Nuts Funny Quotes

That’s us,” he said. “Those five nuts right there.” Which one is me?” I asked. The little deformed one,” Zoe suggested. Oh, shut up.

I paid, got up, walked to the door, opened it. I heard the man say, "that guy's nuts." out on the street I walked north feeling curiously honored.

Whenever he looks at me with those big brown eyes, I feel like giving him a nut,” she said. She even started calling the squirrels running around in the park Mr. Whitmans.

We men are fascinated by the things we don't really understand. It gives us something to think and talk about: like females, they drive us nuts.

Every single person is a fool, insane, a failure, or a bad person to at least ten people.

If you were anyone else, your nuts would be taking a long vacation, and the destination would be out of your mouth

He grinned. "You're jealous." I considered it. "No. But when you stared at that woman like she was made of diamonds, it didn't feel very good." "I stared at her because she smelled strange." "Strange how?" "She smelled like rock dust. Very strong dry smell." Curran put his arms around me. "I love it when you get all fussy and possessive." "I never get fussy and possessive." He grinned, showing his teeth. His face was practically glowing. "So you're cool if I go over and chat her up?" "Sure. Are you cool if I go and chat up that sexy werewolf on the third floor?" He went from casual and funny to deadly serious in half a blink. "What sexy werewolf?" I laughed. Curran's eyes focused. He was concentrating on something. "You're taking a mental inventory of all people working on the third floor, aren't you?" His expression went blank. I'd hit the nail on the head. I slid off him and put my head on his biceps. The shaggy carpet was nice and comfortable under my back. "Is it Jordan?" "I just picked a random floor," I told him. "You're nuts, you know that?" He put his arm around me. "Look who is talking.

There you have it: our lives in a nutshell. Emphasis on nut.

To evade insanity and depression, we unconsciously limit the number of people toward whom we are sincerely sympathetic.

He watched in awe as she stacked up an enormous armload of music. "There," she finished, slapping Frank Zappa's Greatest Hits on top of the pile. "That should do for a start." "You are a music lover," said the wide-eyed cashier. "No, I'm a kleptomaniac." And she dashed out the door. He was so utterly shocked that it took him a moment to run after her. With a meaningful nod in the direction of the astounded Cahills, she barreled down the cobblestone street with her load. "Fermati!" shouted the cashier, scrambling in breathless pursuit. Nellie let a few CDs drop and watched with satisfaction over her shoulder as the clerk stopped to pick them up. The trick would be to keep the chase going just long enough for Amy and Dan to search Disco Volante. Yikes, she reflected suddenly, I'm starting to think like a Cahill.... And if she was nuts enough to hang around this family, it was only going to get worse.

-What's so funny?" "-Sorry," David said, reddening again. "You just taste so sweet." "-What do you mean, sweet?" He licked his bottom lip one more time. "-You taste like honey." "-Honey?" "-Yeah, I thought I was going nuts the day...well, you know, that one day. But it was the same today. Your mouth is really sweet." He paused for a second, then grinned. "-Hot like honey-like nectar. That makes more sense." "-Great. Now I'm going to have to explain that to everyone I kiss for the rest of my life unless it's you or another faerie." She'd almost said Tamani's name. Her fingers flew to the ring around her neck. David shrugged. "-Then don't kiss anyone except me." "-David..." "-I'm just offering up the obvious solution," he said, hands up in protest.

It wasn’t because you weren’t beautiful, talented, funny, creative or had everything in common. It was because some men prefer plain vanilla ice cream. It’s predictable and a safe choice. Confident and adventurous men prefer the complexity and layers of a sundae, even the ones sprinkled with a little bit of nuts on top.

Shopping for clothes is a Boyfriend Thing. You stand around and look blankly at a bunch of pieces of fabric and you look at the price tags and you wonder how something that'd barely cover your right nut can cost the price of a kidney and you watch the shop assistants check you out and wonder what you're doing with her because she's cute and you're kind of funny-looking and she tries clothes on and you look at her ass in a dozen different items that all look exactly the same and let's face it you're just looking at her ass anyway and it all blurs together and then someone sticks a vacuum cleaner in your wallet and vacuums out all the cash and you leave the store with one bag so small that mice couldn't fuck in it. Repeat a dozen times or until the front of your brain dies.

And there’s no synthetic owners manual?” His lips twitched, smile threatening to break into a grin. A joke. He wasn’t funny. “Do you come with an owners’ manual, Captain? Because I’d like to study your troubleshooting section.” “Would you like to strip me down to my nuts and bolts, and figure out what makes me tick?” “I knew what made you tick from the moment we first met. That’s why I punched you between the legs.” ~ #1001 & Caleb

STEVE CARELL IS NICE BUT IT IS SCARY It has been said many times, but it is true: Steve Carell is a very nice guy. His niceness manifests itself mostly in the fact that he never complains. You could screw up a handful of takes outside in 104-degree smog-choked Panorama City heat, and Steve Carell’s final words before collapsing of heat stroke would be a friendly and hopeful “Hey, you think you have that shot yet?” I’ve always found Steve gentlemanly and private, like a Jane Austen character. The one notable thing about Steve’s niceness is that he is also very smart, and that kind of niceness has always made me nervous. When smart people are nice, it’s always terrifying, because I know they’re taking in everything and thinking all kinds of smart and potentially judgmental things. Steve could never be as funny as he is, or as darkly observational an actor, without having an extremely acute sense of human flaws. As a result, I’m always trying to impress him, in the hope that he’ll go home and tell his wife, Nancy, “Mindy was so funny and cool on set today. She just gets it.” Getting Steve to talk shit was one of the most difficult seven-year challenges, but I was determined to do it. A circle of actors could be in a fun, excoriating conversation about, say, Dominique Strauss-Kahn, and you’d shoot Steve an encouraging look that said, “Hey, come over here; we’ve made a space for you! We’re trashing Dominique Strauss-Kahn to build cast rapport!” and the best he might offer is “Wow. If all they say about him is true, that is nuts,” and then politely excuse himself to go to his trailer. That’s it. That’s all you’d get. Can you believe that? He just would not engage. That is some willpower there. I, on the other hand, hear someone briefly mentioning Rainn, and I’ll immediately launch into “Oh my god, Rainn’s so horrible.” But Carell is just one of those infuriating, classy Jane Austen guys. Later I would privately theorize that he never involved himself in gossip because—and I am 99 percent sure of this—he is secretly Perez Hilton.

And it's funny because it was my grandpa who painted it shut (window) in the first place, and he had a whole storage shed full of just about every tool you could imagine. He was one of those guys who thought he could fix anything, but it never worked out quite as well as he planned. He was more of a visionary than a nuts -and bolts kind of guy.

Eric: But you already know... Greta: Well, yeah, but I still want us to have The Talk. All daughters get to have The Talk. Eric: Fine. You remember the book "If you give a Mouse a Cookie"? Greta: Ye-es. Eric: It's like that. Greta: No it isn't. Eric: No. It absolutely is... Eric: If you give a boy a kiss, he'll want to touch your cookies. If you let him touch your cookies, he'll want to unwrap them. If you let him unwrap them, he'll want to put them in his mouth. And THEN, if you let him put them in his mouth, the boy will want to pet your kitty. But if you let him pet your kitty, he'll want to see your kitty. And of course, if you let him see your kitty, then he'll want to feed it. And if you let him kiss you, touch your cookies, unwrap your cookies, put them in his mouth, pet your kitty, see your kitty, and feed your kitty, you'll get pregnant unless you make him wear a raincoat on his banana. So it's better if you just kick the boy in the nuts and run over him with the car. Greta: I don't think that's how The Talk usually goes. Eric: No? Greta: No, but it's okay, Dad. I like your version, too.

New Rule: Gun-control people have to stop pressuring Starbucks to ban guns. I want my gun nuts overcaffeinated, twitchy, and accident-prone. That way, the problem will take care of itself. Plus, if just one gun nut kills just one pseudo-intellectual writing a screenplay-slash-graphic-novel on his iPad, natural selection is doing its job.

The funny thing about mental hospitals is that they strip away any remaining reason you have to live, but deny you the means to do anything about it. It is fascinating to me that a suicide attempt, by default, legally lands you into the asylum, the psych ward, the loony bin, the nut house—call it what you will, it’s all the same. Perhaps you are crazy, perhaps you are not, but I do not believe that, in itself alone, attempting suicide proves anything at all about your mental state, save that, upon weighing the merits of living and dying, you found that one outweighed the other. Is this crazy? I see nothing insane about it at all. Socially unacceptable to be sure, but not mad.

Bronagh,” I said, grinning at my sister. “What is your favourite position in bed?” Dominic looked at his lady, a smirk playing on his lips. Bronagh mulled my question over in her mind then after some serious consideration she said, “Near the wall, so I’m closest to me phone when it’s chargin’.” I tittered at her answer, then looked to Dominic and burst into laughter. The look of hurt and betrayal was plastered all over his sculpted face. “Kicking me in the nuts would have been less painful, Bronagh,” he muttered as he stood up and practically dragged himself, and his wounded ego, out of the room

In other news, Aang dominates on “Are You Smarter Than the Fire Nation”. Bella Swan becomes engaged to her boyfriend of one year, Edward Cullen, and unceremoniously sends Jacob Black to the “friend zone”. Pop star Candy Cane trades her controversial career for being a housewife (which was a move that is very unpopular with many of her young fans), and Jacquel Rassenworth is still the Internet’s biggest fame-nut (cue APPLAUSE).

Still nothing," Raven answered "This is shitty. We are going to have to invest in heat sensors. These motion detectors blow Satan's left nut.

He gives me another funny look. “You think I’m doing better because you left? That’s nuts, Coach. You know what happened when you got sick?” It’s my turn to wrinkle my forehead. “We were all really worried,” he mumbles, staring down at his skates. “And I was like, crap, I gotta get my shit together because Coach Canning does not need one more thing to worry about. You know, us losing all the time.” He flushes again. “I thought if we were winning, maybe you’d get better faster.

I'm a serious sort of fella. But don't tell me your pal up in the sky exists, and mine does not. Then, my middle finger gets offended! For, my buddy up there nowhere, Mr. NOT, too insists without proof, that he is. Same as your god. Is Mr. NOT nuts? If he is, are you not?

Finally,’ I said. ‘Something we agree on.’ ‘I bet we agree on a lot.’ He plucked a mangled maple-nut donut out and sat back, examining it in the fluorescent light. ‘Such as?’ ‘All the important stuff,’ Gus said. ‘The chemical composition of Earth’s atmosphere, whether the world needs six Pirates of the Caribbean movies, that White Russians should only be drunk you’re already sure you’re going to vomit anyway.

You're always trying so hard to see something, just like you're taking notes, like some scholar doing research, right? Or just like a little kid. You really are a little kid, when you're a kid you try to see everything, don't you? Babies look right into the eyes of people they don't know and cry or laugh, but now you just try and look right into people's eyes, you'll go nuts before you know it. Just try it, try looking right into the eyes of people walking past, you'll start feeling funny pretty soon, Ryū, you shouldn't look at things like a baby.

I’m allergic to latex and it makes me break out in a rash so most condoms are out for me because the last thing any of us wants is a vagina rash. The alternative is the ones made of sheepskin, but it always creeps me out because does that mean Victor and I are having sex with a sheep? A dead sheep, actually. So it’s bestiality and necrophilia. And a three-way, I think. I actually mentioned that to Victor and he immediately booked a vasectomy, which is sweet because it’s nice that he cares about me. He claimed it was less his caring and more “I’d rather have my nuts cut off than have to listen to you talk about having three-ways with dead sheep.” But now I have all these leftover condoms. They make great water balloons though and I bet they’d be really good for championship bubblegum-blowing competitions. Really chewy sheep bubblegum. That might be cheating. I don’t know the rules about bubblegum contests.

Under the mellowing influence of good food and good music, Adam relaxed, and I discovered that underneath that overbearing, hot-tempered Alpha disguise he usually wore was a charming, over-bearing, hot-tempered man. He seemed to enjoy finding out that I was as stubborn and disrespectful of authority as he’d always suspected. He ordered dessert without consulting me. I’d have been angrier, but it was something I could never have ordered for myself: chocolate, caramel, nuts, ice cream, real whipped cream, and cake so rich it might as well have been a brownie. “So,” he said, as I finished the last bit, “I’m forgiven?” “You are arrogant and overstep your bounds,” I told him, pointing my clean fork at him. “I try,” he said with false modesty. Then his eyes darkened and he reached across the table and ran his thumb over my bottom lip. He watched me as he licked the caramel from his skin. I thumped my hands down on the table and leaned forward. “That is not fair. I’ll eat your dessert and like it—but you can’t use sex to keep me from getting mad.” He laughed, one of those soft laughs that start in the belly and rise up through the chest: a relaxed, happy sort of laugh. To change the subject, because matters were heating up faster than I was comfortable with, I said, “So Bran tells me that he ordered you to keep an eye out for me.” He stopped laughing and raised both eyebrows. “Yes. Now ask me if I was watching you for Bran.” It was a trick question. I could see the amusement in his eyes. I hesitated, but decided I wanted to know anyway. “Okay, I’ll bite. Were you watching me for Bran?” “Honey,” he drawled, pulling on his Southern roots. “When a wolf watches a lamb, he’s not thinking of the lamb’s mommy.” I grinned. I couldn’t help it. The idea of Bran as a lamb’s mommy was too funny. “I’m not much of a lamb,” I said. He just smiled.

And so the cycle of innocence found, lost, found again, and finally lost is complete. Just as a peanut is neither a pea nor a nut… and a thighmaster is neither a thigh nor a master… so our hero learned that Netflix and Chill means neither Netflix nor Chill. And if you’re just learning this for the first time, welcome to the end of your innocence.

Hurry, your imaginary heaven is calling you up, my dear holier-than-thou religious nuts.

A sailor's wife had chestnuts in her lap And munched and munched and munched. "Give me," quoth I. "Aroint thee, witch," the rump-fed runnion cries.

New Rule: Death isn’t always sad. This week, the Reverend Jerry Falwell died, and millions of Americans asked, “Why? Why, God? Why…didn’t you take Pat Robertson with him?” I don’t want to say Jerry was disliked by the gay community, but tonight in New York City, at exactly eight o’clock, Broadway theaters along the Great White Way turned their lights up for two minutes. I know you’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but I think we can make an exception, because speaking ill of the dead was kind of Jerry Falwell’s hobby. He’s the guy who said AIDS was God’s punishment for homosexuality and that 9/11 was brought on by pagans, abortionists, feminists, gays, and the ACLU—or, as I like to call them, my studio audience. It was surreal watching people on the news praise Falwell, followed by a clip package of what he actually said—things like: "Homosexuals are part of a vile and satanic system that will be utterly annihilated." "If you’re not a born-again Christian, you’re a failure as a human being." "Feminists just need a man in the house." "There is no separation of church and state." And, of course, everyone’s favorite: "The purple Teletubby is gay." Jerry Falwell found out you could launder your hate through the cover of “God’s will”—he didn’t hate gays, God does. All Falwell’s power came from name-dropping God, and gay people should steal that trick. Don’t say you want something because it’s your right as a human being—say you want it because it’s your religion. Gay men have been going at things backward. Forget civil right, and just make gayness a religion. I mean, you’re kneeling anyway. And it’s easy to start a religion. Watch, I’ll do it for you. I had a vision last night. The Blessed Virgin Mary came to me—I don’t know how she got past the guards—and she told me it’s time to take the high ground from the Seventh-day Adventists and give it to the twenty-four-hour party people. And that what happens in the confessional stays in the confessional. Gay men, don’t say you’re life partners. Say you’re a nunnery of two. “We weren’t having sex,officer. I was performing a very private mass.Here in my car. I was letting my rod and my staff comfort him.” One can only hope that as Jerry Falwell now approaches the pearly gates, he is met there by God Himself, wearing a Fire Island muscle shirt and nut-hugger shorts, saying to Jerry in a mighty lisp, “I’m not talking to you.

Now that I've declared my religion, namely, NUTTISM; I anoint myself, Mr. NUTS, as its MESSIAH. And you damn well bow to our god, Mr. NOT. He reveals that your pal up there too is naught! Dare not criticize the messiah - me! Or you'll be kicked in the nuts by my pal Mr. NOT.

He´d followed her in, locked the door and tried to kiss her,…. He missed having the tip of his tongue bitten off by millimeters. Then she kneed him in the nuts and went at him with the closest weapon at hand, which happened to be a toilet brush - but hey, those bristles could hurt if shoved somewhere with enough force.

How will they sell rubies?' I ask him. 'Why not leave them something more practical?' 'As a prince of Faerie, I flatly refuse to leave cash. It's inelegant.' Tiernan shakes his head at both of us, then pokes at the foodstuffs selecting a handful of nuts. 'Gift cards are worse,' Oak says when I do not respond. 'I would bring shame to the entire Greenbriar line if I left a gift card.' At that, I can't help smiling a little, despite my heavy heart. 'You're ridiculous.

The menu at the Hug Deli included, among other items, the Warm and Fuzzy Hug, the Beverly Hills Air Kiss Hug, and the Gangsta Hug, with side orders of Pinch, Tickle, and Back Scratch. She ordered the Long Uncomfortable Hug, because she thought that was funny, thereby prompting a nut-brown Venice Beach-looking dude to hold on to her, earnestly pokerfaced, for a seeming eternity. "Are you uncomfortable yet?" "Fairly, yes." "Excellent. My work here is done." She laughed and mounted on her bike, pedalling away from the zany mirage as her gratuitous hugger shouted "Namaste" in her direction.

I cooked with so many of the greats: Tom Colicchio, Eric Ripert, Wylie Dufresne, Grant Achatz. Rick Bayless taught me not one but two amazing mole sauces, the whole time bemoaning that he never seemed to know what to cook for his teenage daughter. Jose Andres made me a classic Spanish tortilla, shocking me with the sheer volume of viridian olive oil he put into that simple dish of potatoes, onions, and eggs. Graham Elliot Bowles and I made gourmet Jell-O shots together, and ate leftover cheddar risotto with Cheez-Its crumbled on top right out of the pan. Lucky for me, Maria still includes me in special evenings like this, usually giving me the option of joining the guests at table, or helping in the kitchen. I always choose the kitchen, because passing up the opportunity to see these chefs in action is something only an idiot would do. Susan Spicer flew up from New Orleans shortly after the BP oil spill to do an extraordinary menu of all Gulf seafood for a ten-thousand-dollar-a-plate fund-raising dinner Maria hosted to help the families of Gulf fishermen. Local geniuses Gil Langlois and Top Chef winner Stephanie Izard joined forces with Gale Gand for a seven-course dinner none of us will ever forget, due in no small part to Gil's hoisin oxtail with smoked Gouda mac 'n' cheese, Stephanie's roasted cauliflower with pine nuts and light-as-air chickpea fritters, and Gale's honey panna cotta with rhubarb compote and insane little chocolate cookies. Stephanie and I bonded over hair products, since we have the same thick brown curls with a tendency to frizz, and the general dumbness of boys, and ended up giggling over glasses of bourbon till nearly two in the morning. She is even more awesome, funny, sweet, and genuine in person than she was on her rock-star winning season on Bravo. Plus, her food is spectacular all day. I sort of wish she would go into food television and steal me from Patrick. Allen Sternweiler did a game menu with all local proteins he had hunted himself, including a pheasant breast over caramelized brussels sprouts and mushrooms that melted in your mouth (despite the occasional bit of buckshot). Michelle Bernstein came up from Miami and taught me her white gazpacho, which I have since made a gajillion times, as it is probably one of the world's perfect foods.

I pull his hand up to my chest. "It's okay. Some of my best friends are in the mob. It must be really tough with your husband in prison." "You THINK?" He pulls away, as if I've been insensitive, picks up a stone and throws it at a crow walking around in the grass. As the crow screeches bloody murder and takes flight, escaping unscathed, Joshua darts in front of me, hits Tiger in the nuts and calls him a bitch. Pulling Joshua back to my right, I glare down at him asking- WHAT did you CALL HIM? "A BITCH." "He's not a bitch." "YES HE IS." Tiger, coming to the rescue, kneels and places his hand on Joshua's shoulder. "Sorry little buddy. I didn't mean to make you go all APE shit. You like those little flying RATS." Joshua shakes his finger at him. "THEY'RE NOT RATS... YOU BITCH." As I start to give Joshua a lecture, Tiger stands up and stops me. "It's okay," he said. "Believe it or not- he's not the first to call me a bitch." Taking Joshua's free hand, he walks on his other side, while Joshua glares up at him with distrust. "Bitch isn't a word that you should be using. Not at your AGE." "That's right," I agreed. "When you get older, you can call your girlfriend a bitch, but only in bed." Joshua giggles.

And I’m not kidding when I say “craziness.” The University of St. Gallen, Switzerland, has come out with a study that compares traders with psychopaths. The study reviewed the results from an existing study comparing 24 psychopaths in German high-security hospitals with a control group of 27 “normal” people. The funny thing is, this control group of “normal” people turned out to be traders. Stock guys, currency and commodity traders, and derivative types happened to be the normal control group that was stacked up against the high-security, barbed-wire-enclosed psychopaths. In the end, the performance of the trading group was actually worse than that of the psychopaths. The study indicated that traders, “Have a penchant for immense destruction,” and that their mindset would lead them to the logical conclusion of “beating one of the neighbor’s expensive cars with a baseball bat with the sole objective of owning the most beautiful car in the neighborhood.” In other words, traders are nuts. Indeed if you look up the textbook definition of a psychopath, here are some of the tidbits you’ll uncover: antisocial behavior, poor judgment and failure to learn from experience, inability to see oneself as others do, inexplicable impulsiveness … sounds like a typical trader who is struggling against the market and can’t figure out why.

How do you catch a squirrel? Sit on a branch and act like a nut!

Hey, religious nuts! Please do not grow up. Just go up!

If I had the Taser, Truck Nuts would be Electric Nuts

It’s okay,” Crash says with a light laugh. “She was all of the above.” “Please don’t elaborate on the nuts part,” I mutter, spearing Dane with a look when he snorts. “It’s not that funny.” Dane sucks in a breath. “I mean . . . it kind of is?” “You’re the worst. Crash is literally here, pouring out his broken heart, and you’re laughing about the woman being a squirrel.” “My heart is fully intact,

Later that evening, Hunter Thompson kicked me. I had no idea who he was. He was in the kitchen, trying to smoke opium. I watched as he sucked the life out of what looked like a Tootsie Roll. It seemed like a lot of effort, almost funny—until he leapt up from the table and kicked me. “What the fuck is your story?” I said. He cursed me out with a string of colorful words that caused me to stop and stare even more intensely, not out of fear or anger but rather amazement at his vocabulary. That was when someone mentioned that he was the famous gonzo journalist and warned it was best not to rile him up any more because he carried a gun and didn’t hesitate to pull it out and start shooting.

Jesteś tak przydatny jak pomoc Microsoftu.

Over the past five years, I’ve said my best prayers every night, haven’t missed a night, though I gotta admit, if it wouldn’t break my mother’s heart, I’d probably have stopped a year ago. I mean, praying to be free of Hiskott only makes me expect to be free soon, and then when the prayer’s never answered, you feel even worse, and you wonder what’s the point. I’m not criticizing God, if that’s what you think, because nobody knows why God does things or how He thinks, and He’s humongously smarter than any of us, even smarter than Ed. They say He works in mysterious ways, which is for sure true. What I’m saying is, maybe the whole praying business is a human idea, maybe God never asked us to do it. Yeah, all right, He wants us to like Him, and He wants us to respect Him, so we’ll live right and do good. But God is good—right?—and to be really good you’ve got to have humility, we all know that, so then if God is the best of the best, then He’s also the humblest of the humble. Right? So maybe it embarrasses Him to be praised like around the clock, to be called great and mighty all the time. And maybe it makes Him a little bit nuts the way we’re always asking Him to solve our problems instead of even trying to solve them ourselves, which He made us so we could do. Anyway, so after almost giving up on prayer, and being pretty darned sure that God is too humble to sit around all day listening to us praise Him and beg Him, the funny thing is, I’m praying like crazy for Oddie. I guess I’m hopeless.

Lora grinned and even laughed a little. Chad watched her expression lighten and felt like the sun had come up. He was an easy-going guy, fairly funny, or so he thought, but Lora was a tough nut to crack. And after what she’d been through, how could he blame her? That little laugh gave him hope for more. And

Why are you here?” I ask. He shrugs. “I thought you might want some company.” His gaze searches mine, and it’s so intense that I have to break away. “I figured you’d be too worried about your nuts to come around me again,” I tease. Laughter seems to be the best way to get around this man’s poignant pauses. “You let me worry about my nuts.” He laughs and looks down. “Well, you can worry about them, too, but I take full responsibility for their safety.” I laugh. He’s really pretty funny. “We can both worry about your nuts,” I say with a smile.

Q: If a Pilgrim threw a pumpkin into the air, what came down? A: Squash! Q: How did the Pilgrims catch squirrels? A: They climbed trees and acted like nuts. Q: How did the Pilgrims spell mousetrap with only three letters? A: C A T A turkey is a funny bird It’s head goes wobble, wobble. All it knows is just one word, “Gobble, gobble, gobble!

Yeah, why was there a naked doll and fake penis in that store?” she asks. Your response might be something like this: “You know, as crazy as it sounds, there are some adults who buy things like fake penises and naked dolls. I know it sounds nuts, but it’s true. Some adults think it’s kind of funny to do that; they do it as a joke. But there are some adults who use them as though they were real by touching and holding them. Daddy (or Mommy) and I think that’s silly, but if some adults want them, I don’t think they’ll cause any harm.

Well, I think Leo's either going to learn a much needed lesson in social activity-- or go nuts and kill us all." -Crash

Did you tell me to loosen up?” He wiggled the wrench onto the third nut. “Is that funny for some reason?” “When I experience base physiological needs for food, water, air, sleep, and sex, I follow protocols in order to satisfy them without experiencing desire. Yes, it’s funny.” “You fucking what?” “It’s required to maintain a defense against compromise. Desire is weakness. I’m sure I explained this.” “Well, that sounds awesome. That sounds like a terrific life you have there, Eliot.

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

Is there any way you could find some goat cheese for me? In the past, Natalie would have made a funny comment about how Ashley could convince anyone of anything. She may have even retold that story from the early years of BloBrush, when Ashley had sat in the QVC lobby for hours until she won over the cranky receptionist with the colorful tattoo sleeves, who ended up getting Ash five minutes with the woman who decided which products went on air. Natalie teased her about how cocky she’d been as she’d packed her oversize bag that morning, filling it with granola, bottled water, and magazines. I’m not leaving until I talk to someone, Nat. Nat would say that part in the nasally voice she used to imitate her, the one that always made Ashley laugh. But she didn’t do any of that last night. Instead, she’d stared at Ashley as she slowly chewed her beet salad with pine nuts and pondered how she’d ever thought it was funny that Ashley manipulated people everywhere she went—that it was so ingrained in who she was that even Natalie wasn’t sure she could tell the sincere from the fake anymore.

Funny. And two lunch dates wouldn't be a problem. It would be a threesome." Chase plunked down on the chair in front of my desk. "I'm meeting with the investors from Australia at one, and a reporter from Contemporary Life magazine is coming for an interview to check out the nuts and bolts of Plaything.” "Wait. Contemporary

Well wrap my nuts around a pole and call me mary, looks like you just popped your cherry!

I’m checking out the framed dried wildflowers and photo collages. And then I see something that belongs to me hanging from her mirror. “Hey. Those are my truck nuts.” She blinks drowsily and looks in that direction. “Oh. Yeah.” “You took my nuts.” She squints up at me. “Sorry?” She’s not sorry at all. I laugh. “Yeah. Seems about right.

Being a laborer with one hand is about as useful as being a sperm donor with one nut.

There you are!” Kendra says as they pull to a halt in front of me. They both look flustered and cross. “We were totally freaking out,” she says angrily. “Where were you?” And then Luca rises up from the window seat, and their expressions change so fast it would be comical if I didn’t know that I’ll pay for this later. “Ohh,” Kelly says, clattering to a halt a few feet away, a world of understanding in her voice, and Luca, looking amused at my obvious embarrassment, flourishes her a little bow and holds out his hand. “I am Luca di Vesperi,” he says, taking hers with a debonair smile. I expect Kelly to crumble under this charm onslaught, but I underestimated her; she’s made of tougher stuff. “Of course you are,” she says dryly, looking up at him. “I heard about you. What were doing, showing Violet the family paintings? From your lap?” “Kelly!” I plead desperately as Kendra muffles a giggle. “I do not understand everything you say,” Luca says to Kelly, his blue eyes gleaming, “but I think you are funny.” “Oh.” This does disarm her. She coughs gruffly. “Well, thank you. We should be getting back. Your mum and Catia are doing their nut.” “Their nut?” Luca looks over at Kendra, who shrugs, an elegant rise and fall of her smooth shoulders. “Don’t ask me,” she says. “It’s like my dad said, the UK and the States are two countries separated by the same language.

I love religious nuts. They make me remember I have them too. So, being a health nut, I scratch them religiously. Just as I do my butt.

Do you want to catch those pesky squirrels? Definitely! Then act like nuts!

Religious nuts of the world, unite! I too will fly my kite. Let us set up a meet between your imaginary pal in the sky with my friend up there nowhere, Mr. NOT. We will let them slug it out. Whoever survives, will be our GOD! Long live the brotherhood of the nuts and naught!

I think of this whenever someone says to me, “Jerry Lewis says women aren’t funny,” or “Christopher Hitchens says women aren’t funny,” or “Rick Fenderman says women aren’t funny…. Do you have anything to say to that?” Yes. We don’t fucking care if you like it. I don’t say it out loud, of course, because Jerry Lewis is a great philanthropist, Hitchens is very sick, and the third guy I made up. Unless one of these men is my boss, which none of them is, it’s irrelevant. My hat goes off to them. It is an impressively arrogant move to conclude that just because you don’t like something, it is empirically not good. I don’t like Chinese food, but I don’t write articles trying to prove it doesn’t exist. So my unsolicited advice to women in the workplace is this. When faced with sexism or ageism or lookism or even really aggressive Buddhism, ask yourself the following question: “Is this person in between me and what I want to do?” If the answer is no, ignore it and move on. Your energy is better used doing your work and outpacing people that way. Then, when you’re in charge, don’t hire the people who were jerky to you. If the answer is yes, you have a more difficult road ahead of you. I suggest you model your strategy after the old Sesame Street film piece “Over! Under! Through!” (If you’re under forty you might not remember this film. It taught the concepts of “over,” “under,” and “through” by filming toddlers crawling around an abandoned construction site. They don’t show it anymore because someone has since realized that’s nuts.) If your boss is a jerk, try to find someone above or around your boss who is not a jerk.* If you’re lucky, your workplace will have a neutral proving ground—like the rifle range or the car sales total board or the SNL read-through. If so, focus on that. Again, don’t waste your energy trying to educate or change opinions. Go “Over! Under! Through!” and opinions will change organically when you’re the boss. Or they won’t. Who cares? Do your thing and don’t care if they like it.

Religious fundamentalists make me scratch my nuts. Makes me wonder. Are my nuts religious, or are the religious nuts? Or what?

Oh, come on. You know damn well he isn’t going to reject you.” “You do know they’re meeting”—I made a show of looking at my watch—“right now, as a matter of fact. And no, I don’t know he won’t. Heller rejected you.” “Heller….” Lawson stared into his cup. “That was a special case. There are things I can’t go into because it’s not my story to tell, but trust me, Heller had his reasons. Besides, Remi’s—” “Stable? Unlike Heller?” I interjected. Okay, I couldn’t resist. That’s what Lawson got for leaving me such an opening. The sex must have fried his brain. Lucky bastard. “Oh, aren’t you a funny guy. I was going to say ‘less traumatized,’ smartass.” Suddenly I didn’t feel like joking around anymore. “What if they won’t accept me? They all know I’m stronger than their Alpha. If they refuse me, then—” “Then they lose me, and through me, Heller.” Lawson reached out and clasped my hand. “We stand with you.” “Are you insane?” I reared back, shocked. I couldn’t believe my ears. We were close, but this…. I never thought he’d do this. “You can’t expect Heller to give up all he’s known because you’ve got a wild hair up your ass about me.” Lawson narrowed his eyes. “Want to bet? Do you think I’d throw this out there if we hadn’t talked about it? Come on, you know me better than that.” “You’re nuts. Completely nuts.

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

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

Know! I am the new age prophet of my pal up there, Mr. NOT. If you do not draw my picture my Mr. NOT shall butt-kick you nuts, as too your fancied bot up there nowhere, that silly naught!

Frankly, and factually - people are just screwed up. Am I? Perhaps as much as you, more or less. But not that much as religious nuts. Thank God, I am just nuts.

I'm going to start a religion in the name of my pal up there, Mr. NOT. I am going to call it nuttism. All nuts are welcome. And by that I mean you all, following every other nutty ism.

Evolution could be true. Apes lick their nuts. Religious nuts do too.

Religious nuts believe the 'others', that is you and I, are but dogs. That we infidels do not bow to their diotic god. What if one says the dog is one's god? And all must prostrate before it. Wouldn't one be mad to so insist? So too is a fellow who says another must bow to his god.

All nuts sit on their butts - do you?

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

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

We’ve talked on the phone and texted tons and then there are the emails and Facebook stalking. We know him well enough to tell him the funny stuff.” “I’m not Facebook stalking him, are you?” “Of course.” His head came up, and he looked at me like I was nuts. “Why wouldn’t I? He’s got a business page where he posts cute pics of the dogs and stuff and his personal page where he just seems to argue with his sister. He needs to update his privacy settings—any weirdo could be watching.” For some reason, Cooper didn’t understand why I thought that statement was hilarious.

Yeah, yeah, I know you take pride in who you are. However, do not pass away without getting What Is. Or you'll die as you are - dumb, as a religious nut. Of course, you may prefer to stay as you are. In that case, best of luck.

Her partner in crime, Ben. The one who’d accompanied her complicitously through the darkest and most shameful moments of her adult life: cradled in her arms as she wandered woozily around the apartment at night, entertaining thoughts of disappearing while she slowly hummed him pop songs; strapped into the backseat while she wept in the parking lot of the Whole Foods; taking over when she got too tired to finish reading to him from Harry Potter, too young to read but making up the story as he saw fit—then he found a werewolf in the woods, and it was really funny and then really scary but mostly funny ha ha ha and then everyone went to bed, the end, Mama. Mama? “Mom,” he says now, and she wonders if he ever remembers the late-night times of his toddlerhood when she would creep in and lift him from his bed and rock him back to sleep in the glider, Mama’s nuts about you, chipmunk. Mama wouldn’t understand the world without you in it.