Pot Calling Kettle Quotes

Why am I so drawn to you?" He muttered, almost to himself. "Why is it so hard to let go? I thought... at first... it was Ariella, that you remind me of so much. But it's not." Though he didn't smile, his eyes lightened a shade. "You're far more stubborn than she ever was." I sniffed. "That's like the pot calling the kettle black," I whispered, and a faint, tiny grin finally crossed his face, before his expression clouded and he lowered his head, touching his forehead to mine. "What do you want of me, Meghan?" he asked, a low thread of anguish flickering below the surface. Tears blurred my vision, all the fear and heartache of the past few days rising to the surface. "Just you," I whispered. "I just want you." -Ash and Meghan

If the universe is meaningless, so is the statement that it is so. If this world is a vicious trap, so is its accuser, and the pot is calling the kettle black.

He couldn’t be serious. He was not accusing Marc of wanting me dead! If that wasn’t the pot calling the kettle black, I’d…I’d…pound the shit out of the pot myself!

Oh, that's the pot calling the kettle black. Amusement flowed through the connection as Seth said, Or it's the pot calling the pot a pot.

You need more sleep.” “Skillet, pan.” “What?” “You know, the skillet says the pan’s the same deal.” He thought a moment. “I believe that’s the pot calling the kettle black.” “Whatever, kitchen stuff can’t talk anyway.

she is called Tinker Bell because she mends the pots and kettles.

Contemplating Clodia I find scarcely a drop in my heart of that compassion which Epicurus enjoins us to extend toward the erring.

Today the teacher called me a sadist. I tried to say that was like the pot calling the kettle black but came out with something closer to “That is like a pan saying to a dark pan, ‘You are a pan.

Maybe they had existed, all of them: Gabriel and God, Samyaza and his crew and all their enormous biting babies. Who knows? The Elioud dismissed the Book of Enoch as absurd, which was kind of the pot calling the kettle black, Eliza had always thought, but wasn't that what religions did? Squint at one another and declare "My unprovable belief is better than your unprovable belief. Suck it.

Isn’t that the kettle calling the pot collect?” English

I have been keeping something from you?” she challenged. “I rather think that to be the pot calling the kettle black.

Nicholas shrugged. “Who knows what he’s got locked away in his head. Considering the countless lies he’s told, you can never really know.” “That’s like the pot calling the kettle black, isn’t it?” He smirked. “Perhaps.

was left wondering what I was supposed to do with the wall I’d built around my heart, because there was no way Deck could scale that sucker, and it probably wasn’t fair to ignore him because of what all his club brothers had done to me. That would be the pot calling the kettle black for sure.

And more to the point, I have no idea what I want to do. It shouldn't be a surprise. I've had years to think about it. That and just the other day I was pestering Wolf about what he wanted to do--talk about the pot calling the kettle black. But that's just it, I guess. I've never had to think about it. I have very diligently kept all of my options open. The AP classes, the killer GPA, the SAT scores in the 99th percentile, the varsity letters from swim team, the debate club, the fundraising... I've taken on everything and succeeded at it. There is not one weak spot that can be pointed to in my resume, not a single thing that would make an administrator say, "Yes, but what about her..." Except maybe this. Except the part where it's suddenly clear to me why I've been struggling so much with my college essays, with articulating who I am in so few words. How can a person even know who they are if they don't know what they want?

I know he accused Nick of making me dependent on him for everything, which is the pot calling up the kettle to have a long talk about being black. My mom loved Nick, but right or wrong, my parents had spent my life making me think that I couldn’t do anything without them. At twenty-one years old, I was still very much a child. I didn’t know how to write a check, but, somehow, I was paying for everything. I knew that I was making money, but I didn’t think of myself as the family breadwinner. I just thought my money was their money. Honestly, what I knew for sure was that it stopped my family from having as many fights, so I felt lucky that I could be the one to help keep the peace.

I think you’re being melodramatic.” “Aren’t you like the pot calling the kettle black or something?” I asked. “Pardon me, oh great one. I forgot my place as a mere footnote in the history of Sitia.” Talk about being melodramatic. “Is he—” I cut Devlen off. “Annoying? Yes, all the time.” He studied Leif. “You are more...subdued at our house.” “That’s ’cause I’m too busy keeping your daughter out of trouble.” “I take it Reema has Leif wrapped around her little finger?” I asked Devlen. “Hey,” Leif said. “Yes. He needs a child of his own to learn how to not give in to her every demand.” I agreed. “That would certainly mature him. Unless it backfires and Leif regresses. Then poor Mara would have two children to deal with.” “I’m standing right here, ya know.

What did you say?” he asked. “To who?” “Whom,” he said, and then he almost kicked himself. “To Miss MacIntyre, for example.” She studied his face for a second and then, with a hand on her hip, she said, “I said, ‘You’re damn skippy he’ll do a wedding—he needs the work!’ What do you think I said? I took her number and told her I’d have you call her back. The same to all of them. Except the nurse—I told her she was scraping the bottom of the barrel, going after your hot pants.” Then she smirked. “You’re a pain in the butt,” he said. “Yeah, so says the pot to the kettle. You thought I wasn’t smart enough to know how to answer an office phone. I’ve worked in offices!” “I know this,” he informed her. “Ah, you thought I got those jobs because I have—” He put up a hand to stop her. “I never thought a thing,” he said. “Boobs,” she finished insolently. Then she winked while she chewed vigorously on some gum. She cracked it for good measure.

Sometimes I wish you were less bloody-minded,” Alexander says. He had managed to receive a three-day furlough. They’re in Leningrad—the last time they’re in Leningrad together, their last everything. “Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black?” He grunts. “Yes. I wish the kettle were less black.” He snorts in frustration. “There are women,” he says, “I know there are, who listen to their men. I’ve seen them. Other men have them—” She tickles him. He does not seem amused. “All right. Tell me what to do,” she says, lowering her voice two notches. “I will do exactly as you say.” “Leave Leningrad and go back to Lazarevo instantly,” Alexander tells her. “Go where you will be safe.” Rolling her eyes, she says, “Come on. I know you can play this game.” “I know I can,” Alexander says, sitting on her parents’ old sofa. “I just don’t want to. You don’t listen to me about the important things…” “Those aren’t the important things,” Tatiana says, kneeling in front of him and taking hold of his hands. “If the NKVD come for me, I will know you are gone and I will be happy to stand against the wall.” She squeezes his hands. “I will go to the wall as your wife and never regret a second I spent with you. So let me have this here with you. Let me smell you once more, taste you once more, kiss you once more,” she says. “Now play my game with me, sorrowful as it is to lie down together in wintry Leningrad. Play the miracle with me—to lie down with you at all. Tell me what to do and I will do it.” Alexander pulls on her hand. “Come here.” He opens his arms. “Sit on top of me.” She obeys. “Now take your hands and place them on my face.” She obeys. “Put your lips on my eyes.” She obeys. “Kiss my forehead.” She obeys. “Kiss my lips.” She obeys. And obeys. “Tania…” “Shh.” “Can’t you see I’m breaking?” “Ah,” she says. “You’re still in one piece then.

Sean Penn mourned the death of the fifty-eight-year-old socialist creep. Sean wrote in a statement sent to the Hollywood Reporter: “Today the people of the United States lost a friend it never knew it had. And poor people around the world lost a champion.” He added: “I lost a friend I was blessed to have.” Penn needs to tell you that he knew the guy. A world leader. That’s cool. I guess playing Jeff Spicoli and marrying Madonna wasn’t enough (one made your career, the other ruined your urinary tract). Yeah, this is the same chap who told Piers Morgan that Ted Cruz should be institutionalized. Talk about the pot calling the kettle batshit crazy. If Penn got any nuttier, he’d be a Snickers bar. Of course it would be uncool to point out to Penn that Chávez was no champion of the poor. Under his rule people became far poorer in Venezuela. And in the midst of an oil boom, Chávez engineered a murder boom. The murder rate in his country tripled during Chávez’s tyrannical tenure, hitting a high of 67 per 100,000 residents in 2011, compared with a murder rate of less than 5 per 100,000 in the United States (and that includes Baltimore). And about 10 or 20 less than the last Penn movie. Penn was joined, per usual, by director Oliver Stone, who said, solemnly, somewhere: “I mourn a great hero to the majority of his people and those who struggle throughout the world for a place.” He added: “Hated by the entrenched classes, Hugo Chávez will live forever in history. “My friend, rest finally in a peace long earned.” This is from an adult, mind you. And no list of apologists for evil is complete without Michael Moore. This nugget comes from the Michigan Live website, which reports Moore praising Chávez in a feeble collection of Twitter messages, on the night the Venezuelan viper expired. Hugo Chávez declared the oil belonged 2 the ppl. He used the oil $ 2 eliminate 75% of extreme poverty, provide free health & education 4 all. That made him dangerous. US

In the heat of the 2000 election, then Governor George W. Bush of Texas made an off-the-cuff statement that we ought to take the log out of our own eye before calling attention to the speck in the eye of our neighbor. The New York Times reported the remark as a minor gaffe -- what it termed "an interesting variation on the saying about the pot and the kettle."The reporter -- actually a fine and balanced journalist -- did not recognize the biblical reference. Neither did his editors. And this, of course, was not an obscure biblical reference. Not only is it found in the red letters of the New Testament, it is taken from the Sermon on the Mount.

I’m miserable! You called me out for being a coward. Pot, kettle, Cecelia. Stop backing away from this.” “You’re unforgivably selfish! Is that what you want to hear? And maybe I don’t want to forgive you for the years I spent crying for you, dreaming about you, or for the hell I endured eight months ago, begging you to see what was so fucking clear to the both of us. You sent me away to ease your own guilt, pain, and fears, never taking into consideration how much I suffered alone—or if you did—it wasn’t enough to keep you from hurting me again. If you’re unforgivable, it’s for that. And what you’re doing right now is equally as selfish.

Put it this way, the dictionary I'm looking at defines 'pot calling the kettle back' as 'Flavio Briatore labels Jenson Button a playboy'.

Rattling Kettle Haikus (Yiddish/English) .האַקן אַ טשײַניק .ניט האַקן מיר קיין טשײַניק .אַ ברירה פון די טשײַניק Hakn a tshaynik. Hak mir nisht keyn tshaynik. It's the kettle's choice. .וי, שוואַרץ שמאַרטז .די פאַן פאַך די טשײַניק שוואַרץ .קוק אין דער שפּיגל Oy, Black Schmack. Pot's calling the kettle black. Look in the mirror.

Let us help." "You already did." My voice didn't betray anything. "Both of you helped plan this. You lent me this car. Aubrey put up the funds." He raised his brow. "Lending you this car doesn't count as helping. It was more like public service. If you drove your car, the noise would wake up all of Haverleau." "It's not that bad —" "Yeah, if you want to be as obvious as a rhinoceros." I gave a pointed look at his lime-green coat and bright maroon sweater. Talk about burning my retinas. "Pot calling kettle." He glanced at himself. "It's seasonal. I look Christmasy.

Just because it's the pot calling the kettle black, doesn't make the claim any less legitimate.

They had to park the Jeep, load the engine parts into the dinghy, and row across the bar, so by the time they reached the Misty Day Spence was already there, leaning against the cradle, puffing on a cigarette. Mr. Jones frowned when he saw him. “How old are you?” he asked. “Sixteen,” said Spence. “Why?” “Do you know what your lungs are going to look like by the time you’re fifty?” Spence shrugged, then nodded toward the ever-present pipe that hung from Mr. Jones’s lip. “No worse than yours, I guess,” he said. Mr. Jones looked puzzled. “He means your pipe,” Denny prompted. “Yeah,” said Spence, “and don’t give me any of that crap about a pipe being not as bad as a cigarette. They’re all the same.” Mr. Jones took his pipe out of his mouth and looked at it thoughtfully. “You know,” he said, “you’ve got a point there. Kind of like the pot calling the kettle black, isn’t it?” Spence nodded. “Tell you what I’m going to do,” said Mr. Jones. “I’ll make you a little wager. I’ll bet I can give up smoking my pipe if you can give up your cigarettes.” Denny bit her lip to keep from smiling. Spence took another drag on his cigarette and stared at Mr. Jones skeptically. “Of course, if you don’t think you’ve got the willpower,” said Mr. Jones. Spence dropped his cigarette and crushed it into the ground. “I can quit anytime I want,” he said, then looked up. “But I don’t want to.” “Oh, sure,” said Denny. “That’s what they all say.” Spence looked at her and narrowed her eyes. “Who asked you?” he said. “You just don’t think you can do it,” Denny went on. “You’re afraid Mr. Jones is gonna show you up.” “Oh, yeah?” said Spence. He pulled his cigarettes out of his jacket pocket, smiled wryly at Denny, and tossed them basketball style into Mr. Jones’s trash barrel, then reached a hand out to Mr. Jones. “You got a deal, old man,” he said. Mr. Jones shook his hand and nodded, then stuck the pipe back in his mouth. “You don’t mind if I just kind of let it hang here, do you, for old times’ sake?” Spence shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said, “as long as you don’t light up.” “I’m a man of my word,” said Mr. Jones. “No flame will ever touch this pipe again.” Spence nodded and stalked off toward the shed. Denny giggled. “You’re awful,” she said. Mr. Jones winked. “What’s awful?” he said. “I’m doing him a favor.

Barack Obama has spent two decades of his public life advocating for radical anti–Second Amendment zealots’ most extreme anti-gun policies. In his five years in the Oval Office, he has surrounded himself with anti-gun radicals and empowered them to defy federal law and risk innocent lives in pursuit of their agenda of destroying the Second Amendment. He has wealthy, Second Amendment–hating allies right along with him. Through their unified campaign for power and their efforts to impose a vision of a nearly gun-free American on an unwilling nation, they have insulted gun owners, lied to them, impugned their motives, and accused them of spreading misinformation—a case of the pot calling the kettle black, if ever there was one.

Grandfather has what Mother says is his only great vice: he cannot pass a bookstore. She says it's like someone who can't pass a bar without going in for a drink. Grandfather cannot pass a bookstore without buying a book. He's not a bibliophile, he's a bibliomaniac. (Look those up in your dictionary!) Of course, Mother shouldn't talk. It's like the pot calling the kettle black, or people in glass houses throwing stones. (pg. 167)

Making tea is a lesson in life,' she said. 'You think that you;ve made the tea just because you've put the kettle on the pot and dumped tea leaves into it. But take a deeper look at what's going on. Actually, someone has grown the tea leaves, someone else has pruned them, some poor fellow put them into packages. Someone has milked a cow and another has pressed sugar cane to give you sugar. And it is thanks to the fire that you can boil your water. So what you have done is a small speck in the scheme of tea-making. Never feel undue pride, for there is much more unseen energy contributing to your so called achievement.

An incredulous sound comes from my throat, and I laugh, holding my fingers up in a Y-shape and bringing them to my ear. “Pot? Kettle calling.

The alternative blues-kicker is to shift gears. Ask for Grace. Call a good friend and talk. Put the kettle on for a fresh pot of tea.

I heard you were wrong earlier.” Anna raised an eyebrow at the brunette. “Popcorn kettle black.” “What the fuck?” Tara laughed. “Popcorn kettle black,” Anna said very seriously. Everyone burst into belly laughs, except for Anna. “What?” she asked very sternly. “It’s the pot calling the kettle black,” I said once I had regained enough breath to speak properly again. “What the hell does popcorn kettle black mean?” Paige giggled. “It’s a saying,” Anna said defensively. “My mom used to say it when someone was being a hypocrite.” “You’re right about the meaning,” Rolly said with a smile at the redhead. “But they’re right, it’s the pot calling the kettle black.” “My life is a lie,” Anna said seriously,

effect are base lies, I'll have you and your friend know! However—" he yawned again "—I've been up all day and so, purely coincidentally, I do find myself just a bit sleepy at the moment. The which being so, I think I should take myself off to bed. I'll see you all in the morning." "Good night, Alistair," she said, and smiled as he sketched a salute and disappeared into the night with a chuckle. "You two are really close, aren't you?" Benson observed quietly after McKeon had vanished. Honor raised an eyebrow at her, and the blond captain shrugged. "Not like me and Henri, I know. But the way you look out for each other—" "We go back a long way," Honor replied with another of her half-smiles, and bent to rest her chin companionably on the top of Nimitz's head. "I guess it's sort of a habit to watch out for each other by now, but Alistair seems to get stuck with more of that than I do, bless him." "I know. Henri and I made the hike back to your shuttles with you, remember?" Benson said dryly. "I was impressed by the comprehensiveness of his vocabulary. I don't think he repeated himself more than twice." "He probably wouldn't have been so mad if I hadn't snuck off without mentioning it to him," Honor said, and her right cheek dimpled while her good eye gleamed in memory. "Of course, he wouldn't have let me leave him behind if I had mentioned it to him, either. Sometimes I think he just doesn't understand the chain of command at all!" "Ha!" Ramirez' laugh rumbled around the hut like rolling thunder. "From what I've seen of you so far, that's a case of the pot calling the kettle black, Dame Honor!" "Nonsense. I always respect the chain of command!" Honor protested with a chuckle. "Indeed?" It was Benson's turn to shake her head. "I've heard about your antics at—Hancock Station, was it called?" She laughed out loud at Honor's startled expression. "Your people are proud of you, Honor. They like to talk, and to be honest, Henri and I encouraged them to. We needed to get a feel for you, if we were going to trust you with our lives." She shrugged. "It didn't take us long to make our minds up once they started opening up with us." Honor felt her face heat and looked down at Nimitz, rolling him gently over on his back to stroke his belly fur. She concentrated on that with great intensity for the next several seconds, then looked back up once her blush had cooled. "You don't want to believe everything you hear," she said with commendable composure. "Sometimes people exaggerate a bit." "No doubt," Ramirez agreed, tacitly letting her off the hook, and she gave him a grateful half-smile. "In the meantime, though," Benson said, accepting the change of subject, "the loss of the shuttle beacon does make me more anxious about Lunch Basket." "Me, too," Honor admitted. "It cuts our operational safety margin in half, and we still don't know when we'll finally get a chance to try it." She grimaced. "They really aren't cooperating very well, are they?" "I'm sure it's only because they don't know what we're planning," Ramirez told her wryly. "They're much too courteous to be this difficult if they had any idea how inconvenient for us it is." "Right. Sure!" Honor snorted, and all three of them chuckled. Yet there was an undeniable edge of worry behind the humor, and she leaned back in her chair, stroking Nimitz rhythmically, while she thought. The key to her plan was the combination of the food supply runs from Styx and the Peeps' lousy communications security. Her analysts had been right about the schedule on which the Peeps operated; they made a whole clutch of supply runs in a relatively short period—usually about three days—once per month. Given