Professor Funny Quotes

Oh, Professor Lyall, are you making a funny? It doesn’t suit you.” The sandy-haired Beta gave Lady Maccon a dour look. “I am exploring new personality avenues.” “Well, stop it.” “Yes, my lady.

So,” sneered Fudge, recovering himself, “you intend to take on Dawlish, Shacklebolt, Dolores, and myself single-handed, do you, Dumbledore?” “Merlin’s beard, no,” said Dumbledore, smiling. “Not unless you are foolish enough to force me to.” “He will not be single-handed!” said Professor McGonagall loudly, plunging her hand inside her robes. “Oh yes he will, Minerva!” said Dumbledore sharply. “Hogwarts needs you!

Never take advice about never taking advice. That is an old vice of men - to dish it out without being able to take it - the blind leading the blind into more blindness.

I was on a mission. I had to learn to comfort myself, to see what others saw in me and believe it. I needed to discover what the hell made me happy other than being in love. Mission impossible. When did figuring out what makes you happy become work? How had I let myself get to this point, where I had to learn me..? It was embarrassing. In my college psychology class, I had studied theories of adult development and learned that our twenties are for experimenting, exploring different jobs, and discovering what fulfills us. My professor warned against graduate school, asserting, "You're not fully formed yet. You don't know if it's what you really want to do with your life because you haven't tried enough things." Oh, no, not me.." And if you rush into something you're unsure about, you might awake midlife with a crisis on your hands," he had lectured it. Hi. Try waking up a whole lot sooner with a pre-thirty predicament worm dangling from your early bird mouth. "Well to begin," Phone Therapist responded, "you have to learn to take care of yourself. To nurture and comfort that little girl inside you, to realize you are quite capable of relying on yourself. I want you to try to remember what brought you comfort when you were younger." Bowls of cereal after school, coated in a pool of orange-blossom honey. Dragging my finger along the edge of a plate of mashed potatoes. I knew I should have thought "tea" or "bath," but I didn't. Did she want me to answer aloud? "Grilled cheese?" I said hesitantly. "Okay, good. What else?" I thought of marionette shows where I'd held my mother's hand and looked at her after a funny part to see if she was delighted, of brisket sandwiches with ketchup, like my dad ordered. Sliding barn doors, baskets of brown eggs, steamed windows, doubled socks, cupcake paper, and rolled sweater collars. Cookouts where the fathers handled the meat, licking wobbly batter off wire beaters, Christmas ornaments in their boxes, peanut butter on apple slices, the sounds and light beneath an overturned canoe, the pine needle path to the ocean near my mother's house, the crunch of snow beneath my red winter boots, bedtime stories. "My parents," I said. Damn. I felt like she made me say the secret word and just won extra points on the Psychology Game Network. It always comes down to our parents in therapy.

I see. And what can I do for you, Professor?” “Die,” she said. “Slowly. Painfully.” “Understandable,” said Atlas.

Professor Milligan will now play his tree! The composition is in A Minor, the tree is in A garden.

So, Harry,' said Dumbledore quietly. "Before you got lost in my thoughts, you wanted to tell me something.' 'Yes,' said Harry. 'Professor - I was in Divination just now, and - er - I fell asleep.' He hesitated here, wondering if a reprimand was coming, but Dumbledore merely said, 'Quite understandable. Continue.

Mr Moony presents his compliments to Professor Snape, and begs him to keep his abnormally large nose out of other people's business.' Snape froze. Harry stared, dumbstruck, at this message. But the map didn't stop there. More writing was appearing beneath the first. 'Mr Prongs agrees with Mr Moony, and would like to add that Professor Snape is an ugly git.' It would have been funny if the situation hadn't been so serious. And there was more... 'Mr Padfoot would like to register his astonishment that an idiot like that ever became a Professor.' Harry closed his eyes in horror. When he'd reopened them, the map had had its last word. 'Mr Wormtail bids Professor Snape good day, and advises him to wash his hair, the slimeball.

Is it true you shouted at Professor Umbridge?' 'Yes,' said Harry. 'You called her a liar?' 'Yes.' 'You told her He Who Must Not Be Named is back?' 'Yes.' Professor McGonagall sat down behind her desk, watching Harry closely. Then she said, 'Have a biscuit, Potter.

The Professor doesn’t have a problem being called Dick? If my name was Richard, I’d go by Richard or Rich . . . not Dick. Hell, I’d even settle for being called Chard.

I seem to be allergic to whatever that terrible smell is," said Gateman when the urge to sneeze had finally subsided. "What terrible smell?" "The air," said Gateman. "It smells...different." "That's called oxygen," said Professor Boxley. "Freh air. No cars, no buses, no factories; just pure, clean oxygen.

Students want female teachers to be warm and nurturing. When they aren't, they get marked down across the board for being 'bitches." What's a bitch? A woman who acts like a confident guy. Women are also not allowed to be dry or funny. You can imagine how my Asperger's can go over.

As a youth I got my jollies by confronting my professors with facts that ran completely contrary to what they were trying to ram into our thick skulls. His expressions of bafflement and anger had never failed to amuse me.

Well, they did rather detest each other. Not unlike yourself and Mr. Malfoy. And then, your father did something Snape could never forgive.” “What?” “He saved his life.” “What?” “Yes . . .” said Dumbledore dreamily. “Funny, the way people’s minds work, isn’t it? Professor Snape couldn’t bear being in your father’s debt. . . . I do believe he worked so hard to protect you this year because he felt that would make him and your father even. Then he could go back to hating your father’s memory in peace. . 

Quirrel said Snape-" "Professor Snape, Harry." "Yes, him - Quirrell said he hates me because he hate my father. Is that true?" "Well, they did rather detest each other. Not unlike yourself and Mr Malfoy. Then your father did something Snape could never forgive. " "What?" "He saved his life." "What??" "Yes..." said Dumbledore dreamily. "Funny, the way peoples minds work, isn't it?

What do psychology professors say when they pass each other in the hallway? “Hi, you’re fine, how am I?” I know, I know. The joke isn’t that funny.

It's a queer thing is a man's soul. It is the whole of him. Which means it is the unknown him, as well as the known. It seems to me just funny, professors and Benjamins fixing the functions of the soul. Why, the soul of man is a vast forest, and all Benjamin intended was a neat back garden. And we've all got to fit into his kitchen garden scheme of things. Hail Columbia ! The soul of man is a dark forest. The Hercynian Wood that scared the Romans so, and out of which came the white- skinned hordes of the next civilization. Who knows what will come out of the soul of man? The soul of man is a dark vast forest, with wild life in it. Think of Benjamin fencing it off! Oh, but Benjamin fenced a little tract that he called the soul of man, and proceeded to get it into cultivation. Providence, forsooth! And they think that bit of barbed wire is going to keep us in pound for ever? More fools they. ... Man is a moral animal. All right. I am a moral animal. And I'm going to remain such. I'm not going to be turned into a virtuous little automaton as Benjamin would have me. 'This is good, that is bad. Turn the little handle and let the good tap flow,' saith Benjamin, and all America with him. 'But first of all extirpate those savages who are always turning on the bad tap.' I am a moral animal. But I am not a moral machine. I don't work with a little set of handles or levers. The Temperance- silence-order- resolution-frugality-industry-sincerity - justice- moderation-cleanliness-tranquillity-chastity-humility keyboard is not going to get me going. I'm really not just an automatic piano with a moral Benjamin getting tunes out of me. Here's my creed, against Benjamin's. This is what I believe: 'That I am I.' ' That my soul is a dark forest.' 'That my known self will never be more than a little clearing in the forest.' 'Thatgods, strange gods, come forth f rom the forest into the clearing of my known self, and then go back.' ' That I must have the courage to let them come and go.' ' That I will never let mankind put anything over me, but that I will try always to recognize and submit to the gods in me and the gods in other men and women.' There is my creed. He who runs may read. He who prefers to crawl, or to go by gasoline, can call it rot.

The funny thing about labels is that most of them come from other people- our parents, teachers, friends, classmates, colleagues, bosses, professors, boyfriends, husbands and children. These labels have the power to build us up or knock us down.

On Sunday, Miles surprised me and (a less than thrilled) Julia with a drive down to a little town called North Bear Shores for a bookstore event with a romance writer Sadie had turned me on to years ago. After the signing, the shop owner and her geology professor wife ended up falling in love

The Duchess looked at Chloe with a look that said, You had the chance to tell him, but you chose to carry on the lie. How do I know that the Duchess's look said this? Because there is an excellent book in my local library entitled One Thousand Doggy Expressions Explained by Professor L. Stone. I digress.

Os professores não o querem, a Casa Pia diz que está cheia, o PSD tem a lista de candidatos completa, o Belenenses resolveu o problema com um brasileiro, o brasileiro garante que ata as botas sozinho. Que farei com este Bronco? Pô-lo a cortar capim no Estádio da luz? O gajo cortava as bandeirolas de canto!

You would think that the first time you cut up a dead person, you’d feel a bit funny about it. Strangely, though, everything feels normal. The bright lights, stainless steel tables, and bow-tied professors lend an air of propriety. Even so, that first cut, running from the nape of the neck down to the small of the back, is unforgettable. The scalpel is so sharp it doesn’t so much cut the skin as unzip it, revealing the hidden and forbidden sinew beneath, and despite your preparation, you are caught unawares, ashamed and excited. Cadaver dissection is a medical rite of passage and a trespass on the sacrosanct, engendering a legion of feelings: from revulsion, exhilaration, nausea, frustration, and awe to, as time passes, the mere tedium of academic exercise. Everything teeters between pathos and bathos: here you are, violating society’s most fundamental taboos, and yet formaldehyde is a powerful appetite stimulant, so you also crave a burrito.

Professor Severus Snape, master of this school, commands you to yield the information you conceal!" Snape said, hitting the map with his wand. As though an invisible hand were writing upon it, words appeared on the surface of the map. "Mr. Moony presents his compliments to Professor Snape, and begs him to keep his abnormally large nose out of other people's business." Snape froze. Harry stared, dumbstruck, at the message. But the map didn't stop there. More writing was appearing beneath the first. "Mr. Prongs agrees with Mr. Moony, and would like to add that Professor Snape is an ugly git." It would have been very funny if the situation hadn't been so serious. And there was more... "Mr. Padfoot would like to register his astonishment that an idiot like that ever became a professor." Harry closed his eyes in horror. When he'd opened them, the map had had its last word. "Mr. Wormtail bids Professor Snape good day, and advises him to wash his hair, the slimeball." (286 & 287)

As he helped Sejanus unpack and make his bed, Coriolanus got caught up on the Capitol news. His suspicions about the Hunger Games were right. “By the next morning, there was no mention of it,” said Sejanus. “When I went into the Academy for my review, I heard some of the faculty talking about what a mistake it’d been to involve the students, so I think that was a one-off. But I wouldn’t be surprised if we see Lucky Flickerman back again next year, or the post office open for gifts and betting.” “Our legacy,” said Coriolanus. “So it seems,” said Sejanus. “Satyria told Professor Sickle that Dr. Gaul is determined to keep it going somehow. A part of her eternal war, I guess. Instead of battles, we have the Hunger Games.” “Yes, to punish the districts and remind us what beasts we are,” said Coriolanus, focused on lining up Sejanus’s folded socks in the locker. “What?” asked Sejanus, giving him a funny look. “I don’t know,” said Coriolanus. “It’s like . . . you know how she’s always torturing that rabbit or melting the flesh off something?” “Like she enjoys it?” asked Sejanus. “Exactly. I think that’s how she thinks we all are. Natural-born killers. Inherently violent,” Coriolanus said. “The Hunger Games are a reminder of what monsters we are and how we need the Capitol to keep us from chaos.” “So, not only is the world a brutal place, but people enjoy its brutality? Like the essay on everything we loved about the war,” said Sejanus. “As if it had been some big show.” He shook his head. “So much for not thinking.” “Forget it,” said Coriolanus. “Let’s just be happy that she’s out of our lives.” A downcast Beanpole appeared, reeking of urinals and bleach. Coriolanus introduced him to Sejanus, who, upon learning of his predicament, cheered him up by promising to help him with the drills. “It took me awhile to get it, too, back at school. But if I can master it, so can you.

Conlon, my anatomy professor in medical school, who made the class the most grueling, fun, amazing, and important course I’ve ever taken in my life. And don’t worry, nothing funny went on between us.

my anatomy professor in medical school, who made the class the most grueling, fun, amazing, and important course I’ve ever taken in my life. And don’t worry, nothing funny went on between us.

Dan Perkins is in a silk shirt and pants with the sleeves rolled up. Business casual. He has gray hair and slightly funny eyes. Really, he looks less like a businessman than a gray-haired anthropology professor who’s dipped into the school’s ayahuasca supply one too many times.

An English professor wrote the words :  "A woman without her man is nothing"  on the chalkboard and asked his students to punctuate it correctly.  All of the males in the class wrote:  "A woman, without her man, is nothing."  All the females in the class wrote:  "A woman: without her, man is nothing."  Punctuation is powerful

Count down starts now and ends by April 2 2022, before April 2 2022, I will have decided which Institution, so after April 2 I need to prepare things to be done, like entrance preparation, loan arrangements if required, project proposal planning, Required skills updates, Further plans on biological research with SDGs that focuses on society benefits, acclimatization and extreme fitness for astronaut dream and etc. And April 2 is special day too, 10 years before April 2 2012, I made a wrong decision - Right decision on wrong time - 23 April 2 2011, I made a love proposal to one of my professors and got funny reactions from her, April 2 2010, someone knocked me out Just memories

Hold on,” I said to Zoe. “Did you say you infiltrated the principal’s office last night?” “That’s right,” Zoe replied. I looked back at Warren. “Then why are you still camouflaged?” “The paint won’t wash off,” Warren said morosely. He looked as though he might have turned red if he hadn’t been painted brown. “I couldn’t get the perfect oaken tone with standard face paint, so I had to use wood stain instead. Now I can’t remove it.” Zoe snickered despite herself. “It’s not funny!” Warren whined. “Today in self-defense class, Professor Simon mistook me for a table and set a book on my head.

Cemal was amazed how clothes could change a person. In his commando uniform, with his equipment and weapons, he had felt like the ruler of the world. In these funny shorts, he was an incompetent boy. Besides, he had no money, no job, no home, nor anywhere to go. He was like a refugee on the professor’s boat.

There was also a handsome water-color portrait of the balaclava Buster, the work of a lady botany professor who had hoped to reach her colleague's heart through his rutabaga. Cross-pollination had not been successful. The lady married somebody else and shandy continued his comfortable bachelor's life

It's kind of funny how much easier college is compared to high school. High school teachers will do and say almost anything to convince you of how difficult college will be—how uncompromising professors will be. It's all bullshit. High school teachers have to hold themselves to a higher standard, but college professors actually show their humanity. They walk in with bags under their eyes and coffees clutched in their fists just like the rest of us.

Well, you've made a big mistake tackling me. Take that!” and he fired a freeze ray gun at Captain Canine. Captain Canine leapt out of the way just in time and the freeze ray harmlessly hit a chair and froze it solid. “Rats and double rats!” said Professor Evil. Hector was at home when a newsflash

Education was still considered a privilege in England. At Oxford you took responsibility for your efforts and for your performance. No one coddled, and no one uproariously encouraged. British respect for the individual, both learner and teacher, reigned. If you wanted to learn, you applied yourself and did it. Grades were posted publicly by your name after exams. People failed regularly. These realities never ceased to bewilder those used to “democracy” without any of the responsibility. For me, however, my expectations were rattled in another way. I arrived anticipating to be snubbed by a culture of privilege, but when looked at from a British angle, I actually found North American students owned a far greater sense of entitlement when it came to a college education. I did not realize just how much expectations fetter—these “mind-forged manacles,”2 as Blake wrote. Oxford upholds something larger than self as a reference point, embedded in the deep respect for all that a community of learning entails. At my very first tutorial, for instance, an American student entered wearing a baseball cap on backward. The professor quietly asked him to remove it. The student froze, stunned. In the United States such a request would be fodder for a laundry list of wrongs done against the student, followed by threatening the teacher’s job and suing the university. But Oxford sits unruffled: if you don’t like it, you can simply leave. A handy formula since, of course, no one wants to leave. “No caps in my classroom,” the professor repeated, adding, “Men and women have died for your education.” Instead of being disgruntled, the student nodded thoughtfully as he removed his hat and joined us. With its expanses of beautiful architecture, quads (or walled lawns) spilling into lush gardens, mist rising from rivers, cows lowing in meadows, spires reaching high into skies, Oxford remained unapologetically absolute. And did I mention? Practically every college within the university has its own pub. Pubs, as I came to learn, represented far more for the Brits than merely a place where alcohol was served. They were important gathering places, overflowing with good conversation over comforting food: vital humming hubs of community in communication. So faced with a thousand-year-old institution, I learned to pick my battles. Rather than resist, for instance, the archaic book-ordering system in the Bodleian Library with technological mortification, I discovered the treasure in embracing its seeming quirkiness. Often, when the wrong book came up from the annals after my order, I found it to be right in some way after all. Oxford often works such. After one particularly serendipitous day of research, I asked Robert, the usual morning porter on duty at the Bodleian Library, about the lack of any kind of sophisticated security system, especially in one of the world’s most famous libraries. The Bodleian was not a loaning library, though you were allowed to work freely amid priceless artifacts. Individual college libraries entrusted you to simply sign a book out and then return it when you were done. “It’s funny; Americans ask me about that all the time,” Robert said as he stirred his tea. “But then again, they’re not used to having u in honour,” he said with a shrug.

Roaches should never trust humans. We’re all doomed.

But I’m the professor! This is my class! Show some respect!” “Okay,

About 41 percent of mothers are primary breadwinners and earn the majority of their family’s income. Another 23 percent of mothers are co-breadwinners, contributing at least a quarter of the family’s earnings.30 The number of women supporting families on their own is increasing quickly; between 1973 and 2006, the proportion of families headed by a single mother grew from one in ten to one in five.31 These numbers are dramatically higher in Hispanic and African-American families. Twenty-seven percent of Latino children and 51 percent of African-American children are being raised by a single mother.32 Our country lags considerably behind others in efforts to help parents take care of their children and stay in the workforce. Of all the industrialized nations in the world, the United States is the only one without a paid maternity leave policy.33 As Ellen Bravo, director of the Family Values @ Work consortium, observed, most “women are not thinking about ‘having it all,’ they’re worried about losing it all—their jobs, their children’s health, their families’ financial stability—because of the regular conflicts that arise between being a good employee and a responsible parent.”34 For many men, the fundamental assumption is that they can have both a successful professional life and a fulfilling personal life. For many women, the assumption is that trying to do both is difficult at best and impossible at worst. Women are surrounded by headlines and stories warning them that they cannot be committed to both their families and careers. They are told over and over again that they have to choose, because if they try to do too much, they’ll be harried and unhappy. Framing the issue as “work-life balance”—as if the two were diametrically opposed—practically ensures work will lose out. Who would ever choose work over life? The good news is that not only can women have both families and careers, they can thrive while doing so. In 2009, Sharon Meers and Joanna Strober published Getting to 50/50, a comprehensive review of governmental, social science, and original research that led them to conclude that children, parents, and marriages can all flourish when both parents have full careers. The data plainly reveal that sharing financial and child-care responsibilities leads to less guilty moms, more involved dads, and thriving children.35 Professor Rosalind Chait Barnett of Brandeis University did a comprehensive review of studies on work-life balance and found that women who participate in multiple roles actually have lower levels of anxiety and higher levels of mental well-being.36 Employed women reap rewards including greater financial security, more stable marriages, better health, and, in general, increased life satisfaction.37 It may not be as dramatic or funny to make a movie about a woman who loves both her job and her family, but that would be a better reflection of reality. We need more portrayals of women as competent professionals and happy mothers—or even happy professionals and competent mothers. The current negative images may make us laugh, but they also make women unnecessarily fearful by presenting life’s challenges as insurmountable. Our culture remains baffled: I don’t know how she does it. Fear is at the root of so many of the barriers that women face. Fear of not being liked. Fear of making the wrong choice. Fear of drawing negative attention. Fear of overreaching. Fear of being judged. Fear of failure. And the holy trinity of fear: the fear of being a bad mother/wife/daughter.

What book, Professor?’ demanded the Doctor. ‘An Earth classic, by one of the greatest writers in that planet’s history,’ said the Professor. ‘Terribly funny, terribly thoughtful, wish I could remember the name of it, something about thumbing a lift, and there were towels in it, I remember that, yes, let me think – oh yes, of course, it’s called The Hitch—

Buster had seen everything. He chased after Professor Evil and bit him on the bottom. “Ow!” yelled Professor Evil. “You bit my bum!” He dropped the blue bottle and it broke. The liquid poured out onto the road and started disappearing down a drain hole. “Nooo!” cried the Professor.

Ow!” yelled Professor Evil. “You bit my bum!

I thought it was funny that the WGS thought prostitutes, porn stars, and strippers should be funded but conservatives should not---all because of concerns over 'integrity'.

Anyway, zis is Austria. Now somesing else funny! Ze Austrians do not call it 'Austria.' Zey call it O-s-t-e-r-r-e-i-c-h!" and the professor wrote the letters out on the blackboard. "Zat is because zey do not know how to spell. Zey are very nice people, se Austrians, but you will notice zey are very bad spellers.

Need some help?” He reached for the books in her arms before she could object. “Hey ...” She looked like a viper ready to strike, but then her pupils dilated as she stared up at him. “I’m sorry ... do I know you?” “No.” He offered her a smile, hoping to settle her nerves. He didn’t speak to many women, but when he did, he always got that same staggered expression. “But you looked as though you needed a third hand.” “I don’t think I could manage if I were an octopus.” He laughed. Beautiful and a sense of humor. Most of the women he knew were too serious. “Funny. Are you off to another lecture?” “No ... I’m late for work. I keep telling my boss not to schedule me on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but he doesn’t listen, and then — sorry. TMI. I tend to ramble on, something the professors keep fussing at me about. Thanks. I sent the message, so I can carry my books now. I’m not up on all these new gadgets.” She waved her phone. “This is my first cell phone. I can’t afford it, but I really needed it. ” She smacked her hand over her mouth and reached for her books. “See ... I never shut up.” Derrick couldn’t help but smile. She was so cute. “I’ll walk you to your car. That way if your boss replies, you can respond quickly.” Her eyes narrowed this time, a look he wasn’t accustomed to; the few women he talked to trusted him completely. Even the female professors said he had a wonderful bedside manner. “Umm ... it’s okay. I take the T.” “Would you like a lift, then, so you aren’t late?” She shook her head. “No. Thank you. I appreciate it ... but I don’t even know you.” “Derrick Ashton.” He offered her his hand. The young woman hesitantly extended her slender, creamy-skinned hand. Her hand looked so small and delicate in his larger, olive-skinned hand. “Nice to meet you, Derrick. I’m Janelle Heskin. But still ... ” Derrick released her after a second and lifted his hands in front of him. “I’m harmless, I swear. They wouldn’t have accepted me into medical school if I had a record, and I’m here because I want to help people, and you looked like you needed help.” She

Pan again!" said Dr. Bull irritably. "You seem to think Pan is everything." "So he is," said the Professor, "in Greek. He means everything." "Don't forget," said the Secretary, looking down, "that he also means Panic.

When he was braced alcoholically for his classes, there was never a passable female student that he had not considered hungrily and, properly loaded, approached. Even complaisant girls, however, either froze or fled at their professor's greedy but classical advances. An unexpected goose or pinch on the bottom as they were mounting the stairs ahead of him, a sudden nip at the earlobe as they bent over the book he offered, a wild clutch at thigh, or a Marxian (Harpo) dive at bottom, a trousered male leg thrust between theirs as they passed his seat to make them fall in his lap, where he tickled their ribs - all these abrupt overtures sent them flying in terror. Brought to his senses by their screams, Kellsey retreated hastily. Some of the more experienced girls, after adjusting their skirts, blouses, coiffures, and maidenly nerves, realized that this was only a hungry man's form of courtship. They reminded themselves that old, famous, and rich men played very funny games, and they prepared themselves for the next move. But Kellsey, repulsed, became at once the haughty, sardonic, woman-hating pedant, leaving the poor dears a confused impression that they were the ones who had behaved badly, and sometimes, baffled by his subsequent hostility and bad grades, they even apologized.

The most exciting phrase to hear in science, the one that heralds new discoveries, is not “Eureka!” but “That’s funny.… ” —Author and former biochemistry professor Isaac Asimov

The bottom line is, when you’re looking for a course that will have real value for you, keep an eye out for reviews calling a professor or course “funny” or “witty.” It suggests a level of care and creativity, and an understanding of student needs, that may not be in other courses . . . and let’s be honest: If there are two courses of equal quality, which would you go for, bland or funny?