Palace Funny Quotes

Arjuro made a scoffing sound. ‘You think Lumatere will invade because of you? Are you that important?’ Froi looked away. ‘Isaboe would invade if you kidnapped a servant, let alone a friend.’ ‘Isaboe? We’re on first-name terms with the Queen of Lumatere, are we?’ Gargarin asked. Froi found himself bristling. ‘What? Do you think I’m some cutthroat for hire who they found hanging around the palace walls with the words “I want to kill a Charynite King” tattooed on my arse?

Now, as the party reached the royal hall the brothers shared, Tolners produced a note and held it up for Kell to read. “This isn’t funny.” Apparently Rhy had had the grace to pin the note to his door, in case anyone in the palace should worry. "Not kidnapped. Out for a drink with Kell. Sit tight.

For one thing, everyone there is so clever. Do they think me dull? Perhaps I should assure them that our goats enjoyed listening to me for hours on end. I am certain their bleats meant "Do go on, Miri, darling. You are immensely entertaining." Your immensely entertaining sister, Miri

Sir Kile, you're lived in the palace your whole life," Gavril said, walking across the stage. "How do you think your life might change were you to become prince?" "Id definitely need to focus more on my hygiene." "Pfffft!" I covered my mouth, so embarrassed, but I couldn't stop laughing. "Oh! Sounds like someone over there agrees.

Darker thoughts crowded in during the deepest hours of the night when he woke listening to the secret mystifying sounds of the sleeping palace. Many nights, the king was there. Pleasant, irrelevant, and distracting, he eased Relius past nightmares and self-recrimination. Some nights he said nothing at all, just comforted with his presence. Other nights he related the events of his day, spewing out his insights and analyses of the Attolian court in a devastatingly funny critique.

Cottontail knocked on the big front door and was admitted to the Palace. There she stood in her funny country clothes but none of the other four Easter Bunnies laughed, for they were wise and kind and knew better.

Your--ah--intervention, shall we say, has simplified things in the palace enormously. We no longer have to worry about Salmissra's whims and peculiar appetites. We rule by committee, and we hardly ever find it necessary to poison each other anymore. No one's tried to poison me for months.

We can house everyone in the palace. Just think of all the dinners and teas and dancing." "Just think of all the dinners and teas and dancing," said David glumly. Genya set her pen aside and seized his hands. "I promise to let you hide in your workshop. Just give me five events and one banquet." "Three events and one banquet." "Four." "Very well." "You're a dreadful negotiator," said Nikolai. "She would have settled for two." David frowned. "Is that true?" "Absolutely not," said Genya. "And do shut up, Your Highness.

I curled up in the back next to Loki, his arm around me, and my head resting on his shoulder. My body ached all over, but it felt good being with him. He kissed the top of my head, and I snuggled up closer to him. He'd been helping me at the palace, but he'd waited until we were alone in the car to be affectionate. Willa had raised an eyebrow at us, but she said nothing. Later on, back in Forening, I'd have a thousand questions from her. But for now, she let us have our moment together. "I can't wait until we get home," I said. "Home,,"Loki said and laughed a little. "What?" I lifted my head to look up at him. "What's funny about that?" "Nothing." he shook his head. "i just...I don't think I've ever really felt like I had a home before." He smiled down at me. "Not until I met you." Loki leaned down, kissing my gently on the mouth. I'm sure he wanted to kiss me more deeply, but he was afraid of hurting me. He continued to kiss me tenderly, and I clung to him as tightly as I could as heat swirled through me. When he stopped, he rested his forehead against mine and breathed in deeply. "I cannot wait to get home with you, Princess." "I'm the Queen now, you know," I teased, and he laughed and kissed me again.

Hey, sweetheart. All alone in this palace?" She arched a brow when she felt the hand on her bottom and turned her head slowly to stare at McNab. He went red, then white, then red again. "Christ! Lieutenant. Sir." "Your hand's on my ass, McNab. I don't think you want it to be there." He snatched it away as if scorched. "God. Man. Shit. Beg your pardon. I didn't recognize you. I mean..." He jammed the hand he sincerely hoped she'd allow him to keep in his pocket. "I didn't know it was you. I thought... You look..." Words failed him. "I believe Detective McNab is trying to compliment you, Eve." Roarke slipped up beside them and, because it was too much to resist, stared hard into McNab's panicked eyes. "Weren't you, Ian?" "Yeah. That is..." "And if I believed he'd realized it was your ass he was fondling, I'd just have to kill him. Right here." Roarke reached out and flicked at the strings of McNab's snazzy red tie. "Right now." "Oh, I'd have already taken care of that myself," Eve said dryly. "You look like you could use a drink,Detective." "Yes, sir. I could." "Roarke, why don't you take care of him? Mira just came in. I want to talk to her." "Delighted." Roarke draped an arm around McNab's shoulder and squeezed just a little harder than comfort allowed.

Where is the palace?” “Just over yonder.” Tiny waved to his left, causing a new low-pressure front. “Easy two-minute walk.” I tried to translate that from Giantese. I figured that meant the palace was about seven billion miles away.

It is the custom on the stage: in all good, murderous melodramas: to present the tragic and the comic scenes, in as regular alternation, as the layers of red and white in a side of streaky, well-cured bacon. The hero sinks upon his straw bed, weighed down by fetters and misfortunes; and, in the next scene, his faithful but unconscious squire regales the audience with a comic song. We behold, with throbbing bosoms, the heroine in the grasp of a proud and ruthless baron: her virtue and her life alike in danger; drawing forth a dagger to preserve the one at the cost of the other; and, just as our expectations are wrought up to the highest pitch, a whistle is heard: and we are straightway transported to the great hall of the castle: where a grey-headed seneschal sings a funny chorus with a funnier body of vassals, who are free of all sorts of places from church vaults to palaces, and roam about in company, carolling perpetually. Such changes appear absurd; but they are not so unnatural as they would seem at first sight. The transitions in real life from well-spread boards to death-beds, and from mourning weeds to holiday garments, are not a whit less startling; only, there, we are busy actors, instead of passive lookers-on; which makes a vast difference. The actors in the mimic life of the theatre, are blind to violent transitions and abrupt impulses of passion or feeling, which, presented before the eyes of mere spectators, are at once condemned as outrageous and preposterous.

So Isis shows up in Byblos like "Hey queen my husband is embedded in your palace may I please extract him?" And the queen is like "sure, go ahead. It's not like he's a major structural support or anything, right?" and Isis is like "haha, sucker". And she goes and removes the pillar WITHOUT DAMAGING THE PALACE AT ALL Thus inventing Jenga.

Now I have to revise his whole image in my brain castle.” “Do you mean ‘memory palace’?” I ask.

New Rule: Let the Pope be Pope. An animal-rights group in Italy has asked Pope Benedict to give up his fur-trimmed cape and hat. To which the Pope replied, "Don't be hatin' on my cape, bitch." Sorry, but Popes are the original divas, they invented bling, they've been wearing outlandish outfits for a thousand years--almost as long as Elton John. The clothes, the jewels, the fancy palace...Those aren't just symbols of the Papacy, they are the Papacy. The day the Pope shows up on the balcony in a pair of jeans and polo shirt is the day a billion Catholics go, "What the hell were we thinking?

It’s a funny thing because Britain was in a terrible state in those days. It limped from crisis to crisis. It was known as the Sick Man of Europe. It was in every way poorer than now. Yet there were flower beds in roundabouts, libraries and post offices in every village, cottage hospitals in abundance, council housing for all who needed it. It was a country so comfortable and enlightened that hospitals maintained cricket pitches for their staff and mental patients lived in Victorian palaces.

I thought love was meant to be an easy, peaceful thing, Lillias. But it's like life itself. It's maddening. And beautiful. And changeable and funny and passionate. It's...like a Hudson River Valley sunset. Underneath all that fire and glory the sky is ever constant. It's like you. For me, it is you.

No one in this palace is as beautiful as you think they are. It’s all just mind control.” Thorne grinned and squeezed her closer against his side. “I’m fairly certain there’s at least one exception to that rule.” Cress rolled her eyes. “Yeah. Thaumaturges.” He laughed and dropped his arm, though she wasn’t sure what was funny.

It’s a funny thing because Britain was in a terrible state in those days. It limped from crisis to crisis. It was known as the Sick Man of Europe. It was in every way poorer than now. Yet there were flower beds in roundabouts, libraries and post offices in every village, cottage hospitals in abundance, council housing for all who needed it. It was a country so comfortable and enlightened that hospitals maintained cricket pitches for their staff and mental patients lived in Victorian palaces. If we could afford it then, why not now? Someone needs to explain to me how it is that the richer Britain gets, the poorer it thinks itself.

I really do think Britain had attained something approaching perfection just around the time of my arrival. It’s a funny thing because Britain was in a terrible state in those days. It limped from crisis to crisis. It was known as the Sick Man of Europe. It was in every way poorer than now. Yet there were flowerbeds on roundabouts, libraries and post offices in every village, cottage hospitals in abundance, council housing for all who needed it. It was a country so comfortable and enlightened that hospitals maintained cricket pitches for their staff and mental patients lived in Victorian palaces. If we could afford it then, why not now? Someone needs to explain to me how it is that the richer Britain gets the poorer it thinks itself.

Jude never loved Locke.” My face feels hot, but my shame is an excellent cover to hide behind. “She loved someone else. He’s the one she’d want dead.” I am pleased to see Cardan flinch. “Enough,” he says before I can go on. “I have heard all I care to on this subject—” “No!” Nicasia interrupts, causing everyone under the hill to stir a little. It is immense presumption to interrupt the High King. Even for a princess. Especially for an ambassador. A moment after she speaks, she seems to realize it, but she goes on anyway. “Taryn could have a charm on her, something that makes her resistant to glamours.” Cardan gives Nicasia a scathing look. He does not like her undermining his authority. And yet, after a moment, his anger gives way to something else. He gives me one of his most awful smiles. “I suppose she’ll have to be searched.” Nicasia’s mouth curves to match his. It feels like being back at lessons on the palace grounds, conspired against by the children of the Gentry. I recall the more recent humiliation of being crowned the Queen of Mirth, stripped in front of revelers. If they take my gown now, they will see the bandages on my arms, the fresh slashes on my skin for which I have no good explanation. They will guess I am not Taryn. I can’t let that happen. I summon all the dignity I can muster, trying to imitate my stepmother, Oriana, and the way she projects authority. “My husband was murdered,” I say. “And whether or not you believe me, I do mourn him. I will not make a spectacle of myself for the Court’s amusement when his body is barely cold.” Unfortunately, the High King’s smile only grows. “As you wish. Then I suppose I will have to examine you alone in my chambers.

Now I myself, I cheerfully admit, feel that enormity in Kensington Gardens as something quite natural. I feel it so because I have been brought up, so to speak, under its shadow; and stared at the graven images of Raphael and Shakespeare almost before I knew their names; and long before I saw anything funny in their figures being carved, on a smaller scale, under the feet of Prince Albert. I even took a certain childish pleasure in the gilding of the canopy and spire, as if in the golden palace of what was, to Peter Pan and all children, something of a fairy garden. So do the Christians of Jerusalem take pleasure, and possibly a childish pleasure, in the gilding of a better palace, besides a nobler garden, ornamented with a somewhat worthier aim. But the point is that the people of Kensington, whatever they might think about the Holy Sepulchre, do not think anything at all about the Albert Memorial. They are quite unconscious of how strange a thing it is; and that simply because they are used to it. The religious groups in Jerusalem are also accustomed to their coloured background; and they are surely none the worse if they still feel rather more of the meaning of the colours. It may be said that they retain their childish illusion about their Albert Memorial. I confess I cannot manage to regard Palestine as a place where a special curse was laid on those who can become like little children. And I never could understand why such critics who agree that the kingdom of heaven is for children, should forbid it to be the only sort of kingdom that children would really like; a kingdom with real crowns of gold or even of tinsel. But that is another question, which I shall discuss in another place; the point is for the moment that such people would be quite as much surprised at the place of tinsel in our lives as we are at its place in theirs. If we are critical of the petty things they do to glorify great things, they would find quite as much to criticise (as in Kensington Gardens) in the great things we do to glorify petty things. And if we wonder at the way in which they seem to gild the lily, they would wonder quite as much at the way we gild the weed.

The Pakistani film International Gorillay (International guerillas), produced by Sajjad Gul, told the story of a group of local heroes - of the type that would, in the language of a later age, come to be known as jihadis, or terrorists - who vowed to find and kill an author called "Salman Rushdie" . The quest for "Rushdie" formed the main action of the film and "his" death was the film's version of happy ending. "Rushdie" himself was depicted as a drunk, constantly swigging from a bottle, and a sadist. He lived in what looked very like a palace on what looked very like an island in the Philippines (clearly all novelists had second homes of this kind), being protected by what looked very like the Israeli Army (this presumably being a service offered by Israel to all novelists), and he was plotting the overthrow of Pakistan by the fiendish means of opening chains of discotheques and gambling dens across that pure and virtuous land, a perfidious notion for which, as the British Muslim "leader" Iqbal Sacranie might have said, death was too light a punishment. "Rushdie" was dressed exclusively in a series of hideously coloured safari suits - vermilion safari suits, aubergine safari suits, cerise safari suits - and the camera, whenever it fell upon the figure of this vile personage, invariably started at his feet and then panned [sic] with slow menace up to his face. So the safari suits got a lot of screen time, and when he saw a videotape of the film the fashion insult wounded him deeply. It was, however, oddly satisfying to read that one result of the film's popularity in Pakistan was that the actor playing "Rushdie" became so hated by the film-going public that he had to go into hiding. At a certain point in the film one of the international gorillay was captured by the Israeli Army and tied to a tree in the garden of the palace in the Philippines so that "Rushdie" could have his evil way with him. Once "Rushdie" had finished drinking form his bottle and lashing the poor terrorist with a whip, once he had slaked his filthy lust for violence upon the young man's body, he handed the innocent would-be murderer over to the Israeli soldiers and uttered the only genuinely funny line in the film. "Take him away," he cried, "and read to him from The Satanic Verses all night!" Well, of course, the poor fellow cracked completely. Not that, anything but that, he blubbered as the Israelis led him away. At the end of the film "Rushdie" was indeed killed - not by the international gorillay, but by the Word itself, by thunderbolts unleashed by three large Qurans hanging in the sky over his head, which reduced the monster to ash. Personally fried by the Book of the Almighty: there was dignity in that.

I glance back and see that he has stopped moving. He's sitting on the ground, looking at his hand. Looking at his ring. 'He despised me.' His voice sounds light, conversational. Like he's forgotten where he is. 'Balekin?' I ask, thinking of what I saw at Hollow Hall. 'My father.' Cardan snorts. 'I didn't much know the others, my brothers and sisters. Isn't that funny? Prince Dain- he didn't want me in the palace, so he forced me out.' I wait, not sure what to say. It's disturbing to see him like this, behaving as though he might have emotions. After a moment, he seems to come back to himself. His eyes focus on me, glittering in the dark. 'And now they're all dead.

You know, it’s a funny thing,” said Susan, staring at it. “Twyla draws houses like that. And she practically lives in a mansion. I drew houses like that. And I was born in a palace. Why?” “P’raps it’s all this house,” muttered the oh god miserably. “What? You really think so? Kids’ paintings are all of this place? It’s in our heads?

My knuckles brushed one of his wings- smooth and cool like silk, but hard as stone with it stretched taut. Fascinating, I blindly reached again... and dared to run a fingertip along some inner edge. Rhysand shuddered, a soft groan slipping past my ear. 'That,' he said tightly, 'is very sensitive.' I snatched my finger back, pulling away far enough to see his face. With the wind, I had to squint, and my braided hair ripped this way and that, but- he was entirely focused on the mountains around us. 'Does it tickle?' He flicked his gaze to me, then to the snow and pine that went on forever. 'It feels like this,' he said, and leaned in so close that his lips brushed the shell of my ear as he sent a gentle breath into it. My back arched on instinct, my chin tipping up at the caress of that breath. 'Oh,' I managed to say, I felt him smile against my ear and pull away. 'If you want an Illyrian male's attention, you'd be better off grabbing him by the balls. We're trained to protect our wings at all costs. Some males attack first, ask questions later, if their wings are touched without invitation.' 'And during sex?' The question blurted out. Rhys's face was nothing but feline amusement as he monitored the mountains. 'During sex, an Illyrian male can find completion just by having someone touch his wings in the right spot.' My blood thrummed. Dangerous territory; more lethal than the drop below. 'Have you found that to be true?' His eyes stripped me bare. 'I've never allowed anyone to see or touch my wings during sex. It makes you vulnerable in a way that I'm not... comfortable with.' 'Too bad,' I said, staring out too casually toward the mighty mountain that now appeared on the horizon, towering over the others. And capped, I noted, with that glimmering palace of moonstone. 'Why?' he asked warily. I shrugged, fighting the upward tugging of my lips. 'Because I bet you could get into some interesting positions with those wings.' Rhys loosed a barking laugh, and his nose grazed my ear. I felt him open his mouth to whisper something, but- Something dark and fast and sleek shot for us, and he plunged down and away, swearing.

By the chapel door, Meryn shrank back against the old wood panels as though he was willing the palace to swallow him up. He could hear the killing, the screams. He could smell the blood. There was going to be another slaughter. And it was going to make the first one pale into insignificance. He started to laugh, unable to stop himself, because there was nothing funny left in the world.

but don’t ask her if you can book a room at the Palace Athena. I can tell you from personal experience, she doesn’t think that’s funny.

Meredith Etherington-Smith Meredith Etherington-Smith became an editor of Paris Vogue in London and GQ magazine in the United States during the 1970s. During the 1980s, she served as deputy and features editor of Harpers & Queen magazine and has since become a leading art critic. Currently, she is editor in chief of Christie’s magazine. She is also a noted artist biographer; her book on Salvador Dali, The Persistence of Memory, was an international bestseller and was translated into a dozen languages. Her drawing room that morning was much like any comfortable, slightly formal drawing room to be found in country houses throughout England: the paintings, hung on pale yellow walls, were better; the furniture, chintz-covered; the flowers, natural garden bouquets. It was charming. And so was she, as she swooped in from a room beyond. I had never seen pictures of her without any makeup, with just-washed hair and dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt. She looked more vital, more beautiful, than any photograph had ever managed to convey. She was, in a word, staggering; here was the most famous woman in the world up close, relaxed, funny, and warm. The tragic Diana, the royal Diana, the wronged Diana: a clever, interesting person who wasn’t afraid to say she didn’t know how an auction sale worked, and would it be possible to work with me on it? “Of course, ma’am,” I said. “It’s your sale, and if you would like, then we’ll work on it together to make the most money we can for your charities.” “So what do we do next?” she asked me. “First, I think you had better choose the clothes for sale.” The next time I saw her drawing room, Paul Burrell, her butler, had wheeled in rack after rack of jeweled, sequined, embroidered, and lacy dresses, almost all of which I recognized from photographs of the Princess at some state event or gala evening. The visible relics of a royal life that had ended. The Princess, in another pair of immaculately pressed jeans and a stripy shirt, looked so different from these formal meringues that it was almost laughable. I think at that point the germ of an idea entered my mind: that sometime, when I had gotten to know her better and she trusted me, I would like to see photographs of the “new” Princess Diana--a modern woman unencumbered by the protocol of royal dress. Eventually, this idea led to putting together the suite of pictures of this sea-change princess with Mario Testino. I didn’t want her to wear jewels; I wanted virtually no makeup and completely natural hair. “But Meredith, I always have people do my hair and makeup,” she explained. “Yes ma’am, but I think it is time for a change--I want Mario to capture your speed, and electricity, the real you and not the Princess.” She laughed and agreed, but she did turn up at the historic shoot laden with her turquoise leather jewel boxes. We never opened them. Hair and makeup took ten minutes, and she came out of the dressing room looking breathtaking. The pictures are famous now; they caused a sensation at the time. My favorite memory of Princess Diana is when I brought the work prints round to Kensington Palace for her to look at. She was so keen to see them that she raced down the stairs and grabbed them. She went silent for a moment or two as she looked at these vivid, radiant images. Then she turned to me and said, “But these are really me. I’ve been set free and these show it. Don’t you think,” she asked me, “that I look a bit like Marilyn Monroe in some of them?” And laughed.

Piers Morgan Piers Morgan is a British journalist best known for his editorial work for the Daily Mirror from 1995 through 2004. He is also a successful author and television personality whose recent credits include a recurring role as a judge on NBC’s America’s Got Talent. A controversial member of the tabloid press during Diana’s lifetime, Piers Morgan established a uniquely close relationship with the Princess during the 1990s. I mentioned I’d been in contact with her mother. “Oh crikey, that sounds dangerous!” “She’s a feisty woman, isn’t she?” William giggled. “Granny’s great fun after a few gin and tonics.” “Sh, William,” Diana said, giggling too. “My mother’s been a tremendous source of support to me. She never talks publicly; she’s just there for me.” “And what about William’s other granny?” “I have enormous respect for the Queen; she has been so supportive, you know. People don’t see that side of her, but I do all the time. She’s an amazing person.” “Has she been good over the divorce?” “Yes, very. I just want it over now so I can get on with my life. I’m worried about the attacks I will get afterward.” “What attacks?” “I just worry that people will try and knock me down once I am out on my own.” This seemed unduly paranoid. People adored her. I asked William how he was enjoying Eton. “Oh, it’s great, thanks.” “Do you think the press bother you much?” “Not the British press, actually. Though the European media can be quite annoying. They sit on the riverbank watching me rowing with their cameras, waiting for me to fall in! There are photographers everywhere if I go out. Normally loads of Japanese tourists taking pictures. All saying “Where’s Prince William?’ when I’m standing right next to them.” “How are the other boys with you?” “Very nice. Though a boy was expelled this week for taking ecstasy and snuff. Drugs are everywhere, and I think they’re stupid. I never get tempted.” “Does matron take any?” laughed Diana. “No, Mummy, it gives her hallucinations.” “What, like imagining you’re going to be king?” I said. They both giggled again. “Is it true you’ve got Pamela Anderson posters on your bedroom wall?” “No! And not Cindy Crawford, either. They did both come to tea at the palace, though, and were very nice.” William had been photographed the previous week at a party at the Hammersmith Palais, where he was mobbed by young girls. I asked him if he’d had fun. “Everyone in the press said I was snogging these girls, but I wasn’t,” he insisted. Diana laughed. “One said you stuck your tongue down her throat, William. Did you?” “No, I did not. Stop it, Mummy, please. It’s embarrassing.” He’d gone puce. It was a very funny exchange, with a flushed William finally insisting: “I won’t go to any more public parties; it was crazy. People wouldn’t leave me alone.” Diana laughed again. “All the girls love a nice prince.” I turned to more serious matters. “Do you think Charles will become king one day?” “I think he thinks he will,” replied Diana, “but I think he would be happier living in Tuscany or Provence, to be honest.” “And how are you these days--someone told me you’ve stopped seeing therapists?” “I have, yes. I stopped when I realized they needed more therapy than I did. I feel stronger now, but I am under so much pressure all the time. People don’t know what it’s like to be in the public eye, they really don’t.

You came to the palace and allowed yourself to be imprisoned so that you could make some friends? I see a few flaws in your plan.

You've seen the prince? Like the real prince of the Otherworld?'' ''Yep. Saw him three times.'' (...) ''Once he was in this meadow. Kind of like the meadow in that movie with the sparkly vampires and crazy hair''. (...) The second time was when i was near their palace. It kind of looked like something on the show you watch where everyone dies.'' ''Game of Thrones? I suggested. ''King's Landing?'' He jumped as he nodded. ''And the third time was...well, he was doing something you never do.'' (...) ''What was that?'' (...) ''He was having sex.

Laugh out-loud funny" by a "Master Storyteller".

taping of the Hollywood Palace TV show. In America then, if you had long hair, you were a faggot as well as a freak. They would shout across the street, “Hey, fairies!” Dean Martin introduced as something like “these long-haired wonders from England, the Rolling Stones.… They’re backstage picking the fleas off each other.” A lot of sarcasm and eyeball rolling. Then he said, “Don’t leave me alone with this,” gesturing with horror in our direction. This was Dino, the rebel Rat Packer who cocked his finger at the entertainment world by pretending to be drunk all the time. We were, in fact, quite stunned. English comperes and showbiz types may have been hostile, but they didn’t treat you like some dumb circus act. Before we’d gone on, he’d had the bouffanted King Sisters and performing elephants, standing on their hind legs. I love old Dino. He was a pretty funny bloke, even though he wasn’t ready for the changing of the guard. On to Texas and more freak show appearances, in one case with a pool of performing seals between us and the audience at the San Antonio Texas State Fair. That was where I first met Bobby Keys, the great saxophone player, my closest pal (we were born within hours of each other).

It’s a shame you haven’t acquired more manners now that you’re royalty. The palace’s etiquette lessons are severely lacking.” “Funny,” Rhys said flatly. “Clients should pay extra for your sense of humor.” “That’s rich, coming from a guy who has no sense of humor.