Rugrats Quotes

One year, I may have broken his Game Boy after he compared me to Angelica from Rugrats, and then he shaved my Furby, proving that he is just as much Angelica as me.

My rugrats give me gifts that say "#1 Mom" on them and I'm like, bwhahahahaha, joke's on you, I'm more like the #1,297,279 Mom. But they truly think I'm the best mom on earth. And that's all that matters.

Most people don’t get (or want) to look at old news footage, but we looked at thirty years of stories relating to motherhood. In the 1970s, with the exception of various welfare reform proposals, there was almost nothing in the network news about motherhood, working mothers, or childcare. And when you go back and watch news footage from 1972, for example, all you see is John Chancellor at NBC in black and white reading the news with no illustrating graphics, or Walter Cronkite sitting in front of a map of the world that one of the Rugrats could have drawn–that’s it. But by the 1980s, the explosion in the number of working mothers, the desperate need for day care, sci-fi level reproductive technologies, the discovery of how widespread child abuse was–all this was newsworthy. At the same time, the network news shows were becoming more flashy and sensationalistic in their efforts to compete with tabloid TV offerings like A Current Affair and America’s Most Wanted. NBC, for example introduced a story about day care centers in 1984 with a beat-up Raggedy Ann doll lying limp next to a chair with the huge words Child Abuse scrawled next to her in what appeared to be Charles Manson’s handwriting. So stories that were titillating, that could be really tarted up, that were about children and sex, or children and violence–well, they just got more coverage than why Senator Rope-a-Dope refused to vote for decent day care. From the McMartin day-care scandal and missing children to Susan Smith and murdering nannies, the barrage of kids-in-jeopardy, ‘innocence corrupted’ stories made mothers feel they had to guard their kids with the same intensity as the secret service guys watching POTUS.

As if somehow irony,” she recaps for Maxine, “as practiced by a giggling mincing fifth column, actually brought on the events of 11 September, by keeping the country insufficiently serious — weakening its grip on ‘reality.’ So all kinds of make-believe—forget the delusional state the country’s in already—must suffer as well. Everything has to be literal now.” “Yeah, the kids are even getting it at school.” Ms. Cheung, an English teacher who if Kugelblitz were a town would be the neighborhood scold, has announced that there shall be no more fictional reading assignments. Otis is terrified, Ziggy less so. Maxine will walk in on them watching Rugrats or reruns of Rocko’s Modern Life, and they holler by reflex, “Don’t tell Ms. Cheung!” “You notice,” Heidi continues, “how ‘reality’ programming is suddenly all over the cable, like dog shit? Of course, it’s so producers shouldn’t have to pay real actors scale. But wait! There’s more! Somebody needs this nation of starers believing they’re all wised up at last, hardened and hip to the human condition, freed from the fictions that led them so astray, as if paying attention to made-up lives was some form of evil drug abuse that the collapse of the towers cured by scaring everybody straight again.

It would be perfect if they could make it taste like water, but pretending that something that laden with chemicals is somehow remotely connected to fruit or sunshine or chirpy rugrats adds insult to the injury of needing to drink the damn stuff in the first place.

Rugrat didn’t need sleep. He didn’t need food as he drank Stamina solutions mixed with water from his camelbak. He didn’t need a shirt, nor pants, but he did need his American flag shorts and cowboy hat.

Still, ten years difference? That means when I was born, you were hitting the double digits. You could have been my babysitter. You’re a decade older than me, a near generation. Ew, I kissed an old man.” “You kissed an experienced man,” I point out, growing irritated. “More than I can say for your ex who looked like he still watches Rugrats on Saturday mornings.” “What’s Rugrats?” “For fuck’s sake,” I say, dragging my hand over my face.

You kissed an experienced man,” I point out, growing irritated. “More than I can say for your ex who looked like he still watches Rugrats on Saturday mornings.

Ohh, hot Betty down balon!” Rugrat sung as he smacked the back of the beast and it took off racing down the road.

Rugrat, blades and guns. Erik, fists and guns. Rugrat, mana and elements combined into weapons and spells. Erik, elements and mana into beasts. Erik, speed. Rugrat, power. Focus on the basics. You start doing all this complicated shit and you’ll get confused in a fight. Act and react!” Xun Liang growled.

Who the hell is Cynthia? My name is Diamond, nigga,” she said with attitude like I was supposed to know her name.  “Well, you look like that Cynthia doll from Rugrats with them three lil’ patches of hair in yo’ bald ass head.” Me and Tio fell out laughing, further pissing her off.

The “relationship escalator” refers to the expected progression of dating to marriage on a standardized timeline. You meet someone. You have sex on the third date. You decide to be monogamous after three months. You say I love you after five. You move in after a year and a half, propose after two years, are married six months later. Then you buy a “starter house” and pump out some rugrats. A few years in, you make some more monies and buy a “finisher house.” Finally, you remain married to your spouse until death do you part. If I sit and think about this for more than a minute, my testicles shoot up into my stomach. This doesn’t sound pleasant or comforting to me. It sounds horrifying, like a slow march toward the electric chair. Some people like having their life planned out. I do not. I like the freedom for life to change on a dime—for me to change on a dime.