on March 27—Walker, wary of the effect the scandal might have on his campaign, had written, “We need to continue to keep me out of the story as this is a process issue and not a policy matter.”1 Walker’s staff labored through the spring and summer to satisfy his wish. On September 2, Rindfleisch wrote, “Last week was a nightmare. A bad story every day on our looney bin. Doctors having sex with patients, patients getting knocked up. This has been coming for months and I’ve unofficially been dealing with it. So, it’s been crazy (pun intended).” Later, in an attempt to reassure a colleague on Walker’s staff, Rindfleisch somehow found it in herself to write: “No one cares about crazy people.”2 I began to rethink my determination not to write this book. I realized that my ten years of silence on the subject, silence that I had justified as insulation against an exercise in self-indulgence, was itself an exercise in self-indulgence. The

Within our own species we have great variation between these two reactions. One man may beat his life away in furious assault on the barrier, where another simply waits for the tide to pick him up. Such variation is also observable among the higher vertebrates, particularly among domestic animals. It would be strange if it were not also true of the lower vertebrates, among the individualistic ones anyway. A fish, like the tuna or the sardine, which lives in a school, would be less likely to vary than this lonely horned shark, for the school would impose a discipline of speed and uniformity, and those individuals which would not or could not meet the school’s requirements would be killed or lost or left behind. The overfast would be eliminated by the school as readily as the over-slow, until a standard somewhere between the fast and slow had been attained. Not intending a pun, we might note that our schools have to some extent the same tendency. A Harvard man, a Yale man, a Stanford man—that is, the ideal—is as easily recognized as a tuna, and he has, by a process of elimination, survived the tests against idiocy and brilliance. Even in physical matters the standard is maintained until it is impossible, from speech, clothing, haircuts, posture, or state of mind, to tell one of these units of his school from another. In this connection it would be interesting to know whether the general collectivization of human society might not have the same effect. Factory mass production, for example, requires that every man conform to the tempo of the whole. The slow must be speeded up or eliminated, the fast slowed down. In a thoroughly collectivized state, mediocre efficiency might be very great, but only through the complete elimination of the swift, the clever, and the intelligent, as well as the incompetent. Truly collective man might in fact abandon his versatility. Among school animals there is little defense technique except headlong flight. Such species depend for survival chiefly on tremendous reproduction. The great loss of eggs and young to predators is the safety of the school, for it depends for its existence on the law of probability that out of a great many which start some will finish. It is interesting and probably not at all important to note that when a human state is attempting collectivization, one of the first steps is a frantic call by the leaders for an increased birth rate—replacement parts in a shoddy and mediocre machine.

I don’t have to be able to see you to feel your disapproval, you know.” Tristan finally broke the silence. The two hour carriage ride had been painfully quiet. Tristan leaned his head against the back of the leather seat. “I have my reasons, and I don’t intend to share them with my valet.” Ellis grunted, but remained quiet. “She is better off without me.” Four beats later, Ellis responded. “There is no reason to share your thoughts with a mere valet, my lord.” “I cannot give her the life she deserves.” “As you say.” “Her ladyship seems to think my blindness makes no difference.” “Please pardon the pun, my lord, but how very insightful of her.” “I shall fire you when we reach London.” “I shiver with anticipation.” How was it he could not seem to even have his own employees agree with him? And“I don’t have to be able to see you to feel your disapproval, you know.” Tristan finally broke the silence. The two hour carriage ride had been painfully quiet. Tristan leaned his head against the back of the leather seat. “I have my reasons, and I don’t intend to share them with my valet.” Ellis grunted, but remained quiet. “She is better off without me.” Four beats later, Ellis responded. “There is no reason to share your thoughts with a mere valet, my lord.” “I cannot give her the life she deserves.” “As you say.” “Her ladyship seems to think my blindness makes no difference.” “Please pardon the pun, my lord, but how very insightful of her.” “I shall fire you when we reach London.” “I shiver with anticipation.” How was it he could not seem to even have his own employees agree with him? And why did he permit such insolence? “May I make a suggestion, my lord?’ “No, you may not.” “I suggest you take a day or two to ponder your actions, and then perhaps send for her ladyship.” “Definitely being fired when we reach London.” “I shall look forward to my new duties.” Tristan tapped his foot, boredom setting in. “Did you pack any books? Perhaps you can read to me to pass the time.” “I noticed an open copy of One Thousand and One Nights in the library this morning, but since I know her ladyship was reading it, I left it there.” “Her ladyship was reading it to me,” he bristled. “Ah,” Ellis said, with no regret in his voice. “If only her ladyship were with us now. With the book…” “Never mind. I could use a nap.” “Yes, my lord. A nap might restore your good humor.” “When I fire you, there will be no reference.” “I have no expectation of one, my lord.” Tristan settled back, knowing full well that

The 21st century is no exception, with Swine Flu and Bird Flu acting as nasty reminders that rearing animals in close quarters – and inhumanely – might still come back to bite us (no pun intended).

I often reflect on what an extraordinary time (pun intended) it is to be alive here in the beginning of the twenty-first century. It took life billions of years to get to this point. It took humans thousands of years to piece together a meaningful understanding of our cosmos, our planet, and ourselves. Think how fortunate we are to know this much. But think also of all that’s yet to be discovered. Here’s hoping the deep answers to the deep questions—from the nature of consciousness to the origin of life—will be found in not too much more time.

December 15 Weekly Open Thread: This Is The Time Of Year When Dreams Come True Anthony Cagle It may not be on the scale (pun intended) of "Peace on Earth, Good Will Towards Men" but for we here at Car Lust, the following development is truly, awesomely, magnificently welcome. Gone are the days (hopefully) when all you could decorate your mantle with were Lambos, Ferarris, and other assorted supercars . Or even just the  souped-up (sorta) versions

The Interior Department on Friday released new regulations that give a green light — pun intended — for fracking on federally owned lands. After four years of study and 1.5 million public comments, the department’s Bureau of Land Management concluded fracking can be done safely. Focusing on science rather than politics — as Cuomo should have done — the bureau set limits on where drilling could happen and set strict standards for the construction of wells and the handling of wastewater.

So (and pun DEFINITELY intended), I double dog dare you to ask yourself where you are stepping in the same pile of ________ every single day? And what would it take for you to simply stop stepping in it and go clean it up? This is essentially how I want you to look at all of your beliefs and habits.

Celibacy sucks, no pun intended.

They seemed to be a tight-knit group (pun intended!), because the third person I phoned was expecting my call.

For example, the dinner knife was invented by an English aristocrat who surmised that a blunted knife devoted solely to dining would cut down (no pun intended) on dangerous misunderstandings between dinner guests. At that time in history few men traveled without a dagger and it was common to use it to cut one's meat at meals. Pointing a dagger at another, however, was taken as an insult and a challenge and the results were often catastrophic. The invention of the dinner knife changed the way people interacted with one another at table - etiquette followed form which followed function.

It’s like watching a car wreck, no pun intended. I know what’s going to happen, and as much as I want to look away, I can’t. It’s almost as if I have to see just how ineffective I was in Karl’s Hummer that day. Lyons, Heather (2012-08-25). A Matter of Fate (Fate Series Book 1) (p. 233). Cerulean Books. Kindle Edition.

By the time I finished my cross-examination, I was beet red, and not even sure I wanted to go to that medical school anymore,

DEC 18 MAYBE WE REALLY are alone in the galaxy. The heroes and villains of Star Wars: The Force Awakens sure seem to be. Although we’ve only seen flashes of actual footage from next December’s journey into that other universe, it’s interesting to note that director J.J. Abrams chose to introduce the first new characters in moments of isolation and desperation. Consider John Boyega as Finn, the scared, sweaty stormtrooper trying to make an escape in the desert. Or Daisy Ridley’s Rey, riding solo (no pun intended) in her Taser-shaped speeder across a similarly blighted

So this is sweet. Some sort of fruit, right? Not just sugar." She nodded. "Mango and peach." He looked surprised. "No kidding." He tasted it again. "Got it. Now that you tell me, I can taste them. What kind of chilies?" "Mostly fresno. A cherry pepper here, a poblano there. A little habanero." She hadn't gotten enough fresnos, so the truth was she just used everything she had. Fortunately she'd written it down. "Some honey too. Seasonings." "But there's something I can't quite put my finger on." He tasted more than looked at his finger and said, "No pun intended." She smiled. "Curry." "Curry." "Yup." She nodded. "I needed something to segue between the sweet and the savory and I thought of curry." "It's incredible." "Wow, you're actually selling me on my own sauce." She upended the bottle and put a few drops on her own finger. It was just as good as she'd remembered, exactly as he'd said, with the heat that snuck up and away. Suddenly her mind reeled with the possibilities. She could use it as the base for a barbecue sauce and start serving pulled pork on the menu. That, with the beer cheese, Aja's cheese soup, and the biscuits Margo had made, she had a theme developing suddenly.

She's not going to bleed for long. She doesn't, no pun intended, have it in her. And when she stops breathing, so does he.

I’m having a baby.” Cue the pregnant pause––pun intended. On the other side of the pond, my brother’s confused expression says it all. “With who?” “I don’t know.” “Jesus, you don’t know who the father is? How many people are you dating?” “Shut up. I’m not pregnant yet. I’m searching for a man to share parental responsibility.” “What?” “Co-parenting. We legally share a child.” “Like a sperm donor?” He looks unhappy with this turn of events. As much as I love my brother, and I do, he’s a total caveman when it suits him. “I’ll volunteer my sperm,” a deep voice shouts in the background. Alex turns in the direction of the voice. “Not if I stuff your nuts down your throat first, Hayes. That’s my baby sister you’re talking about.” “By a minute,” I feel the need to clarify. “You’re still my baby sister.” 

Well, your choice is to spit out what's wrong, or I'm going to start guessing. I'm not going to stop until you tell me I've got it, and I'll warn you—I'm a shitty guesser, so this could take a while." I leaned back in my chair and glared at him. “Have it your way,” he said. William started to pace around the room while stroking his chin theatrically. “You were actually born to a convent of nuns, but you had a sex change and escaped years ago. Now they’ve found you, and they’re coming for your penis? Pun intended,” he added with a wiggle of his eyebrows. “That’s…” I closed my mouth and shook my head. “What kind of person even comes up with something like that?” “No? Okay, I got it. Hold on. You witnessed an alien abduction when you were a kid. Up until yesterday, you thought it was all just some weird dream induced by the aggressive case of chronic diarrhea you suffered from—and still suffer from to this day. But yesterday, those little green men came back, and now your world is shaken. Why? Because you’ve secretly harbored romantic feelings for them this whole time, and now you’ll have to face your budding sexuality for the first time.” “Are you seriously going to keep this up unless I tell you?” "Hmm. Not right, either? Okay, this time I really have it. It all started in the African jungles seven years ago when you found yourself trapped deep in the wrinkly clutches of an elephant's rectum. With no hope of escape, you realized the only choice you had was to go deeper. Only you went too deep. You dreamed too big, and now you can't—" “I give up,” I said. “I’ll tell you because I don’t think I can survive much more of this. I’ve been in a little bit of a dating rut for the past couple years, and—” “Let me stop you there, partner.” William held up his left hand and pointed to his wedding band. “I’m flattered. Really. But one, I have a strict no sword crossing rule. And two? I’m spoken for.

Oh God, not the bloody vampires again,” said Magnus. “No pun intended.

Listen. Even before I found out about you and Devlen, I realized we couldn’t be together. Now brace yourself, I’m going to use a weather analogy.” I groaned. He quirked a smile. “You’re all energy and excitement and then you blow away. Being with you is like being on the coast, dancing in the storms. Breathless activity, followed by calm. I have that with my job.” He brushed my hair from my eyes. “After you sacrificed your magic I thought you would be content to stay uninvolved in Sitian affairs and be with me. But you rushed off, jumping right back into the maelstrom. I don’t have the energy to deal with storms on both fronts—pun intended. I need someone steadier.” Tears ran down my face. He hugged me. “And I’ll offer to render aid whenever needed because I know you wouldn’t ask. After all, I don’t want to miss out on all the fun.

We see this even more in Seven Brides For Seven Brothers (1954), with Mercer again at MGM, collaborating with composer Gene De Paul. This one has a real Broadway score, every number embedded in the characters’ attitudes. Ragged, bearded, buckskinned Howard Keel has come to town to take a wife, and a local belle addresses him as “Backwoodsman”: it’s the film’s central image, of rough men who must learn to be civilized in the company of women. The entire score has that flavor—western again, rustic, primitive, lusty. “Bless Yore Beautiful Hide,” treating Keel’s tour of the Oregon town where he seeks his bride, sounds like something Pecos Bill wrote with Calamity Jane. When the song sheet came out, the tune was marked “Lazily”—but that isn’t how Keel sings it. He’s on the hunt and he wants results, and, right in the middle of the number, he spots Jane Powell chopping wood and realizes that he has found his mate. But he hasn’t, not yet. True, she goes with him, looking forward to love and marriage. But her number, “Wonderful, Wonderful Day,” warns us that she is of a different temperament than he: romantic, vulnerable, poetic. They don’t suit each other, especially when he incites his six brothers to snatch their intended mates. Not court them: kidnap them. “Sobbin’ Women” (a pun on the Sabine Women of the ancient Roman legend, which the film retells, via a story by Stephen Vincent Benét) is the number outlining the plan, in more of Keel’s demanding musical tone. But the six “brides” are horrified. Their number, in Powell’s pacifying tone, is “June Bride,” and the brothers in turn offer “Lament” (usually called “Lonesome Polecat”), which reveals that they, too, have feelings. That—and the promise of good behavior—shows that they at last deserve their partners, whereupon each brother duets with each bride, in “Spring, Spring, Spring.” And we note that this number completes the boys’ surrender, in music that gives rather than takes. Isn’t

I was standing in line at the grocery store. (Yes, I shop for my own groceries often.) The woman in front of me was looking at the tabloid magazine covers, then turned around and looked me straight in the eyes. There was no "OMG, Tyra, I can't believe you do your own grocery shopping!" look on her face. Instead she said, "if they're calling you fat, what am I?" And she said it through tears. That was when it hit me - - this whole incident wasn't funny, and it wasn't just about me. No pun intended, but it was bigger than me. Much bigger.

it is all too easy for us in this postindustrial era to take eating so for granted that we engage in it with huge unawareness, and also freight it (all puns intended) with complicated psychological and emotional issues that obscure and sometimes seriously distort a simple, basic, and miraculous aspect of our lives.

It's not only OK to be different, it's awesome and admirable and courageous and heroic. It's your differentness that is your destiny and your happiness, and your differentness is what makes the world more interesting.

You know, being bitten by a vampire one week before prom really sucks. No pun intended.

A person who offers a loose handshake, on the other hand (pun intended), may be interpreted as being uninterested, lacking confidence and self-esteem, weak, or being wishy-washy. Whether too strong or too weak, a bad handshake can set you back and close down a potentially rewarding relationship before it ever gets started.

Confession. Years ago, I was invited to a cocktail party for an Asian-American networking group. As I introduced myself to a Japanese businessman, I reached out and firmly shook his hand. Much to my embarrassment now, I automatically took my other hand and wrapped our hands in a “hand hug.” This is a common gesture of friendship in the South. As his wife approached, however, she appeared appalled and felt disrespected that I was touching her husband. Our cultural differences were marked. Despite this cultural mishap, I was able to redeem myself. We all moved past it and delighted in an interesting conversation. Physical touch is a touchy topic (pun intended), especially when various cultures are involved.

In short, human intelligent design (pun intended) should play a major role in shaping the future of our interactions with each other, with forthcoming technological artefacts, and with the infosphere we share among us and with them. After all, it is a sign of intelligence to make stupidity work for you.

loose down here. No pun intended,” he grinned. “Daddy, that pun was totally intended,” she giggled. “That it was.” He stood up and ran his big hands through his hair and turned his mesmerizing gaze on her. “You are so like your mother.” “And that’s a bad thing?” she challenged.

loose down here. No pun intended,” he grinned. “Daddy, that pun was totally intended,” she giggled. “That it was.” He stood up and ran his big hands through his hair and turned his mesmerizing gaze on her. “You are so like your mother.

​The hip hinge is the most pivotal movement in kettlebell training, pun intended.

On Relationships – The end of Midsomar is harrowing but the director claims that it’s meant to be a breakup film. The man has the right concept although you have to question the execution (no pun intended). Contrast that heroine to Demi Moore’s Molly in the movie Ghost. When her lover dies, she spends the majority of the film in maudlin tears, holding on to the scraps of their affair. His ghost lingers near her, inaudible and invisible, staring in disbelief when she clings to the stub of a concert they once attended. He points out that she hated that concert so why keep that stub? Why cling to the detritus of an affair spent with a man too gutless to say he loved her? When a relationship is over, then it’s time to sell the ex’s possessions on Ebay. What can’t be sold should be donated to Goodwill—and don’t forget to get that slip of paper so you can claim the donation on your taxes! What Goodwill won’t accept, you give to your family, friends and loved ones. What they won’t take, you toss in the trash or, for the true cathartic effect, you pile in a heap on the lawn and burn it to ashes.

Trust is the most important ingredient in any relationship, for the simple reason that without trust, the relationship doesn’t actually mean anything. A person could tell you that she loves you, wants to be with you, would give up everything for you, but if you don’t trust her, you get no benefit from those statements. You don’t feel loved until you trust that the love being expressed toward you comes without any special conditions or baggage attached to it. This is what’s so destructive about cheating. It’s not about the sex. It’s about the trust that has been destroyed as a result of the sex. Without trust, the relationship can no longer function. So it’s either rebuild the trust or say your goodbyes. The problem here is that most people who get caught cheating apologize and give the “It will never happen again” spiel and that’s that, as if penises fell into various orifices completely by accident. Many cheatees accept this response at face value, and don’t question the values and fucks given by their partner (pun totally intended); they don’t ask themselves whether those values and fucks make their partner a good person to stay with. They’re so concerned with holding on to their relationship that they fail to recognize that it’s become a black hole consuming their self-respect.

With Maren around, it would be hard not to stay in good spirits. (Pun intended!)

I would go toe to toe with anyone who argued books weren’t life savers. They were the work of whatever god kept us functional when the world seemed too hard to handle. They were the air when we couldn’t breathe. The blood when it wouldn’t pump in our veins. The beat of our heart when we were done trying to force life to go on. Books saved lives. End of story, pun intended

As for me, the closest I have come to exaltation has been here at the university, with a book in my hand. Literature has served me faithfully (no pun intended) as an ersatz religion, and I would wager that the pursuit of the ineffable via aesthetics in various forms has saved as many foundering souls as a belief in god.

I haven't even had sex yet, and I'll be damned if I lose my virginity to her. To be honest, I doubt she's had sex either, but I doubt she's dying to lose it to me. No pun intended.

Society tells boys to divide and conquer, and tells girls to save ourselves for some younger future version of our father. Just doing some quick math in my head and…yep, that comes out to a bunch of hypocritical bullshit. Your self-worth is not tied up in your vagina or how many girls came before you.” “No pun intended.” “Precisely.

My appetite for Father Saint James was stronger than before we’d fucked. Hearing my name come out of his mouth when he came was better than I could have imagined. It was so arousing and I came harder than ever, placing me in unfamiliar territory. I’ve never craved seconds before, I didn’t even know what they were like. I was always done after the first bang—pun intended. But with my priest, I couldn’t wait to do it all over again.

a third Oriental potentate, whose difficult name in Arabic was ’Abd-al-’Azīz ibn-’Abd-al-Rahmān al-Faisal ibn-Su’ūd, King of Saudi Arabia. He was a very important potentate indeed, for he owned what was perhaps the greatest oil pool in the world, and was being paid some fifteen million dollars a year in royalties—no pun intended. His oil was the lifeblood of the American defense forces in the Mediterranean area, ships, planes and tanks, and so Ibn Saud could have anything he wanted to make him happy.

I don’t have to be able to see you to feel your disapproval, you know.” Tristan finally broke the silence. The two hour carriage ride had been painfully quiet. Tristan leaned his head against the back of the leather seat. “I have my reasons, and I don’t intend to share them with my valet.” Ellis grunted, but remained quiet. “She is better off without me.” Four beats later, Ellis responded. “There is no reason to share your thoughts with a mere valet, my lord.” “I cannot give her the life she deserves.” “As you say.” “Her ladyship seems to think my blindness makes no difference.” “Please pardon the pun, my lord, but how very insightful of her.” “I shall fire you when we reach London.” “I shiver with anticipation.” How was it he could not seem to even have his own employees agree with him? And why did he permit such insolence? “May I make a suggestion, my lord?’ “No, you may not.” “I suggest you take a day or two to ponder your actions, and then perhaps send for her ladyship.” “Definitely being fired when we reach London.” “I shall look forward to my new duties.” Tristan tapped his foot, boredom setting in. “Did you pack any books? Perhaps you can read to me to pass the time.” “I noticed an open copy of One Thousand and One Nights in the library this morning, but since I know her ladyship was reading it, I left it there.” “Her ladyship was reading it to me,” he bristled. “Ah,” Ellis said, with no regret in his voice. “If only her ladyship were with us now. With the book…” “Never mind. I could use a nap.” “Yes, my lord. A nap might restore your good humor.” “When I fire you, there will be no reference.” “I have no expectation of one, my lord.

While in "filling in", the brain fills in the gaps in perception, in "change blindness" on the other hand, the brain cancels out unnecessary environmental information from our perception. For example, when the viewers at a basketball match are focused on the movement of the player with the ball, they turn blind towards any changes or event that may be occurring in the background. Even if a gorilla passes the basketball court, the viewers won’t notice it (and I mean this literally) because their brain cancels out that information in order to focus on the ball (pun absolutely intended).

Will power is, when people around you are working and you still don't (pun intended). It is a sure way to fail

The thing I love about Edna, compared to Cello’s Prom Date or Little Shop’s Mrs. Luce, is that she is such a wonderful, well-rounded (pun not intended) character. I felt that Mrs. Luce and the Prom Date were one note characters, whether they were played by a man or a woman - but were definitely played for laughs by throwing me in a wig and dress, that playing Edna was a breath of fresh hairspray…I mean air. She was actually developed into a human being; she loves her husband and her daughter, she has her fears about how the world would view her and her daughter for being overweight, disappointment that her hopes and dreams didn’t come true (explaining why she is strict with Tracy), and the pride she feels when Tracy becomes successful.

A server arrives to top up our glasses. I wait till he’s poured, returned the bottle to its bucket, and laid the white napkin over the top. ‘A group of us had the idea three or four years ago. You met Gen—I was at uni with her, Callum, and Zach, our other co-founders. I went to school with Cal and Zach too. There were so many flash members’ clubs opening up around Mayfair. We joined a few, and they were fun. Predictable. Total meat markets, obviously. They got formulaic pretty quickly. Just posh people looking to get fucked and fuck. We felt that, for the amount of money they were charging, we should get more bang for our buck. Stupid pun intended.’ She rewards my lame joke with a little smile. ‘Anyway, there were some pop-up sex clubs around that were killing it. We thought it would be fun to try something more permanent. Somewhere with rules and vetting that meant you were far safer than in any of those other places, but where you could also try out things that maybe you’d just fantasised about.’ She nods. ‘Makes sense. Maddy never goes home alone from Annabel’s. I worry sometimes, because a lot of these guys are super-entitled, and God knows what they might think they’re entitled to. It freaks me out.’ ‘Exactly. The safety and the freedom go hand in hand. You can’t let go if you don’t feel safe. That’s at the heart of everything we do.’ ‘So why the name Alchemy?