Oompa Loompa Quotes

I want an Oompa-Loompa!' screamed Veruca.

Of course they're real people. They're Oompa-Loompas...Imported direct from Loompaland...And oh what a terrible country it is! Nothing but thick jungles infested by the most dangerous beasts in the world - hornswogglers and snozzwangers and those terrible wicked whangdoodles. A whangdoodle would eat ten Oompa-Loompas for breakfast and come galloping back for a second helping.

So?” I asked Vee. “What’s the verdict?” “The verdict? My doctor is a lard-arse. Closely resembles an Oompa-Loompa. Don’t give me your severe look. Last time he came in, he broke into the Funky Chicken. And he’s forever eating chocolate. Mostly chocolate animals. You know the solid chocolate bunnies they’re selling for Easter? That’s what the Oompa-Loompa ate for dinner. Had a chocolate duck at lunch with a side of yellow Peeps.

Oompa-Loompa Land?” He shook his head. “No way. Orange people give me the creeps. I don’t even like fake tans. I’d never be their king.

My mind was no longer functioning on a rational level. For fuck's sake, who needed rational when they boarded a train to insanity? All that was missing were the Oompa Loompas and Willy-fucking-Wonka.

Screaming Morgan in a cop house is like yelling for an Oompa Loompa in a chocolate factory. You guys pop up like gophers. That's pretty much what dinner's like at our house, Kane acknowledged. Like a game of whack-a-mole.

So quit looking for 'the one'. You have a better chance of finding an Oompa Loompa riding a unicorn, fighting Bigfoot.

What happened to your face?" "What happened to yours?" I retorted. "You look like a damn Oompa Loompa. You should lay off the spray tanning, Lea.

I supposed that if I had a third eye in the middle of my forehead she would want one of those too. “You don’t want a fake orange tan, Munchkin.” “Yes, I do,” she insisted. “It’s pretty.” Alex was amused. “Oh, I think so too. Very pretty and informative. I have always wondered what the female Oompa-Loompas looked like.

A whangdoodle would eat ten Oompa-Loompas for breakfast and come galloping back for a second helping.

It’s that time of the month again… As we head into those dog days of July, Mike would like to thank those who helped him get the toys he needs to enjoy his summer. Thanks to you, he bought a new bass boat, which we don’t need; a condo in Florida, where we don’t spend any time; and a $2,000 set of golf clubs…which he had been using as an alibi to cover the fact that he has been remorselessly banging his secretary, Beebee, for the last six months. Tragically, I didn’t suspect a thing. Right up until the moment Cherry Glick inadvertently delivered a lovely floral arrangement to our house, apparently intended to celebrate the anniversary of the first time Beebee provided Mike with her special brand of administrative support. Sadly, even after this damning evidence-and seeing Mike ram his tongue down Beebee’s throat-I didn’t quite grasp the depth of his deception. It took reading the contents of his secret e-mail account before I was convinced. I learned that cheap motel rooms have been christened. Office equipment has been sullied. And you should think twice before calling Mike’s work number during his lunch hour, because there’s a good chance that Beebee will be under his desk “assisting” him. I must confess that I was disappointed by Mike’s over-wrought prose, but I now understand why he insisted that I write this newsletter every month. I would say this is a case of those who can write, do; and those who can’t do Taxes. And since seeing is believing, I could have included a Hustler-ready pictorial layout of the photos of Mike’s work wife. However, I believe distributing these photos would be a felony. The camera work isn’t half-bad, though. It’s good to see that Mike has some skill in the bedroom, even if it’s just photography. And what does Beebee have to say for herself? Not Much. In fact, attempts to interview her for this issue were met with spaced-out indifference. I’ve had a hard time not blaming the conniving, store-bought-cleavage-baring Oompa Loompa-skinned adulteress for her part in the destruction of my marriage. But considering what she’s getting, Beebee has my sympathies. I blame Mike. I blame Mike for not honoring the vows he made to me. I blame Mike for not being strong enough to pass up the temptation of readily available extramarital sex. And I blame Mike for not being enough of a man to tell me he was having an affair, instead letting me find out via a misdirected floral delivery. I hope you have enjoyed this new digital version of the Terwilliger and Associates Newsletter. Next month’s newsletter will not be written by me as I will be divorcing Mike’s cheating ass. As soon as I press send on this e-mail, I’m hiring Sammy “the Shark” Shackleton. I don’t know why they call him “the Shark” but I did hear about a case where Sammy got a woman her soon-to-be ex-husband’s house, his car, his boat and his manhood in a mayonnaise jar. And one last thing, believe me when I say I will not be letting Mike off with “irreconcilable differences” in divorce court. Mike Terwilliger will own up to being the faithless, loveless, spineless, useless, dickless wonder he is.

In this age of quick fixes and microwave mindsets, most of us want what we want, and we want it right now, whether it is instant download speed, instant riches, or an Oompa-Loompa, but just as you can’t force the farm to produce a harvest, you can’t force your seed of potential to grow until it is ripe and ready.

The Oompa Loompas were hired to replace us, and throw us over the fuck'n factory wall! -Joe Bucket (Grandpa Joe)

So onomatopoeia has the same number of "O"s as Oompa Loompa. Coincidence? I think not.

I tried to bend over and touch my toes this morning,” I tell the girls. “I tipped over, hit my head on the desk, and then had to call for Nana to get up. I’m literally the size of an Oompa Loompa.” “You’re the most beautiful Oompa Loompa in the world,” Hope declares. “Because she’s not orange.” “Oompa Loompas were orange?” I try to conjure up a mental picture of them but can only recall their white overalls. Carin purses her lips. “Were they supposed to be candies? Like orange slices? Or maybe candy corn?” “They were squirrels,” Hope informs us. “No way,” we both say at once. “Yes way. I read it on the back of a Laffy Taffy when I was like ten. It was a trivia question and I’d just seen the movie. I was terrified of squirrels for years afterwards.” “Shit. Learn something new every day.” I push my body upright, a task that takes a certain amount of upper body strength these days, and toddle over to inspect the crib. “I don’t believe you,” Carin tells Hope. “The movie is about candy. It’s called Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Since when are squirrels candies? I can buy into a bunny because, you know, the chocolate Easter bunnies, but not a squirrel.” “Look it up, Careful. I’m right.” “You’re ruining my childhood.” Carin turns to me. “Don’t do this to your daughter.” “Raise her to believe Oompa Loompas are squirrels?” “Yes

I hear some chanting and continue walking until I see them. All the Badass are marching in step and singing the most irritating song I think I’ve ever heard. Oompa Loompa, do-ba-dee-doo,
 I’ve got a perfect puzzle for you.
 Oompa Loompa, do-ba-dee-dee,
 If you are wise you’ll listen to me.

Elphaba concentrated on the first Oompa-Loompa on the left. “Iskviesti Zaibo!” A bolt of lightning seemed to come from everywhere and zapped the poor Dymon, who popped like a kernel of popcorn and let out a squeal. “Did I hurt it?” But she didn’t need an answer, as it pulled itself up from the snow and brushed itself off.

Andrew, you are aware that no one should be that shade of orange unless they're an Oompa-Loompa,right?

Invisible Oompa-Loompas waiting on a scarred millionaire with an occult library. This could only happen to you,

Oompa-Loompas,

Mike Teavee asked. “Why not use Oompa-Loompas?” “Because,” said Mr. Wonka, “Oompa-Loompas can’t get walnuts out

The Oompa-Loompas

Sorry, but I'd rather sit home eating Vienna sausage straight from the can watching Andy Griffith reruns than be forced to dine with that Oompa-Loompa!

Ray was looking extra Oompa-Loompa-like this morning with his fake tan a seemingly brighter shade of orange than usual. His brown hair matched his personality—slick and greasy. “Morning,

I am afraid that Oompa Loompa Barry, didn't make it.” “What do you mean Barry didn't make it, he's an animatronic, Pip, not a fish you won at the carnival.” At this, I frowned as I held a finger up and said, “Okay, now that totally wasn’t my fault, Stevie was totally fine when I went to bed that night,” I argued. “Pip, you topped his bowl up with a bottle of vodka you thought was water… Stevie died three sheets to the wind that night and pissed as a fart.” Okay, so she had a point, I did do this.

I see the glow before I see her. The orange light is so strong it’s hard to believe the house isn’t on fire, but when feet appear at the top of the staircase, I can finally see that the light isn’t coming from the house. It’s coming from her. My heart beats so fast I can’t tell the pulses apart—it’s one harsh thrum inside my head. If I’m a Smurf, this girl is an Oompa Loompa. No. Not even. It looks like she walked out of a horror movie. She really is on fire, burning from the inside out. I’m staring, but I can’t help it. Everyone would be staring if they could see what I see.

In almost every house we’ve been, We’ve watched them gaping at the screen. They sit and stare and stare and sit . . . Until they’re hypnotized by it, But did you ever stop to think, (What) This does to your beloved tot? it rots the senses in the head! it kills imagination dead! . . . it makes a child so dull and blind he cannot think he only sees! —Roald Dahl Excerpt from the Mike Teavee poem from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory as sung by the Oompa–Loompas

You should write a novel.” “Me? Write a novel?” “Well, you do read a lot of them.” “And you eat a lot of candy bars, but I don’t see you running out to hire a bunch of Oompa-Loompas and starting a chocolate factory.

Hayley shoots me a withering look. With her distinctly orange fake tan and her cream petticoats and lilac pelisse, she looks like an Oompa Loompa in period drag.

These friends or cretins rather are called Oompa Loompas and they got themselves a madder lust for chocolate than Wonka.

She’d heard that story about employees in a chocolate factory being allowed to eat as much as they liked in the first month, but it had never made much sense to her. The theory was they would soon get sick of chocolate. That had not been her experience with food. She would have been dead within a fortnight, being rolled out by Oompa Loompas singing a valuable lesson.

That stubby little oompa loompa be trippin’, Halia. I got a mind—

Mr. Lemoncello is a lot like Willy Wonka,” said Kyle. “You mean crazy?” said Akimi. “I prefer the term ‘eccentric’.” “And Dr. Zinchenko is his Oompa-Loompa,” said Sierra. Everybody started giggling. “Nah,” Akimi joked, “she’s too tall.” “And not nearly orange enough,” added Miguel.

We popped down into a ditch and Jupiterean g-forces squashed me to oompa loompa proportions

What does this Oompa-Loompa snake mean?

I’ve got to get home. Where’s my cell?” I ask, patting my back pocket. “Alex has it, I think.” So sneaking out without talking to him isn’t an option. I struggle to keep the Oompa Loompas at bay as I stagger out of the bedroom, searching for Alex. It’s not hard to find him, the house is smaller than Sierra’s pool house. Alex is lying on an old sofa, wearing jeans. Nothing else. His eyes are open, but they’re bloodshot and glazed with sleep. “Hey,” he says warmly while stretching. Oh, God. I’m in big trouble. Because I’m staring. I can’t keep my eyes from ogling his chiseled triceps and biceps and every other “eps” he has. The butterflies in my stomach have just multiplied tenfold as my wandering gaze meets his. “Hey.” I swallow, hard. “I, um, guess I should thank you for taking me here instead of leaving me passed out on the beach.” His gaze doesn’t falter. “Last night I realized somethin’. You and I, we’re not so different. You play the game just like I do. You use your looks, your bod, and your brains to make sure you’re always in control.” “I’m hungover, Alex. I can’t even think straight and you’re getting all philosophical on me.” “See, you’re playin’ a game right now. Be real with me, mamacita. I dare you.” Is he kidding? Be real? I can’t. Because then I’ll start crying, and maybe freak out enough to blurt the truth--that I create a perfect image so I can hide behind it. “I better get home.” “Before you do that, you should probably go to the bathroom,” he says. Before I ask why, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a mirror hanging on the wall. “Oh, shit!” I shriek. Black mascara is caked under my eyes and streaky lines of it are running down my cheeks. I resemble a corpse. Hurrying past him, I find the hall bathroom and stare at myself in the mirror. My hair is a stringy bird’s nest. If the mascara marrying my cheeks wasn’t bad enough, the rest of me is as pale as my aunt Dolores without her makeup. I have puffy bags under my eyes as if I’m storing water for the winter months. All in all, not a pretty sight. By anyone’s standards.