Projects Funny Quotes

I suppose it’s not a social norm, and not a manly thing to do — to feel, discuss feelings. So that’s what I’m giving the finger to. Social norms and stuff…what good are social norms, really? I think all they do is project a limited and harmful image of people. It thus impedes a broader social acceptance of what someone, or a group of people, might actually be like.

Restaurants are minefields for the socially inept

You're a hopeless romantic," said Faber. "It would be funny if it were not serious. It's not books you need, it's some of the things that once were in books. The same things could be in the 'parlor families' today. The same infinite detail and awareness could be projected through the radios, and televisors, but are not. No,no it's not books at all you're looking for! Take it where you can find it, in old phonograph records, old motion pictures, and in old friends; look for it in nature and look for it in yourself. Books were only one type or receptacle where we stored a lot of things we were afraid we might forget. There is nothing magical in them at all. The magic is only in what books say, how they stitched the patches of the universe together into one garment for us. Of course you couldn't know this, of course you still can't understand what I mean when i say all this. You are intuitively right, that's what counts.

Chase had looked at the apartment—online—talked to the real estate agent—online—obtained references—online. Now, standing in the hallway, it was obvious he’d gotten fucked—online.

Adjust orbit while stupid. Good plan.' I snicker. 'New word: "sarcasm." You say opposite of true meaning to make point. Sarcasm.

Fifteen minutes later, a meeting was called. "Okay, look." Deb's face was dead serious. "I know I just joined this project, and I don't want to offend anyone. But I'm going to be honest. I think you've been going about this all wrong." "I'm offended," Dave told her flatly.

Light is a funny thing. Its wavelength defines what it can and can’t interact with. Anything smaller than the wavelength is functionally nonexistent to that photon. That’s why there’s a mesh over the window of a microwave. The holes in the mesh are too small for microwaves to pass through. But visible light, with a much shorter wavelength, can go through freely. So you get to watch your food cook without melting your face off.

Jesus, Martin, what the hell do I pay you for?” “My good looks, the occasional blow job, and my constant supply of Jim Beam.” “You’ve never given me a blow job.” “True, but you’ve fantasized about it.

I was only off by one percent,' I grumble. 'You talk to you, question?' 'Yes! I'm talking to me.' 'Humans are unusual.' 'Yes,' I say.

Broken Wind believed that we are traumatized as babies by intestinal gas or colic. The great shaman invented a technique called "gastral projection" to help release these traumas. His philosophy was simple: "To air is human ... but to really cut one loose is divine.

What?” Richardson snarled. “No smart retort, Mr. Gautier? Cat swallow your tongue?” Nick gave her a charming grin he didn’t really feel. “No, ma’am. A gator named Sense Formerly Known as Common.” Sneering at him, she tottered her way to her desk so that she could insult someone else and ruin their day. Caleb let out an annoyed breath. -Great,- he projected to Nick. -Now I have to get detention, too. I really hate you, Gautier.- Nick batted his eyelashes at Caleb. -But I wubs you, Caliboo.- That succeeded in wringing a groan out of Caleb. “What was that, Mr. Malphas?” Richardson asked. “Severe intestinal woe caused by an external hemorrhoid that seems to be growing on my right-hand side.” He cast a meaningful glower toward Nick. The class erupted into laughter as Richardson shot to her feet. “Enough!” She slammed her hands on her desk. “For that, Mr. Malphas, you can join Mr. Gautier in after-school detention.” Caleb let out an irritated sigh. --More quality time with my hemorrhoid. Just what I wanted for Christmas. Yippee ki-yay.--

I'm all wired up, but if I don't go to sleep soon, Rocky will start hassling me. Sheesh- you almost ruin a mission one time and all of a sudden you have an alien-enforced bedtime.

Besides,’ continued Julian, ‘you can slam down a phone like that. You can’t slam down a mobile. Imagine, a whole generation who’ll never know the joy of slamming down a phone.

Settled.' He puts his claw against the divider. 'Fist my bump.' I laugh and put my knuckles against the xenonite. 'Fist-bump. It's just "fist-bump."' 'Understand.

Light is a funny thing. Its wavelength defines what it can and can’t interact with. Anything smaller than the wavelength is functionally nonexistent to that photon. That’s why there’s a mesh over the window of a microwave. The holes in the mesh are too small for microwaves to pass through. But visible light, with a much shorter wavelength, can go through freely.

The Restaurant at the End of the Universe is one of the most extraordinary ventures in the entire history of catering. It is built on the fragmented remains of an eventually ruined planet which is (wioll haven be) enclosed in a vast time bubble and projected forward in time to the precise moment of the End of the Universe. This is, many would say, impossible. In it, guests take (willan on-take) their places at table and eat (willan on eat) sumptuous meals while watching (willing watchen) the whole of creation explode around them. This, many would say, is equally impossible. You can arrive (mayan arrivan on-when) for any sitting you like without prior (late fore-when) reservation because you can book retrospectively, as it were, when you return to your own time (you can have on-book haventa forewhen presooning returningwenta retrohome). This is, many would now insist, absolutely impossible. At the Restaurant you can meet and dine with (mayan meetan con with dinan on when) a fascinating cross-section of the entire population of space and time. This, it can be explained patiently, is also impossible. You can visit it as many times as you like (mayan on-visit re onvisiting ... and so on – for further tense correction consult Dr. Streetmentioner's book) and be sure of never meeting yourself, because of the embarrassment this usually causes.

And how did you know about that?” Seven looked at his watch. Chase held up a hand. “Let me guess, in two minutes and thirty seconds, I was going to tell you Martin called.” “No.” “No?” “Six minutes and fifteen seconds. You had a couple of false starts. Then you were going to apologize because he wouldn’t help you by putting you in touch with his contacts in Washington.” “Something tells me you’re going to be no fun come Christmas.

Rocky cocks his carapace. 'Hey, your face is leaking! I haven't seen that in a long-ass time! Remind me- does that mean you're happy or sad? 'Cause it can mean either one, right?' 'I'm happy, of course!' I sob. 'Yeah. I thought so. Just checking.' He holds a balled claw against the xenonite. 'Is this a fist-bump situation?' I press my knuckles to the xenonite as well. 'This is a monumentally epic fist-bump situation.

His heart beat so rapidly it might burst; he kept telling himself everything was fine so long as he remained a giraffe.

I don't have time for this. I have an alien thingy to catch.

You told me not to talk about that in polite company.' 'I'm not polite company, my friend!

Chase said, “It was a crazy idea.” An impossible idea. “Nothing is impossible, Chase, only improbable. And when you can see into the future and manipulate people into the right places, you can accomplish amazing things.” “I think I liked the idea better when it was in my head.

Project: Potential was a separate class that the gifted students went to for an hour each day. The name was supposed to make it exciting, like Code Name: Cursive or Mission: State Capitals.

Oh thank God. I can't imagine explaining "sleep" to someone who has never heard of it. Hey, I'm going to fall unconscious and hallucinate for a while. By the way, I spend a third of my time doing this. And if I can't do it for a while, I go insane and eventually die. No need for concern.

I don't want to look dumb in front of the aliens. Because they're surely watching me right now. Probably counting my limbs, noting my size, figuring out what part they should eat first. Whatever.

I don’t know. We have everything we need to be happy, but we’re not happy. Something’s missing. I looked around. The only thing I positively knew was gone was the books I’d burned in ten or twelve years. So I thought books might help.” “You’re a hopeless romantic,” said Faber. “It would be funny if it were not serious. It’s not books you need, it’s some of the things that once were in books. The same things could be in the "parlour families” today. The same infinite detail and awareness could be projected through the radios and televisors, but are not. No, no, it’s not books at all you’re looking for! Take it where you can find it, in old phonograph records, old motion pictures, and in old friends; look for it in nature and look for it in yourself. Books were only one type of receptacle where we stored a lot of things we were afraid we might forget.

Hey. What's your ship's name, anyway?' 'Blip-A.' 'No, I mean. What do you call it?' 'Ship.' 'Your ship has no name?' 'Why would ship have name, question?' 'I shrugged. 'Ships have names.' He points to my pilot's seat. 'What is name of you chair, question?' 'It doesn't have a name.' 'Why does ship have name but chair no have name, question?' 'Never mind. Your ship is the Blip-A.' 'That is what I said. Flash in ten seconds.' 'Copy.

There’s just something about him that gets me. He’s a mass of contradictions. He’s a terrible grouch, but then he’s funny and endearing. He dresses like a rock star and acts like a recluse. He ignores me for days on end and then every now and then he is so, so incredible that he knocks the breath out of me.

Your jokes aren't even funny. What is this thing, anyway?' 'That's the beauty of it!' Oliver crows. 'It's nothing‒just some piece of junk from he supply closet. But you're freaking out because it could be anything.' 'Which it isn't,' I remind him. 'Exactly! The nothing becomes something because of how you react to it!

It was funny, I thought, the way women let men think they ruled the world. That was the bargain they made: you take the world, and we’ll take life and death. Sure, fight wars. Make up countries. Call them whatever you want. Make up laws. It all sounds good. But that was only to distract them so that they wouldn’t try to participate in the women’s work, which was the pulling of souls out from the darkness and the projection of light into the future." Dear Fang, with love Rufi Thorpe --(as a midwife this quote really hit home for me)

Love's a funny thing, especially with a man who gets paid to put junk in other people's slots. (The Mail Man)

His appearance projected danger and reinforced the common knowledge that one did not want to piss off a demon, especially this one.

It is easy to launch a project if you have no clue about the cost and schedule.

You have a language!' I say. 'How do you have a language? You don't have a mouth!' '

I feel like Sherlock Holmes. All I saw was "nothing," and I drew a bunch of conclusions! Conclusions that are widely speculative and with nothing to prove them, but conclusions!

Knock-knock-knock. No, that's not creepy at all. Being in a spaceship twelve light-years from home and having someone knock on the door is totally normal.

I’m going to strip my way through plumber’s school. What do you think of the stage name Fine-Ass Frankie?

I do a wiggly little dance in my chair. It's not easy in zero g but I give it my all.

- “Are all Russians crazy?” - “Yes,” he said with a smile “It is the only way to be Russian and happy at the same time.

So even if you got it loaded it could not be anything more than a study in still-life until you took the jacks away, and then the scrap metal wouldn't be funny.

Finn Is God She takes a different strategy to torture us. Julie Seagle Really? I have more in common with her than my own mother. Finn Is God That’s a horrible thing to say about yourself. Appearances are not everything. Case in point: One summer when I was at day camp, I made her an art project. She spent weeks saying how weird it was that I’d made her a woodcarving that said “WOW.” Julie Seagle ??? Julie Seagle Oh, wait a minute…! Finn Is God Yeah. She had it upside down. It was supposed to read “MOM.” Julie Seagle I’m sorry, but that IS funny! Finn Is God That’s my mother for you. I think she still has it. And is probably still under the wrong impression. Julie Seagle Oh, my. Sort of sweet in a tragic way. Finn

Mechanical suffocation, it’s called. It’s how boa constrictors kill their prey. What an odd thing to think as my last thought. Sorry, Earth, I think. There. Much better last thought.

When we got together we would start projects: an alarm clock torn apart and distributed over a wall, a stop-motion video of Lego people having sex, a Web site for pictures of toilets.

Sample device radio signal strong.' Rocky says. 'Getting closer. Be ready.' 'I'm ready.' 'Be very ready.' 'I am very ready. Be calm.' 'Am calm. You be calm.' 'No, you be cal- wait. I see the sampler!

I had time to finish my sandwich while Ganymede circulated through the cafeteria, refilling the students’ drinks without asking permission. Some kids looked at him funny, but most didn’t even notice. This was weird, since Ganymede was wearing a Greek chiton and strap-up sandals and not much else. Thank the Mist for obscuring mortal minds, I guess, or maybe the students just figured he was doing a project for drama class

Light is a funny thing. Its wavelength defines what it can and can’t interact with. Anything smaller than the wavelength is functionally nonexistent to that photon. That’s why there’s a mesh over the window of a microwave. The holes in the mesh are too small for microwaves to pass through. But visible light, with a much shorter wavelength, can go through freely. So you get to watch your food cook without melting your face

Okay, so the Krebs cycle in Astrophage has a variant—wait. Do you call her Dr. Shapiro while having sex?” “Of course. That’s her name.” “I kind of like it,” she said. “I’m sorry I asked,” I said. “Now, the Krebs cycle…

Kai whirled around and his face was sadowed by the angle of the sun. Still, she knew his tone. Anger. “What’s so funny? That our project has been set back several says? That we’re stuck here longer? That you take a little spill from a horse and everyone wants to rearrange the world so you don’t suffer a moment of inconvenience?” “No,” she said, and her voice was even. “That I would wait a month in agony just to hear you insult me. I’m a miserable girl indeed, don’t you think?

,,, It's been a hard day. Night. Whatever. A hard day's night.' I lie back in the bunk, and pull the blanket over me. 'That sentence make no sense.' 'It's an Earth saying. From a song.' I close my eyes and mumble. '...and I've been working like a dog...

How did you do it? what killed it?" "I penetrated the outer cell membrane with a nanosyringe." "You poked it with a stick?" "No!" I said. "Well. Yes. But it was a scientific poke with a very scientific stick." "It took you two days to think of poking it with a stick." "You ... be quiet.

Good good. Enough talk. Check breeder tanks, please.' 'Yeah, yeah. Let me get some water first.' He bounces and skitters down his tube to the lab. 'Why humans need water so much, question? Inefficient life-forms!' ... 'Eiridians need water too, you know.' 'We keep inside. Closed system. Some inefficiencies inside, but we get all water we need from food. Humans leak! Gross!' I laugh as I float in to the lab where Rocky is waiting. 'On Earth, we have a scary, deadly creature called a spider. You look like one of those, just so you know.' 'Good. Proud. I am scary space monster. You are leaky space blob.

When describing me, Tracy often refers to a well-known concept of physics: “inertia.” As Newton avers in his first law: An object that is not moving will not move until a force acts upon it. An object that is moving will not change its velocity until a net force acts upon it. In other words, depending on what’s happening in my life at any given moment, I can either be the laziest human being on the planet, or the busiest. I’m perfectly content to do absolutely nothing until I’m catalyzed by some person or project, and then I go nonstop until some countervailing force acts upon me, and I revert back to static mode.

About a month before I gave birth, Colin moved to LA full-time. Once Rudy arrived, Colin settled happily into his new role, returning to architecture when an interesting project cropped up. Pretty amazing, right? Unless you reverse the gender, and then it's what women who have the choice to stay home do 95 percent of the time.

You’re a hopeless romantic,” said Faber. “It would be funny if it were not serious. It’s not books you need, it’s some of the things that once were in books. The same things could be in the ‘parlor families’ today. The same infinite detail and awareness could be projected through the radios and televisors, but are not. No, no, it’s not books at all you’re looking for!

He waves to me with a free arm. He knows one human greeting and by golly he plans to use it. I wave back. He waves again. I shake my head. No more waving. He pivots his "shoulders" to rotate his carapace back and forth. He "shook his head" inasmuch as he could. I wonder how we're going to break out of this game of "Eridian See Eridian Do," but he takes care of that for me.

99 Problems is almost a deliberate provocation to simpleminded listeners. If that sounds crazy, you have to understand: Being misunderstood is almost a badge of honor in rap. Growing up as a black kid from the projects, you can spend your whole life being misunderstood, followed around department stores, looked at funny, accused of crimes you didn't commit, accused of motivations you don't have, dehumanized -- until you realize, one day, it's not about you. It's the perceptions people had long before you even walked onto the scene. The joke's on them because they're really just fighting phantoms of their own creation. Once you realize that, things get interesting. It's like when we were kids. You'd start bopping hard and throwing the ice grill when you step into Macy's and laugh to yourself when security guards got nervous and started shadowing you. You might have a knot of cash in your pocket, but you boost something anyway, just for the sport of it. Fuck 'em. Sometimes the mask is to hide and sometimes it's to play at being something you're not so you can watch the reactions of people who believe the mask is real. Because that's when they reveal themselves. So many people can't see that every great rapper is a not just a documentarian, but a trickster -- that every great rapper has a little bit of Chuck and a little bit of Flav in them -- but that's not our problem, it's their failure: the failure, or unwillingness, to treat rap like art, instead of acting like it's a bunch of niggas reading out of their diaries. Art elevates and refines and transforms experience. And sometimes it just fucks with you for the fun of it.

I shouldn't be doing this. I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be an NBA player. This is all some fantasy world that I have no right to live in. I was just a kid from the projects who was always too skinny or too funny looking to be taken seriously. I was the kid they called the "Worm" because of the way I wiggled when I played pinball. Me, living this life, with women and money and attention everywhere? It didn't seem real.

That's an alien. I just saw an alien. Not just an alien ship. An alien being. I mean- just his claw- er... hand. But yeah. Well, I say "his hand", but maybe it's her hand. Or some other pronoun I don't have a word for. They might have seventeen biological sexes, for all I know. Or none. No one ever talks about the really hard parts of first contact with intelligent alien life: pronouns. I'm going to go with "he" for now, because it just seems rude to call a thinking being "it." Also, until I hear otherwise, his name is Rocky.

Rocky admonished me for leaving the sample at (human) room temperature for so long. He had a lot to say on that subject, actually. We had to add “reckless,” “idiot,” “foolish,” and “irresponsible” to our shared vocabulary just so he could fully express his opinion on the matter. There was another word he threw around a lot, but he declined to tell me what it meant. Three days off the painkillers and I'm a lot smarter than I was. At least he understands that much- I wasn't just some stupid human. I was a human with enhanced stupidity.

These include denial (“the truth is not so bad”), reaction formation (“I really, really, really love my mother”), displacement (“the boss yells at me, I yell at my wife, my wife yells at the baby, the baby bites the cat”), identification (“I am bullied, so I am motivated to be a bully”), rationalization (a self-serving explanation for a low-quality action), intellectualization (a favorite of the early, funny, neurotic Woody Allen), sublimation (“I can always paint nude women”), and projection (“I am not touchy; you are just annoying”).

You’re a hopeless romantic,” said Faber. “It would be funny if it were not serious. It’s not books you need, it’s some of the things that once were in books. The same things could be in the ‘parlor families’ today. The same infinite detail and awareness could be projected through the radios and televisors, but are not. No, no, it’s not books at all you’re looking for! Take it where you can find it, in old phonograph records, old motion pictures, and in old friends; look for it in nature and look for it in yourself. Books were only one type of receptacle where we stored a lot of things we were afraid we might forget. There is nothing magical in them, at all. The magic is only in what books say,

Brooding is more something I do when I'm working. I know so much more about sitting around worrying about a work project than I do about worrying about kids. This could just be a fact of life for older moms. We've worked and worked and worked and if we are lucky enough to finally have a child or two, we find ourselves suddenly catapulted into a most alien kind of chaos. Work is so much easier. Anyone will tell you that. To have a desk, where you have everything all lined up, and a schedule you more or less get to agree to. Work. I am a worker. This is so funny because I never really think of my work as work. I certainly never though of myself as having a career. Writing, work, this is just who I am. I am a person who sits at a desk and makes phone calls and taps at a computer keyboard and sips coffee and calls her mom at five. That I am anything better or smaller than that has come as sudden news to me. Brand new. News.

This is waste of time. Also waste of my food.' 'I need to know if I can eat your food.' 'Eat your own food.' 'I've only got a few months of real food left. You have enough aboard your ship to feed a crew of twenty-three Eridians for years. Erid life and Earth life use the same proteins. Maybe I can eat your food.' 'Why you say "real food", question? What is non-real food, question?' I checked the readout again. Why does Eridian food have so many heavy metals in it? 'Real food is food that tastes good. Food that's fun to eat.' 'You have not-fun food, question?' 'Yeah. Coma slurry. The ship fed it to me during the trip here. I have enough to last me almost four years.' 'Eat that.' 'It tastes bad.' 'Food experience not that important.' 'Hey,' I point at him. 'To humans, food experience is very important.' 'Humans strange.' I point at the spectrometer readout screen. 'Why does Eridian food have thallium in it?' 'Healthy.' 'Thallium kills humans!' 'Then eat human food.' 'Ugh.

Well, it was a kind of back-to-front program. It’s funny how many of the best ideas are just an old idea back-to-front. You see there have already been several programs written that help you to arrive at decisions by properly ordering and analysing all the relevant facts so that they then point naturally towards the right decision. The drawback with these is that the decision which all the properly ordered and analysed facts point to is not necessarily the one you want.’ ‘Yeeeess...’ said Reg’s voice from the kitchen. ‘Well, Gordon’s great insight was to design a program which allowed you to specify in advance what decision you wished it to reach, and only then to give it all the facts. The program’s task, which it was able to accomplish with consummate ease, was simply to construct a plausible series of logical-sounding steps to connect the premises with the conclusion. ‘And I have to say that it worked brilliantly. Gordon was able to buy himself a Porsche almost immediately despite being completely broke and a hopeless driver. Even his bank manager was unable to find fault with his reasoning. Even when Gordon wrote it off three weeks later.’ ‘Heavens. And did the program sell very well?’ ‘No. We never sold a single copy.’ ‘You astonish me. It sounds like a real winner to me.’ ‘It was,’ said Richard hesitantly. ‘The entire project was bought up, lock, stock and barrel, by the Pentagon. The deal put WayForward on a very sound financial foundation. Its moral foundation, on the other hand, is not something I would want to trust my weight to. I’ve recently been analysing a lot of the arguments put forward in favour of the Star Wars project, and if you know what you’re looking for, the pattern of the algorithms is very clear. ‘So much so, in fact, that looking at Pentagon policies over the last couple of years I think I can be fairly sure that the US Navy is using version 2.00 of the program, while the Air Force for some reason only has the beta-test version of 1.5. Odd, that.

Mr. Haverstrom closes the door, leaving Patrick and me alone in the hallway. Pat smiles slickly, leaning in toward me. I step back until I press against the wall. It’s uncomfortable—but not threatening. Mostly because in addition to racquetball I’ve practiced aikido for years. So if Patrick tries anything funny, he’s in for a very painful surprise. “Let’s be honest, Sarah: you know and I know the last thing you want to do is give a presentation in front of hundreds of people—your colleagues.” My heart tries to crawl into my throat. “So, how about this? You do the research portion, slides and such that I don’t really have time for, and I’ll take care of the presentation, giving you half the credit of course.” Of course. I’ve heard this song before—in school “group projects” where I, the quiet girl, did all the work, but the smoothest, loudest talker took all the glory. “I’ll get Haverstrom to agree on Saturday—I’m like a son to him,” Pat explains before leaning close enough that I can smell the garlic on his breath. “Let Big Pat take care of it. What do you say?” I say there’s a special place in hell for people who refer to themselves in the third person. But before I can respond, Willard’s firm, sure voice travels down the hall. “I think you should back off, Nolan. Sarah’s not just ‘up for it,’ she’ll be fantastic at it.” Pat waves his hand. “Quiet, midge—the adults are talking.” And the adrenaline comes rushing back, but this time it’s not anxiety-induced—it’s anger. Indignation. I push off the wall. “Don’t call him that.” “He doesn’t mind.” “I mind.” He stares at me with something akin to surprise. Then scoffs and turns to Willard. “You always let a woman fight your battles?” I take another step forward, forcing him to move back. “You think I can’t fight a battle because I’m a woman?” “No, I think you can’t fight a battle because you’re a woman who can barely string three words together if more than two people are in the room.” I’m not hurt by the observation. For the most part, it’s true. But not this time. I smile slowly, devilishly. Suddenly, I’m Cathy Linton come to life—headstrong and proud. “There are more than two people standing here right now. And I’ve got more than three words for you: fuck off, you arrogant, self-righteous swamp donkey.” His expression is almost funny. Like he can’t decide if he’s more shocked that I know the word fuck or that I said it out loud to him—and not in the good way. Then his face hardens and he points at me. “That’s what I get for trying to help your mute arse? Have fun making a fool of yourself.” I don’t blink until he’s down the stairs and gone. Willard slow-claps as he walks down the hall to me. “Swamp donkey?” I shrug. “It just came to me.” “Impressive.” Then he bows and kisses the back of my hand. “You were magnificent.” “Not half bad, right? It felt good.” “And you didn’t blush once.” I push my dark hair out of my face, laughing self-consciously. “Seems like I forget all about being nervous when I’m defending someone else.” Willard nods. “Good. And though I hate to be the twat who points it out, there’s something else you should probably start thinking about straight away.” “What’s that?” “The presentation in front of hundreds of people.” And just like that, the tight, sickly feeling washes back over me. So this is what doomed feels like. I lean against the wall. “Oh, broccoli balls.

This is happy! Your face opening is in sad mode. Why, question?' 'Going to be a long trip and I'll be all alone.' ... 'You will miss me, question? I will miss you. You are friend.' 'Yeah. I'm going to miss you.' I take another swig of vodka. 'You're my friend. Heck, you're my best friend. And pretty soon we're going to say goodbye forever.' He two tapped gloved claws together. They made a muffled sound instead of the usual click that comes along with the dismissive gesture. 'Not forever. We save planets. Then we have Astrophage technology. Visit each other.' I give a wry smile. 'Can we do all that within fifty Earth years? 'Probably not. Why so fast, question?' 'I only have fifty years or so left to live. Human's don't'- I hiccup- 'don't live long, remember?' 'Oh.' He's quiet for a moment. 'So we enjoy remaining time together, then go save planets. Then we are heroes!' 'Yeah!' I straighten up. I'm a little dizzy now. I've never been much of a drinker, and I'm hitting this vodka harder than I should. 'We're the moss imporn't people in the gal'xy! We're awesome!' He grabs a nearby wrench and raises it in one of his hands. 'To us!' I raise the vodka. 'To ush!

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.

Trump’s shortcomings stood out particularly during emergencies. I remember briefing the president in the Oval Office on the projected storm track of an Atlantic hurricane. At first, he seemed to grasp the devastating magnitude of the Category 4 superstorm, until he opened his mouth. “Is that the direction they always spin?” the president asked me. “I’m sorry sir,” I responded, “I don’t understand.” “Hurricanes. Do they always spin like that?” He made a swirl in the air with his finger. “Counterclockwise?” I asked. He nodded. “Yes, Mr. President. It’s called the Coriolis effect. It’s the same reason toilet water spins the other direction in the Southern Hemisphere.” “Incredible,” Trump replied, squinting his eyes to look at the foam board presentation. We needed him to urge residents to evacuate from the Carolinas, where it looked like the storm would make landfall, but the president mused about another potential response. “You know, I was watching TV, and they interviewed a guy in a parking lot,” Trump leaned back and recounted. “He was wearing a red hat, a MAGA hat, and he said he was going to ‘ride it out.’ Isn’t that something? That’s what Trump supporters do. They’re tough. They ride it out. I think that’s what I’ll tell them to do.” Sometimes his irreverence could be funny, even charming. That day it wasn’t. Worried looks filled the room. A clever communications aide piped up. “Mr. President, I wouldn’t take that chance. This is going to be a pretty bad storm, and you don’t want to lose supporters in the Carolinas before the 2020 election.” The president thought about it for a moment. “That’s such a good point. We should urge the evacuations.” You couldn’t write such a stupid scene in a movie, but it always got a little worse.

What's the weirdest thing you've pierced?" "Earlobes," he plainly stated. "Earlobes?" "Yeah," he said. "Once you've held a couple dozen penises in your hand, earlobes are just weird.

In the garden of my childhood my mother grew corn and asparagus, beans, zucchini, and more, but the thing I remember most is the cherry tomatoes, bushy in their cages, the leaves slightly sticky, funny smelling. My mother wore long-sleeve shirts to weed the tomatoes. I remember her plucking them off the bush, my brother and me opening our mouths like baby birds for her to pop them in. I closed my eyes to experience the exact moment my teeth pierced the smooth skin and the tomato exploded in a burst of acid sweet, the seeds slightly bitter in their jelly pouches. The sensation was so unexpected each time it happened that my eyes flew open. And there was my mother, smiling at me. That is what I remember. My mother did not smile often. We have pictures where she is smiling, me or my brother nestled on her lap. You can tell she loves us. Her body language shows it. But mostly we knew she loved us because of how hard she worked for us. Usually elsewhere. But the garden—the garden was her project. In the little time she had not devoted to work and cleaning and trying to hold her small world together, my mother grew food. My brother and I didn't help in the garden, but we were usually playing nearby. We always wanted to be nearby when she was home. I remember her letting us crawl through the dried cornstalks after the ears had been harvested. I remember running my hands through the asparagus that had been allowed to go to seed. I remember eating plums from the old tree that lived in the corner of the yard. I remember her feeding us tomatoes fresh off the vine and still warm from the sun. When I think of those tomatoes, it is not the flavor that moves me. They were shockingly sweet and tangy, but that is not what I remember the most. It is not what I yearned for. Eating cherry tomatoes meant my mother was home; it meant she was smiling at me.

This is funny but it saddens me that ‘art project’ is now a byword for useless, unskilled amateurism. You know that often someone who’s not very good at making television programmes becomes a video artist, and someone who’s not particularly good at writing hit songs becomes an art band.

Writing about yourself is a funny business. At the end of the day it's just another story, the story you've chosen from the events of your life. I haven't told you "all" about myself. Discretion and the feelings of others don't allow it. But in a project like this, the writer has made one promise: to show the reader his mind. In these pages I've tried to do that.

People did not choose between things. They chose between descriptions of things. Economists, and anyone else who wanted to believe that human beings were rational, could rationalize, or try to rationalize, loss aversion. But how did you rationalize this? Economists assumed that you could simply measure what people wanted from what they chose. But what if what you want changes with the context in which the options are offered to you? “It was a funny point to make because the point within psychology would have been banal,” the psychologist Richard Nisbett later said. “Of course we are affected by how the decision is presented!

It confirmed Biederman’s sense that “most advances in science come not from eureka moments but from ‘hmmm, that’s funny.

Did it have a name, this project?” “Yes. The books and posters are called MAGIC CIRCLE OF SAFETY, but she said I’d find it in the stacks under a very strange reference—KGB.2.YA—what’s so funny? Bob? Are you choking? Bob? Bob? Do you need help?” Kiss Good-Bye 2 Your Ass: I love the Laundry sense of humor.

More you know, better advice you give. Less you know, more advice you give.

Susan is happy off on another project to save yet another endangered creature. But I miss Irving, and though Susan would laugh at me probably, I like to think that Irving is somewhere chasing angelic speedboats, or maybe he’s got his own wings. Surely, even God needs a laugh now and then, and Irving is a funny guy, for a monster.

Penny’s house was a standard three-bedroom postwar suburban home. The décor wasn’t what I would call gaudy, but it was definitely froofy. Kind of like a ten-year-old had been allowed to order anything she wanted from the Sears catalog. Everything had a damn ruffle on it. It didn’t suit my idea of Penny. When we got to the doorway of her room, I noticed how dramatically different it was from the rest of the house. Her bed was covered in a simple black comforter, and everything projected a modern aesthetic—sharp angles, cold, and minimalist. “Do you live in here with a vampire?” “Ha-ha, very funny. You can sit there and wait for me.” I sat at her glass desk in an office-style chair as she tossed clothes out of her bag and into a hamper. “Some of this furniture is from my dad’s old office, so it’s pretty sterile.” “Seems like you have different tastes from the rest of your family. No ruffles and flowers?” “I like flowers,” she said absently. “What, like Venus flytraps?” “If you grew up with all this frilly shit, you’d be over it, too. I mean, do you know any other families who still use doilies? Every surface is literally covered in them.

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

There he and Danny sat down to write together for the first time. Their offices were tiny, so they worked in a small seminar room. Amos didn’t know how to type, and Danny didn’t particularly want to, so they sat with notepads. They went over each sentence time and again and wrote, at most, a paragraph or two each day. “I had this sense of realization: Ah, this is not going to be the usual thing, this is going to be something else,” said Danny. “Because it was funny.

be funny nor attempt to deal analytically with social ills.4 Even the original title (Gangway!) and the original setting (warring Catholics and Jews in a modern-day Romeo and Juliet story) held little promise for commercial or artistic success. In addition, the show would feature no stars, and the cast—consisting primarily of dancers—might be inexperienced kids pulled from the streets of New York (if the New York press was to be believed), not from dance rehearsal halls. The score, written by a classical music conductor, would be dissonant and fiendishly difficult to play and sing and would include—of all things—a fugue. The teenagers, whose dialogue was written by a middle-aged Jewish playwright, would speak in an invented street slang, uttering lines like “womb to tomb” and “cracko Jacko.” The backers’ meetings continually and repeatedly failed to attract investors for producer Cheryl Crawford, who finally dumped the project shortly before rehearsals were to begin. It is no surprise that no one thought this show would succeed.

The good thing about carrying on a conversation with a phantom voice projected by some fragment of your shattered subconscious is, you can brush your teeth at the same time.

He was convinced he had lead poisoning the other day from chewing a pencil. Pencils don’t even have lead anymore.” “He like a hundred years old. He worry.” “He went to the hospital, Sasha. He didn’t even have symptoms.” “So? Mind your own business.” “Um, excuse me, it very much was my business because all his drama always happens in the middle of a big project.” Sasha ignored him. Jason shook his head sadly. “I can’t believe you’re on his side.” “There is no side. You make side. Shut up and help me choose.” “Maybe we should get him a lead-detection kit.” “I said shut up.” “You said to help!” “Yes. You not helping, you shut up.” “This is harassment.” “You are harassment.

I thought the Vedas were a load of humbug and it didn’t matter which way you recited them. Some jobless Brahmin like my father, created them thousands of years ago. Instead of making themselves useful, the Brahmins prayed to the Gods they themselves invented for the rain, the sun, horses, cows and money and many other things. It must have been very cold, from whichever cursed places they came. Otherwise, why would they croak like frogs and appeal to the Gods after putting hundreds of assorted twigs into the fire? Perhaps I was prejudiced. I shouldn’t think that the work they were doing, as Yajnas, was useless. In fact, it served as a perfect tool to mint money and gain material favours. They were no fools-these Brahmins. They knew how to project even the mundane tasks of burning twigs as earth-shaking, scientific discoveries and claimed to tame the forces that controlled the world. And it was funny that the majority of people like the carpenters, masons and farmers who were doing something meaningful, had become supplicant to these jokers croaking under the warm sun, sweat pouring from their faces in front of a raging fire and chanting God knows what. They had a Yajna or a Puja for everything under the sun. If you had leprosy or a common cold, there was a God to whom you had to offer a special puja to appease him. You wanted your pestering wife to elope with your bothersome neighbour, there was a puja for that too. You wanted your cow to have a calf or your wife to have son, the Brahmin would help you. He would just conduct a Puja and a divine calf or son would be born. You curried favour with the Brahmins and your son would become the biggest pundit in the world by the age of sixteen. If not, he would perhaps become rowdy like me, who did not respect Brahmins or rituals. He would become a Rakshasa. I think there are many more Rakshasas among us now. Perhaps, it was because the ‘why?’ virus spread. Couldn’t the Brahmins conduct a puja so that our heads were cleared of sinful thoughts? This is something I have to ponder over when I have time.

One of the most potent combinations is comedy and horror. The pairing descends from the tradition of gallows humor, also known as sick humor or dark comedy. Typical example—a man awaits the guillotine and tells the executioner, "Just a trim, please. Dark comedy laughs at that which is not funny: death, disease, dismemberment, suicide, homicide, cannibal apocalypse. Ashman, so dedicated to the form of the musical, also "liked splatter movies," according to Nancy Parent. After Little Shop opened, he worked with her husband, Michael Serrian, on another potential Off-Broadway show, entitled Splatter! Ashman then realized that his new project was too close to Little Shop. Nevertheless, there is a structural similarity between musicals and the slasher film: both work toward a climax every five or ten minutes, either a musical number or the next decapitation.

sequined flapper dress. He smiled, happy to be celebrating, and with good cause, too: his project was successful, he was married to a smart, funny woman, and he had a great friend and technical lead in Mike.

Florida City?” Coleman dropped a Vicodin. “So that’s what that string of motels is called?” Serge nodded. “Actually a funny story. Used to be called Detroit.” Coleman swigged a pint of Rebel Yell. “Now you’re making fun of me because I’m wrecked.” “Swear to God. You can look it up,” said Serge. “I wouldn’t shit you.” “I know,” said Coleman. “I’m your favorite turd.” “And naming it Detroit wasn’t even an accident, like the other times when two pioneer families set up shop in the sticks and there’s no one else around to stop them, and they’re chugging moonshine by the campfire, ‘What should we call this place?’ ‘Fuck it, I already spent enough effort today running from wild pigs,’ and then you end up with a place called Toad Suck, Arkansas—you can look that up, too. Except modern-day Florida City started as an ambitious land development with hard-sell advertising and giant marketing geniuses behind the project. Then they had the big meeting to concoct a name: ‘I got it! What do people moving to Florida really want? To be in Michigan!

You aren’t allowed back until you’ve learned to willingly suspend disbelief.

People may feel that I am materialistic, ideal, idiot, cool, funny. Its not their perception but my projection and I always have my own reasons for my being.

It doesn't matter what your boss thinks as long as he doesn't cry.

Do billboard salesmen record their sales on charts? If so, who's at the top of the billboard charts for billboard sales?

Clue After a night of reflection, a thorough look at all of Lien’s notes and carefully plotted data, Paul had doubts about his reasoning ability.  He concluded that while at one time he had been competent enough as both a surgeon and teacher, much of that skill and knowledge had eroded with time—the objective to their research project eluded him.   Funny,

Jamie is a funny mix. He has a sardonic side that can make him seem distant and almost harsh to people who don’t know him well, but he’s also very tender-hearted. (A

Habana Eva" released in 2010, Habana Eva is a funny Romantic comedy. Eva works as a seamstress in a sweatshop where she dreams of becoming a fashion designer with her own a room. Her love is her longtime partner Angel, a charming yet lazy islander. Her dream of marrying Angel fades when she meets Jorge, a handsome and wealthy Cuban raised in Venezuela who returns to Cuba, with a more ambitious project than taking photos of Eva for a book. Eva who has been living with her aunts falls for him and has to decide which of the two men she will want to marry. Directed by Fina Torres, starring Prakriti Maduro as Eva and Juan Carlos García as Jorge and Carlos Enrique Almirante as Angel. Venezuelan produced and filmed in La Habana, Cuba. Habana Eva film won the Best Picture award at the New York International Latino Film Festival on August 2, 2010.

what exactly they are. Let’s do a little digging and find out what these terms mean. What is fear? Fear can be so intense! It can make us react in absurd ways, often in ways that end up being quite funny in hindsight (but usually anything but funny in the moment!) It's quite normal to “freeze up” when you're faced with an intensely fearful situation. The danger (or, oftentimes, the perceived danger) strikes, and you can end up feeling quite crazy and out of control, out of tune with your usual self. Sometimes fear can translate into physical symptoms. If your hands and feet feel weird, you can't breathe right, your chest hurts, you're tired, dizzy, or you feel like you'll pass out, chances are fear has paid you a not so welcome visit! And anxiety? Anxiety is when your body and mind freak out because they believe that something unpleasant will happen in the future. There’s not a single soul on the planet who hasn’t felt anxiety at one point or another, whether it’s anxiety over going to the doctor, or perhaps anxiety over meeting new people. While fear is an emotion which is focused on the present moment, anxiety involves projection into the future, asking yourself “what if?” Some people are more prone to this sort of thinking than others, but it’s all but impossible to escape anxiety altogether. Dealing with Both: Although anxiety and fear are technically two different emotions, they often crop up together (lovely, isn’t it!) On a more positive note, the ways of dealing and coping with these emotions are also quite similar.

Katie: Isn’t it funny how we’re the last place we look? Always trying to change the projected rather than clear the projector. We haven’t known a way to do this until now.

As our Stanford colleagues Jennifer Aaker and Naomi Bagdonas show in Humor, Seriously, people also suffer less emotional and physical harm when they frame distressing situations as silly, absurd, or ridiculous. Focusing on the funny side enables people to release tension and to see their troubles as less threatening. As people laugh together about the madness of it all, their bonds become stronger. Others joining the laughter affirms people aren’t alone in their suffering, they aren’t weak, or to blame. It is the system that sucks.

Imposter syndrome is a funny little liar, designed to keep you safe, but terrible at making you strong.

To be queer and Somali and neurodivergent is concentrated alchemy, and yet we constantly raid the cupboards of our souls like we are a people of lack. When you operate from a position of lack, you don’t realise you’re robbing yourself of everything worth preserving, and forgetting to toss away all the empty pursuits that lost their synthetic spell several generations ago. And suddenly, you’re wide awake in a new country, in a new decade, and you’re startled because you can’t remember how you got here or why you’re still feeling hunted by your own reflection. You can’t remember how or when or where or why you misplaced all your breezy dynamism—all that wildness of perception you used to project with such ferocity. Where did it all go? We have conveniently forgotten that we have always been fundamentally idiosyncratic and fantastic and fucking alive. Instead we feed ourselves and our children and our children’s children prosaic fuckery for what? Respectability politics? So that if we twist and try our damnedest to conform to standards that have never been coded into our collective DNA, that we’ll what? Somehow be less strange? Less weird and wonderful? That we’ll transcend the soul-snuffing snare that is the myth of the good immigrant? That if we mute all of our magic—everything that makes us some of the most innately interesting, individualistic and fun, funny beings in this boring, beige-as-fuck world—that we’ll win over whom? Folks who don’t season their food right or whose understanding of freedom is a shitty Friday night sloshfest at a shitty pub playing shitty music, chatting nonsense that no-one with a single iota of sense gives a fuck about? Is that who you are so deeply invested in trying to impress? If so, then go for it, but don’t fool yourself for a fucking second into thinking that trying desperately to shave off your elemental peculiarities through self-diminishment is salvation, because it simply isn’t, honey, and it never will be.

Horses were less the thundering creatures Of pounding hoof beats and unparalleled speed found in movies and more like golf carts that ran on a tank of grass and occasionally bit you.