Sarcasm Posts Quotes

The best way to measure the loss of intellectual sophistication - this "nerdification," to put it bluntly - is in the growing disappearance of sarcasm, as mechanic minds take insults a bit too literally.

The doctor seemed especially troubled by the fact of the robbery having been unexpected, and attempted in the night-time; as if it were the established custom of gentlemen in the housebreaking way to transact business at noon, and to make an appointment, by the twopenny post, a day or two previous.

I was weary of flying from pillar to post. I had been chased during half my life, and it seemed as if the chase was never to end. There I sat, in that great city, guiltless of crime, yet not daring to worship God in any of the churches. I heard the bells ringing for afternoon service, and, with contemptuous sarcasm, I said, "Will the preachers take for their text, 'Proclaim liberty to the captive, and the opening of prison doors to them that are bound'? or will they preach from the text, 'Do unto others as ye would they should do unto you'?" Oppressed Poles and Hungarians could find a safe refuge in that city; John Mitchell was free to proclaim in the City Hall his desire for "a plantation well stocked with slaves"; but there I sat, an oppressed American, not daring to show my face.

I cannot have men stationed outside the first-class promenade. How will that look to well-paying passengers? This is not a workhouse and I will not treat my passengers like prisoners. They’re not being terrorized with a theatrical murder tonight and I intend to keep it that way. I will not make them suffer.” I physically had to check to see if my head had exploded from such a ridiculous statement. Gentle prodding of my hair proved my skull was still intact, miracle of all miracles. “You cannot be serious.” Thomas tossed his hands in the air. “It would seem an awful lot better to have crew members posted along the decks than to see dismembered body parts floating about while first-class patrons made their way to breakfast and tea. ‘Oh, look, Miss Eldridge, there’s a mauled torso. Won’t you pass the cream and sugar?’” “Don’t be absurd,” the captain said, aghast. “Apologies,” Thomas said, not sounding at all sorry, “I’m only following your lead.

These girls aren't wounded so much as post-wounded, and I see their sisters everywhere. They're over it. *I am not a melodramatic person.* God help the woman who is. What I'll call "post-wounded" isn't a shift in deep feeling (we understand these women still hurt) but a shift away from wounded affect---these women are aware that "woundedness" is overdone and overrated. They are wary of melodrama so they stay numb or clever instead. Post-wounded women make jokes about being wounded or get impatient with women who hurt too much. The post-wounded woman conducts herself as if preempting certain accusations: don't cry too loud, don't play victim, don't act the old role all over again. Don't ask for pain meds you don't need, don't give those doctors another reason to doubt the other women on their examination tables. Post-wounded women fuck men who don't love them and then they feel mildly sad about it, or just blase about it, more than anything they refuse to care about it, refuse to hurt about it---or else they are endlessly self-aware about the posture they have adopted if they allow themselves this hurting. The post-wounded posture is claustrophobic. It's full of jadedness, aching gone implicit, sarcasm quick-on-the-heels of anything that might look like self-pity. I see it in female writers and their female narrators, troves of stories about vaguely dissatisfied women who no longer fully own their feelings. Pain is everywhere and nowhere. Post-wounded women know that postures of pain play into limited and outmoded conceptions of womanhood. Their hurt has a new native language spoken in several dialects; sarcastic, apathetic, opaque; cool and clever. They guard against those moments when melodrama or self-pity might split their careful seams of intellect. *I should rather call is a seam.* We have sewn ourselves up. We bring everything to the grindstone.

Dear PrettyKitty29, Hi, my name is Liam Brody. From the looks of your charming website, you've heard of me. Believe it or not, I've heard of you too. I was recently tipped off about your little gossip community. I probably shouldn't call it little. You are one of the busiest gossip communities on the Internet. Congratulations. I'm always impressed with people who manage to stay indoors so much. You must have a sufficient amount of Vitamin D. I noticed that you seem to have an odd and probably unwarranted agenda against me. Almost every bitter post about me is put up by lovely you. I also noticed that your hatred has spread successfully among your users. Wow. What an influence you have on gossip hungry teens and housewives. Again, congratulations. I apologize for dating models, PrettyKitty29. I just think they're more attractive than other people. Some people steal, some people do drugs, some people sell them. I date models. It could probably be worse. I could be someone who makes bribes. Speaking of those, I was emailing you to let you know that despite the sarcasm throughout this email, I find your strangely influential website interesting and am willing to make a substantial payment to you if you stop posting negative stories and put a few nice ones instead. I don't know what a gossip community moderator gets paid, but I'm sure that regardless, you could use a few extra bucks. It would pay for food delivery, movies On Demand, and other indoor pleasures that I'm sure you partake in. Please let me know. Best, Liam Brody.

Social media problem. Starts when all these pranks, sarcasm, jokes, memes videos or posts . Are used as evidence or against someone or are added as statistics to conclude facts. Someone using them as their referral and add them on their stats to prove a point, raise a red flag or to persecute others.

You need to rethink your definition of 'nice'." "Why?" "Because if we were stuck together I'd leave you behind. I'm not your 'nice terrant.' I could kill you if I wanted to." "So nice.

And then I was in love with Franchot Tone. I wrote to him and he sent me a signed photograph. Of course, I must say I'd enclosed a stamp. I can't tell you what looking at that photograph did for me. Then later on there was a boy at our A.R.P. post who was awfully witty if one hadn't read Oscar Wilde. But the first time he kissed me was a shocking disillusion. Not at all what Franchot Tone had led me to expect.'' Peggy obviously shot out this nonsense rather as a pursued octopus shoots out protective fluid.

For much of the deployment, I’d been distracting myself with slow walks around the park or downtown, but it was late June now, and too hot for that. So, I decided to stop by Hailey’s instead, where I found Chloe skipping around, chanting, “We’re going on a ghost tour!” Chloe was deep in a ghost obsession, and Hailey had promised her all the ghost tours she could handle on a weeklong trip to Savannah during post-deployment leave. Leaning against Hailey’s bar, I watched her aggressively scrub her dishes and wished I hadn’t come. I had the distinct feeling she was angry with me. I even asked her, point blank, if she was. “Boiling,” she said. It was her trademark sarcasm, but her voice had genuine bite. There were just a few weeks left of the deployment. The wives were frustrated and wrung out, and the air had become charged with these emotions.

Just as sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, irony is the feeblest kind of indictment. And yet it has become the go-to rhetorical stance of the post-modernist. By maintaining a cool, affectless stance, irony colludes, unconsciously or otherwise, with what it overtly disdains.

I’m afraid so.” “He tried to kill a seventeen-year-old girl. A defenseless girl. In a police station. What is more brazen and out of control than that? How could a judge allow it?” Noah sighed. “You know how these things work, Josie. He’s a city councilman. A fine, upstanding citizen with no prior history of violence or a criminal record. Not so much as a parking ticket.” His words dripped with sarcasm, and she knew he was quoting Pierce Fuller’s attorney. “He’s a devoted husband with deep ties to the community. Not a flight risk at all. The judge gave him bail and his wife posted it.” Josie stood up and smoothed down her polo shirt and jeans from the night before. Powder and what looked like oatmeal from the Mills’ kitchen still clung to her pantlegs. “Unbelievable. Not even an ankle bracelet to ensure he doesn’t come near Alison again?” “I’m afraid not.” Josie thought about how this would make Alison feel—knowing this man was still out there, free, after he had walked into a police station and tried to kill her.

For one thing, they share a willingness to consider New York from a cinematic distance, overlooking the city’s many irritants except insofar as they add grit and drama to their personal story. In day-to-day terms, this manifests as complaining vigorously about subway hardships and bedbug plagues, and then posting Instagram photos of the skyline at sunset. A not insignificant number of the New York lovers I know—especially the twenty-somethings—are actually pretty unhappy day-to-day. I picture the prom king’s date sitting near him at a party, ignored but still kind of proud to be in the room and on his arm—and incredibly offended at the suggestion that she should break up with him for someone who dotes on her more. Oh, how California dotes! Sun yourself. Take the car. Let your guard down. Breathe deeply, and you’ll smell the jasmine and dusty sage. Show up twenty minutes late. (Just text “Sorry—traffic.”) Explore the weirder corners of your spirituality. Describe yourself, without sarcasm, as a writer slash creative entrepreneur. Work from home. Spread out. Wear the comfortable pants. When I describe this sunshine-and-avocado-filled existence to some New Yorkers, they acknowledge that they really like California, too, but could never move here because they’d get too “soft.

That day in the woods, the day I found you, I intended to kill you." A good dose of my desire dampen at his admission. Nothing like hearing your post-apocalyptic boyfriend once wanted to murder you to throw a wrench in the mood.