Sarcastic Remarks Quotes

...Peabody had better retire to her bed; she is clearly in need of recuperative sleep, she has not made a sarcastic remark for fully ten minutes.

The two circled around the back of the house, making sure that nobody saw them. Once inside, they found Patrick right where they had left him, sitting in front of Mark's computer. The only difference was that he was surrounded by bags of Doritos and cans of Mountain Dew. He looked up at them with wild eyes. You okay?" Courtney asked. I'm fantastic!" Patrick exclaimed. "This sugary drink is incredible!" Swell," Courtney remarked sarcastically. "He's wired on Dew.

She said, “Do you see how I’m wearing this apron? It means I’m working. For a living.” The unconcerned expression didn’t flag. He said, “I’ll take care of it.” She echoed, “Take care of it?” “Yeah. How much do you make in an hour? I’ll take care of it. And I’ll talk to your manager.” For a moment, Blue was actually lost for words. She had never believed people who claimed to be speechless, but she was. She opened her mouth, and at first, all that came out was air. Then something like the beginning of a laugh. Then finally, she managed to sputter, “I am not a prostitute.” The Aglionby boy appeared puzzled for a long moment, and then realization dawned. “Oh, that was not how I meant it. That is not what I said.” “That is what you said! You think you can just pay me to talk to your friend? Clearly you pay most of your female companions by the hour and don’t know how it works with the real world, but . . . but . . .” Blue remembered that she was working to a point, but now what that point was. Indignation had eliminated all higher functions and all that remained was the desire to slap him. The boy opened his mouth to protest, and her thought came back to her all in a rush. “Most girls, when they’re interested in a guy, will sit with them for free.” To his credit, the Aglionby boy didn’t speak right away. Instead, he thought for a moment and then he said, without heat, “You said you were working for living. I thought it’d be rude to not take that into account. I’m sorry you’re insulted. I see where you’re coming from, but I feel it’s a little unair that you’re not doing the same for me.” “I feel you’re being condescending,” Blue said. In the background, she caught a glimpse of Soldier Boy making a plane of his hand. It was crashing and weaving toward the table surface while Smudgy Boy gulped laughter down. The elegant boy held his palm over his face in exaggerated horror, fingers spread just enough that she could see him wince. “Dear God,” remarked Cell Phone boy. “I don’t know what else to say.” “Sorry,” she recommended. “I said that already.” Blue considered. “Then ‘bye.’” He made a little gesture at his chest that she thought was supposed to mean he was curtsying or bowing or something sarcastically gentleman-like.

Our minds are creative and knowledgeable. Yet time and time again, our needs and wants fell on deaf ears. We were told we weren’t good enough. We were abused mentally, physically, and emotionally. We were told with nasty sarcastic remarks at times, and here and there maybe a laugh that made the insult worse; “It would be your word against mine, and guess who they are going believe? Not you.” One by one we took a chance to speak up, but our voices weren’t heard. They tried to make us feel threatened; as if we were going to lay down and be stepped on like shit on the bottom on their shoe. We interrupted their comfort zone and showed them their time was up!

Despite the sarcastic remarks of Northerners, who don't know the region (read Easterners, Westerners, North Easterners, North Westerners, Midwesterners), the South of the United States can be so impellingly beautiful that sophisticated creature comforts diminish in importance.

I'm sure you heard a lot of sarcastic remarks when you first arrived, but by the time I got there, to everyone else you were just a part of the party. But unlike everyone else, you were the whole reason I came.

Let’s say that your significant other has been paying less and less attention to you. You realize he or she has a busy job, but you still would like more time together. You drop a few hints about the issue, but your loved one doesn’t handle it well. You decide not to put on added pressure, so you clam up. Of course, since you’re not all that happy with the arrangement, your displeasure now comes out through an occasional sarcastic remark. “Another late night, huh? I’ve got Facebook friends I see more often.” Unfortunately (and here’s where the problem becomes self-defeating), the more you snip and snap, the less your loved one wants to be around you. So your significant other spends even less time with you, you become even more upset, and the spiral continues. Your behavior is now actually creating the very thing you didn’t want in the first place. You’re caught in an unhealthy, self-defeating loop.

Anyone that says his mind will be probably regarded a fool, but the true artist is not moved by the comments about the looks of his painting or remarks that are dreadfully sarcastic, but hearken now! That he who says what others want to hear hasn't said anything of his own.

Are there moments when our brains are not exercising?” I questioned. “That would be almost like being brain dead...

Our minds are creative and knowledgeable. Yet time and time again, our needs and wants fell on deaf ears. We were told we weren’t good enough. We were abused mentally, physically, and emotionally. We were told with nasty sarcastic remarks at times, and here and there maybe a laugh that made the insult worse; “It would be your word against mine, and guess who they are going believe? Not you.” One by one we took a chance to speak up, but our voices weren’t heard. They tried to make us feel threatened; as if we were going to lay down and be stepped on like shit on the bottom on their shoe. We interrupted their comfort zone and showed them their time was up! Their time of talking and belittling us this way has expired. They tried, but they failed to realize we are strong and we will never give up. Their time of thinking they can touch us inappropriately and we will keep quiet has expired. No! We will rise up and bring the world to its feet. Trust me… We will be seen and heard! Their time of trying to break us down has expired. No! We can move mountains! Their time of pointing their fingers at us and putting F.E.A.R (False Evidence Appearing Real) into our minds by making us believe it is our fault has expired. No! It is not our fault. It never was! Their time of nasty insults has expired. They fail to realize we catch every nasty word and throw back the insult to show we can give as good as we get. Their time of preying off vulnerable women who have to “make a deal” to get a higher position they earned has expired. No! Your “man”ipulation has no effect. We, as women, have full ownership of our minds, bodies, and souls.

Yeah, kid. I almost got blown up. It was great.

Because if I’m gonna get to the bottom of whatever is going on here, I’m definitely going to need my vampire sidekick.” Jenna snorted and tossed her hair. “Whatever. You’re obviously the sidekick. With that hair, and all the sarcastic remarks?” “Hmmm,” I said, pretending to think it over. “And you do have a way more angsty backstory.” Jenna waved her hand. “Exactly. Vampire for the win!” We laughed again. Then I glanced out the window. The gray sky was already darkening, and the fog that surrounded the house seemed to slither. Jenna had gotten quiet. “What do you think is going to happen to us?” The first thing that came to mind was “Nothing good,” but instead I wrapped an arm around her shoulders and said, “We’re going to be fine. Think of all the stuff we’ve already been through. You think a little killer fog is gonna get in our way? Ha!” Jenna didn’t look convinced, but she did say, “I’m not sure if you’re confident or delusional, but thanks anyway.

Of all her siblings, Gabriel was the one to whom Phoebe had always felt closest. In his company, she could make petty or sarcastic remarks, or confess her foolish mistakes, knowing he would never judge her harshly. They knew each other's faults and kept each other's secrets. Many people, if not most, would have been flabbergasted to learn that Gabriel had any faults at all. All they saw was the remarkable male beauty and cool self-control of a man so elegantly mannered that it never would have occurred to anyone to call him a lunkhead. However, Gabriel could sometimes be arrogant and manipulative. Beneath his charming exterior, there was a steely core that made him ideally suited to oversee the array of Challon properties and businesses. Once he decided what was best for someone, he took every opportunity to push and goad until he had his way. Therefore, Phoebe occasionally found it necessary to push back. After all, it was an older sister's responsibility to keep her younger brother from behaving like a domineering ass.

Ah yes…” He made an exaggerated nod. “I was supposed to be filling you in on Nangí’s story.” He winked at me playfully, as I kept up my glare. “Now, where should I begin?” “Tell you what, let me get you started,” I came back. “Once upon a time, there was this über-creepy old man—who looks like he lives in a haunted shack and eats small children for breakfast—and I decided to make him my new best friend becaaauuse… Okay, your turn.

The metabolic rate of history is too fast for us to observe it. It's as if, attending to the day-long life cycle of a single mayfly, we lose sight of the species and its fate. At the same time, the metabolic rate of geology is too slow for us to perceive it, so that, from birth to death, it seems to us who are caught in the beat of our own individual human hearts that everything happening on this planet is what happens to us, personally, privately, secretly. We can stand at night on a high, cold plain and look out toward the scrabbled, snow-covered mountains in the west, the same in a suburb of Denver as outside a village in Baluchistan in Pakistan, and even though beneath our feet continent-sized chunks of earth grind inexorably against one another, go on driving one or the other continent down so as to rise up and over it, as if desiring to replace it on the map, we poke with our tongue for a piece of meat caught between two back teeth and think of sarcastic remarks we should have made to our brother-in-law at dinner.

How about adding to the dictionary a word we can all relate to: complesult. A remark that is part compliment, part insult, like, ‘You’re pretty smart, for a girl.

Never be SARCASTIC. A clever remark might gain you a few laughs but the butt of your remarks will be offended and will remember you for it.

I certainly didn't concur with Edward on everything, but I was damned if I would hear him abused without saying a word. And I think this may be worth setting down, because there are other allegiances that can be stress-tested in comparable ways. It used to be a slight hallmark of being English or British that one didn't make a big thing out of patriotic allegiance, and was indeed brimful of sarcastic and critical remarks about the old country, but would pull oneself together and say a word or two if it was attacked or criticized in any nasty or stupid manner by anybody else. It's family, in other words, and friends are family to me. I feel rather the same way about being an American, and also about being of partly Jewish descent. To be any one of these things is to be no better than anyone else, but no worse. When confronted by certain enemies, it is increasingly the 'most definitely no worse' half of this unspoken agreement on which I tend to lay the emphasis. (As with Camus’s famous 'neither victim nor executioner,' one hastens to assent but more and more to say 'definitely not victim.')

So tell me about your eldest daughter. I assume you will say she is blond, blue-eyed,and beautiful beyond compare." "Ranulf,you are far too cynical." "You have said so before.So speak. Tell me of your temptresses and how their beauty can ensnare my men with a mere glimpse." "And for that last sarcastic remark, I shall describe them in detail,and maybe someday you,too,will have daughters and understand the fear that lurks in my aged heart.

Not only the portraits on the walls, but also the shelves in the library were thinned out. The disappearance of certain books and brochures happened discretely, usually the day after the arrival of a new message from above. Rubashov made his sarcastic commentaries on it while dictating to Arlova, who received them in silence. Most of the works on foreign trade and currency disappeared from the shelves – their author, the People’s Commissar for Finance, had just been arrested; also nearly all old Party Congress reports treating the same subject; most books and reference-books on the history and antecedents of the Revolution; most works by living authors on problems of birth control; the manuals on the structure of the People’s Army; treatises on trade unionism and the right to strike in the People’s State; practically every study of the problems of political constitution more than two years old, and, finally, even the volumes of the Encyclopedia published by the Academy – a new revised edition being promised shortly. New books arrived, too: the classics of social science appeared with new footnotes and commentaries, the old histories were replaced by new histories, the old memoirs of dead revolutionary leaders were replaced by new memoirs of the same defunct. Rubashov remarked jokingly to Arlova that the only thing left to be done was to publish a new and revised edition of the back numbers of all newspapers.

You will never bore me, Nelissuna. I can see that fact straight to my soul.” “But I can clearly see you being easily capable of boring me to tears,” she countered archly, trying to free her trapped hand with a determined tug. He was even stronger than he looked, she thought. “How are you feeling?” he asked, noticing her struggle and insults about the same way he would notice a passing speck of dust. “Why can you not tell me? You are the medic, are you not?” She exhaled sharply. “Will you please let go of me?” “No.” Legna growled in frustration at him. “You are so obnoxious!” she accused. “I hate it when you do that!” “Do what? Answer a question? If it disturbs you, I will ignore your questions from now on.” “You know exactly what I mean. I hate it when you lay down the word no as if it were the last letter of the law. And do not think I do not know that you are doing it on purpose just to irritate me, because I do!” “Then you should cease giving me the opportunity to say it,” he told her, his tone so matter-of-fact that she almost screamed at him. “And you should be careful of those little growls you insist on making, Neliss. They are . . . very stimulating.” Suddenly Legna forgot all about trading barbs with him and became very aware of his warmth above and below her trapped hand, the solid strength she leaned up against so cozily, and the very clear hunger that was brewing under the humor he had been using to hide it. Now that he had her full attention rather than her acerbic defensives, he slipped his hand out from under his head and reached to touch her soft, warm cheek with fingertips as light as the ones she had explored him with. “You are so very lovely, Legna. I have always thought so. Even as a child, you were quite stunning.” “It took you long enough to tell me so,” she said, but there was no true energy to the would-be sarcastic remark.

Dear lady, ... dear gentleman, reader, [it's] not right ... to put down this writer on his writing ... And I'll tell you why, too: it hurts, that's why.... People try to understand why writers commit suicide by jumping off boats or by alcoholism or by being heroic continuously or by rope or gun or drug or knife or water, and ... I can tell you straight out, ... it is reading slurring remarks about their writing that drives writers to the grave. Dirty remarks passed by ... dirty but damned nicely educated and very highly-paid ladies and gentlemen have the effect of killing writers. Yes, that's right. Dirty words ... in slick paper magazines read by smart people do assassinate writers. ... And boy let me tell you I am all for it, even when by some ... misunderstanding the dirty words are directed to me rather than to the party really deserving them. Accidents happen, dear clever reviewer or critic, and let it not be said that William Saroyan is one not to see a situation from the point of view of the other party, ... and I shall be the first to defend your right to be critical and even sarcastic, knowing full well that it is not about me and my writing, although my name is by mistake taken in vain by you. ... But go on, go on, do your good clever writing, every one of you, I am home, your are home, and we are each of us not yet on Variety's Necrology list, so if we can't take it, who can?

Risking a glance at the dignified young man beside her- what was his name?- Mr. Arthurson, Arterton?- Pandora decided to try her hand at some small talk. "It was very fine weather today, wasn't it?" she said. He set down his flatware and dabbed at both corners of his mouth with his napkin before replying. "Yes, quite fine." Encouraged, Pandora asked, "What kind of clouds do you like better- cumulus or stratocumulus?" He regarded her with a slight frown. After a long pause, he asked, "What is the difference?" "Well, cumulus are the fluffier, rounder clouds, like this heap of potatoes on my plate." Using her fork, Pandora spread, swirled, and dabbed the potatoes. "Stratocumulus are flatter and can form lines or waves- like this- and can either form a large mass or break into smaller pieces." He was expressionless as he watched her. "I prefer flat clouds that look like a blanket." "Altostratus?" Pandora asked in surprise, setting down her fork. "But those are the boring clouds. Why do you like them?" "They usually mean it's going to rain. I like rain." This showed promise of actually turning into a conversation. "I like to walk in the rain, too," Pandora exclaimed. "No, I don't like to walk in it. I like to stay in the house." After casting a disapproving glance at her plate, the man returned his attention to eating. Chastened, Pandora let out a noiseless sigh. Picking up her fork, she tried to inconspicuously push her potatoes into a proper heap again. Fact #64 Never sculpt your food to illustrate a point during small talk. Men don't like it. As Pandora looked up, she discovered Phoebe's gaze on her. She braced inwardly for a sarcastic remark. But Phoebe's voice was gentle as she spoke. "Henry and I once saw a cloud over the English Channel that was shaped in a perfect cylinder. It went on as far as the eye could see. Like someone had rolled up a great white carpet and set it in the sky." It was the first time Pandora had ever heard Phoebe mention her late husband's name. Tentatively, she asked, "Did you and he ever try to find shapes in the clouds?" "Oh, all the time. Henry was very clever- he could find dolphins, ships, elephants, and roosters. I could never see a shape until he pointed it out. But then it would appear as if by magic." Phoebe's gray eyes turned crystalline with infinite variations of tenderness and wistfulness. Although Pandora had experienced grief before, having lost both parents and a brother, she understood that this was a different kind of loss, a heavier weight of pain. Filled with compassion and sympathy, she dared to say, "He... he sounds like a lovely man." Phoebe smiled faintly, their gazes meeting in a moment of warm connection. "He was," she said. "Someday I'll tell you about him." And finally Pandora understood where a little small talk about the weather might lead.

I'm to have dinner with some people from the bookshop, which is as posh as the motel, at six, then read at seven-thirty. I will have to watch my mouth. Some sarcastic remark about gentrification is almost bound to slip out. Even though the topography is right, this doesn't even look like Vermont. Not a cow in sight, not a single shack held together with staples and Masonite. Where are my people? The ones who used to go to Canada automatically at age 18 and get all their teeth pulled out, a standard right of passage. The ones who believe you can't be an alcoholic if you drink nothing but beer. The ones who know how to roast a haunch of venison with onions and garlic and sage and mustard (and where to find the haunch in July). The ones who buy their clothes at rummage and their cars at the junkyard. The ones who used to be me. Here I am on my balcony with a finger or two of cognac, a cigar, and a laptop computer, wearing my black jeans and my Reeboks. God, it's awful.

You did have a lot of footballs," I remarked, my expression deadpan. When she realized what I was implying, I had to duck to the side to avoid being socked on the arm. "I'll leave Ruler of Balls to one of you guys," she said dryly. I chuckled. "But Queen of Balls has such a ring to it." "Ding dong," she said sarcastically. "Okay," I said. "Queen of Ding dongs—" "No," she cut me off. She was laughing so hard now, tears ran down her cheeks. She dabbed at her running mascara and laughed harder still.

Cassandra gave him a reproachful glance. “I thought you liked Mr. Severin.” “I do, absolutely. He occupies a high place on the list of things I don’t respect myself for liking, right between street food and filthy drinking songs.” Cassandra was aware that it had always been West’s habit—as well as Devon’s and Winterborne’s—to make sarcastic remarks about Tom Severin, in the way of longstanding friends. But it rankled now in a way it never had before. “After all Mr. Severin has done for our family,” she said quietly, “he deserves more respect than that.” They were all silent, darting surprised glances at her. Until that moment, Cassandra had never dared to utter one word of reproof to him. To West’s credit, he considered the point, and relented. “You’re right,” he said in a different tone. “I beg your pardon for being a facetious arse. But I know both of you well enough to be certain you don’t belong together.” Cassandra met his gaze without blinking. “Is it possible that Mr. Severin and I might know each other in a different way than you know either of us?” “Touché. Is it possible that you might think you know him far less than you actually do?” “Touché,” Cassandra replied reluctantly.

Who taught you to shoot?” he asked when she was standing beside him. “Our coachman.” “Better the coachman than your brother,” Ian mocked, handing her the loaded gun. “The target’s that bare twig over there—the one with the leaf hanging off the middle of it.” Elizabeth flinched at his sarcastic reference to his duel with Robert. “I’m truly sorry about that duel,” she said, then she concentrated all her attention for the moment on the small twig. Propping his shoulder against the tree trunk, Ian watched with amusement as she grasped the heavy gun in both her hands and raised it, biting her lip in concentration. “Your brother was a very poor shot,” he remarked. She fired, nicking the leaf at its stem. “I’m not,” she said with a jaunty sidewise smile. And then, because the duel was finally out in the open and he seemed to want to joke about it, she tried to follow suit: “If I’d been there, I daresay I would have—” His brows lifted. “Waited for the call to fire, I hope?

…It usually starts innocently enough, a friend remarking to you that the co-op has a nice new crop of grapefruit. “Hmm, I don’t really care for grapefruit myself,” you say, entirely without malice. She seems startled, “Really?” she says. If you had a tendency to be sarcastic, you might say, “No, I deliberately misrepresent my taste in citrus to gain the upper hand in conversation.” But you are not sarcastic, so you restate your dislike, a little more timidly now. “Yeah, I just don’t care for grapefruit. It tastes bitter to me.” “Bitter! How can you think grapefruit tastes bitter?” she demands. “I find that difficult to answer — ” you say. “Grapefruit is the single least bitter thing in the world! Sugar is more bitter than grapefruit!” she continues. “Sugar is deliberately bitter,” you say, trying to calm her. “Sugar is pure white hate.” “You want bitter? Radicchio is bitter. Dandelion greens — they’re bitter!” “I hate them. They’re mean,” you say as the situation death-rolls out of control. “I’m going to get you some of that grapefruit right now and show you that it’s not bitter,” she says, marching to the refrigerator. You have apparently run afoul of a committed grapefruit apologist. Soon you are eating extremely bitter chunks of fruit you loathe. “Tell me, is that bitter? Is it?” she asks, leaving you no wiggle room. “Unbelievably not-bitter. Sweet, sure. Sour, you bet. Salty, powerfully so — but bitter? No and again, no. All bitterness has vanished from existence. Even the concept of bitterness has been conquered and bows down before this grapefruit,” you say, nearly gagging from the bitterness.

The name is somewhat familiar, but I can’t recall a face to go with it.” Obviously disappointed in her reaction, her uncle said irritably, “You apparently have a poor memory. If you can’t recall a knight or an earl,” he added sarcastically, “I doubt you’ll remember a mere mister.” Stung by his unprovoked remark, she said stiffly, “Who is the third?” “Mr. Ian Thornton. He’s-“ That name sent Elizabeth jolting to her feet while a blaze of animosity and a sock of terror erupted through her entire body. “Ian Thornton!” she cried, leaning her palms on the desk to steady herself. “Ian Thornton!” she repeated, her voice rising with a mixture of anger and hysterical laughter. “Uncle, if Ian Thornton discussed marrying me, it was at the point of Robert’s gun! His interest in me was never marriage, and Robert dueled with him over his behavior. In fact, Robert shot him!” Instead of relenting or being upset, her uncle merely regarded her with blank indifference, and Elizabeth said fiercely, “Don’t you understand?” “What I understand,” he said, glowering, “is that he replied to my message in the affirmative and was very cordial. Perhaps he regrets his earlier behavior and wishes to make amends.” “Amends!” she cried. “I’ve no idea whether he feels loathing for me or merely contempt, but I can assure you he does not and has never wished to wed me! He’s the reason I can’t show my face in society!” “In my opinion, you’re better off away from that decadent London influence; however, that’s not to the point. He has accepted my terms.” “What terms?” Inured to Elizabeth’s quaking alarm, Julius stated matter-of-factly, “Each of the three candidates has agreed that you will come to visit him briefly in order to allow you to decide if you suit. Lucinda will accompany you as chaperon. You’re to leave in five days. Belhaven is first, then Marchman, then Thornton.” The room swam before Elizabeth’s eyes. “I can’t believe this!” she burst out, and in her misery she seized on the least of her problems. “Lucinda has taken her first holiday in years! She’s in Devon visiting her sister.” “Then take Berta instead and have Lucinda join you later when you go to visit Thornton in Scotland.” “Berta! Berta is a maid. My reputation will be in shreds if I spend a week in the home of a man with no one but a maid for a chaperon.” “Then don’t say she’s a maid,” he snapped. “Since I already referred to Lucinda Throckmorton-Jones as your chaperon in my letters, you can say that Berta is your aunt No more objections, miss,” he finished, “the matter is settled. That will be all for now. You may go.” “It’s not settled! There’s been some sort of horrible mistake, I tell you. Ian Thornton would never want to see me, any more than I wish to see him!” “There’s no mistake,” Julius said with completely finality. “Ian Thornton received my letter and accepted our offer. He even sent directions to his place in Scotland.” “Your offer,” Elizabeth cried, “not mine!” “I’ll not debate technicalities any further with you, Elizabeth. This discussion is at an end.

Oh my, aren't we going to have fun?" Sarah remarked sarcastically as she quickly pulled the covers over herself. A weak sweat covered her body and her arms trembled, feeling no stronger than wet wax. With a weary sigh, she lay down beside her baby. "Imagine staying here for the winter with such a cheery soul." Thaddeus returned from his sink with a cup of cold water. He glared at her when he saw her trembling and held the cup to her lips himself. "If you were looking for cheery, lady, you shouldn't have come here." "I didn't come here," she snapped angrily, almost choking on a mouthful of water. "You brought me." "Would you rather I left you in a blizzard?" "I'd rather, since we're stuck here together, you spoke civilly and treated me with a measure of kindness." "Yeah...well, we all want things we can't have.

Why didn’t you tell us?” Despite her pain, Kat lifted her chin defiantly. “Didn’t want…your pity. And after the fight we had I didn’t…didn’t think you two would want to touch me anyway.” “You mean you didn’t think I would want to.” Deep shook his head. “Goddess damn you, Kat, for your stupid, stubborn pride. Don’t you know I’d do anything to keep you from pain?” Standing, he began stripping off his shirt. But when he reached for her, Kat had a sudden thought. “Wait,” she protested as he bent toward her. “Lock said…said it hurts you to touch too much if…if the other one isn’t there.” She gestured weakly at his bare chest. “Too much skin-to-skin contact…without Lock…will hurt you.” “You think I give a damn about that?” Deep’s voice was an angry growl but he gathered her into his arms with surprising gentleness. “Come here, damn you. Let me hold you,” he murmured, settling himself on the flat boulder with her in his lap. Kat couldn’t help it—she didn’t want to give him pain, but the immediate relief she felt when his broad, warm chest came in contact with her cheek was too wonderful to deny. His arms around her were so comforting and strong and the scent of his skin made her feel safe—protected. Suddenly, though she didn’t know why, she was crying. Stop crying, stupid! It’s bad enough that holding you hurts him, he doesn’t want you crying all over him too! But she couldn’t stop. And to her surprise, Deep didn’t say a thing. No sarcastic remarks or biting observations—he just held her closer and stroked her hair in a gentle rhythm that somehow calmed her down. “I’m

Trystan Airbourne was a knight. A real knight.  Someone who embodied all the shining principles that Galahad had grown up admiring. The man’s arsenal of multi-bladed weapons and litany of sarcastic remarks were just for show.

NURSE (rising and taking her bag from the sofa): Well, I've that confined lady still waiting in Shepperley. (Going into the hall) Toodle-oo! MRS. BRAMSON: Mind you call again Wednesday. In case my neuritis sets in again. NURSE (turning in the hall): I will that. And if paralysis pops up, let me know. Toodle-oo! She marches cheerily out of the front door. MRS. BRAMSON cannot make up her mind if the last remark is sarcastic or not.

I caught a fish that weighed three stone if it weighed a pound!” Nick bragged, looking to Kit for approval. “Indeed.” Kit nodded in assent, supportively. “But mine was the real coup—I took down a rabbit with feet as large as my own!” “Mmmm,” Will agreed, taking a drink of wine. “Neither compares with the quail I bested…it was the size of a golden eagle! Wasn’t it, Blackmoor?” Blackmoor smiled broadly, leaning back and looking from one brother to the next. “I’m not certain I want to be involved in this particular conversation,” he said with a laugh. “Oh?” Alex asked with a twinkle in her eye, knowing exactly why he wouldn’t participate. “Could that be because this generation of Staffords has been having this very conversation for years, since they were old enough to go hunting?” Blackmoor smiled at her and replied, “It could be…” “And perhaps because, for years, it is only after the Stafford boys have relayed their incredible feats of manhood that their father ruins their fun by telling the truth—that none of the three of them could catch a fish, a rabbit, or a bird if his very life depended on it?” the duke noted, drawing a laugh from everyone around the table. “Alas, it seems the wildlife of this particular estate have nothing to fear from their masters,” Vivi said. “It’s a good thing you’re all fairly intelligent,” Ella remarked. “And don’t forget attractive,” added Nick, good-humoredly. “Oh, of course!” Alex replied sarcastically. “How could we forget?” The

No matter how exasperated the circumstances become, officers must bear in mind they are representatives of our government and must conduct themselves in a worthy manner. To become impatient, sarcastic, hostile or personal in remarks is an admission of weakness and defeat and, needless to say, should never occur.” In

Have we had any luck doing that computer thing to him?” Hutch rolled his eyes. “Seriously? Does anyone know what I do?” “You eat a lot of candy and make sarcastic remarks. You’re a lot like the other computer geeks,” Tag replied. “Yeah, but I’m cuter.” Hutch grinned.

My Teacher Told Me     Monsieur Dubois waited for me at his suite to commence our private tutorial. Since his other students Albert and Narnia had their lessons in the morning, they were at The Imperial’s swimming pool frolicking with their respective chaperones, leaving me alone with my professor. The moment I walked in, he said, “Young, you did well at last evening’s TransZendental session.” “I thought I had been summoned by the prince but he wasn’t there,” I commented. “He was! Didn’t you see him?” Alain remarked sarcastically. “He was?” This piece of information piqued my interest. I continued, “By the way, who was the man I was paired with?” “Don’t you recognize him?” my teacher teased. “No, who?” “Couldn’t you identify his touch and smell?” I remarked fondly, “All I could smell was sandalwood and the man’s loving touch. I couldn’t help melting into his gallantry. Who was he?” Just then my Valet came into the room. “Talking about the devil, here he is.” “Andy! It was Andy!” I exclaimed. “Your burka harnesses had worked wonders to revivify the fervent connections you felt for each other. That’s the reason I chose the two of you, to demonstrate to the prince and the sheik how they, too, could open themselves up to one another,” my teacher declared. Surprised by Dubois’ exposition, I questioned, “You mean they are together? I mean, they’re an item?” Alain gave a gratifying laugh before answering, “That’s correct. They are now unofficially a couple.

Jane was straight, intelligent, and cool, if not cold—qualities that brought out the worst in John. Jane’s most common response when John misbehaved was a sneer—she was an artist of the sarcastic putdown, and sneering was something she did extremely well—but sometimes he’d make a sexist remark to her and they’d end up in a shouting match in the hall.

Wow, flirting right in front of me? This is the lack of respect I’m talking about,” Bobby remarked sarcastically causing Luke to groan yet again. “Let’s just get out of here before I murder you with my bare hands,” Luke said, turning on his heel and stomping out of the garage. “Wait for me, sweetie,” Bobby called after him, shooting Reggie and Julie one more mischievous look before disappearing after his friend.

I don’t suppose you’d care to explain the we-don’t-have-a-choice aspect to Naomi?” Javier rejoined sarcastically. “Why bother? She’s bound and determined to fight her beast and in turn, her shifter nature. I say let her.” Incredulity marked Javier’s expression. “Isn’t that counterproductive to your, make that our, goal?” “No, it is simple biology,” Ethan explained. “She will eventually come to us. Keep in mind, the longer she denies the pull to mate, the harder the desire to claim us will ride her.” “That sounds kind of callous,” Javier remarked. “I’m surprised. I expected more of you.” “You didn’t let me explain what my plan was while she fought her nature. I plan to stay glued to her side, apart from practices and games, of course. I will get to know her, and in turn, she will come to know me. Befriend her, in other words, and if I’m lucky, perhaps she’ll even come to love me. I know I’m already half way there.” A romantic like his father, Ethan believed in love at first sight despite his more pragmatic friend’s comments. Javier snorted. “Gods, don’t let the opposing team ever hear you yapping like a woman. For a giant bear, you’re awfully sentimental.” A dark look shot Javier’s way made his feline friend grin. Ethan growled. “You are lucky I am holding her, or I’d make you swallow your words.” “Down Smokey,” Javier joked. “Actually, your plan is a good one. She is most definitely intriguing, and if we’re going to spend the rest of our lives with her, then I guess becoming her friend before her lover is a good start. But I warn you, if she insists on sex, I will sacrifice myself for the greater good to please her.” “Whatever,” Ethan scoffed. “You might be the oral master, but I will still always have the bigger cock.” And with that parting shot, Ethan stood with his precious burden and lumbered upstairs to find her bedroom.

In what may be the first joke in the history of philosophy, albeit a joke with a serious message, Xenophanes sarcastically remarks that if cattle or horses could depict the gods, they would show them looking like cattle or horses (§169).

She simply chose to have some one sitting with her to whom she could speak and make little cross-grained, sarcastic, and ill-natured remarks.

If you're completely honest with yourself, the only reason you would insult someone or use other corrosive forms of sarcastic humor is to make yourself feel good. You take some degree of joy in making others feel poorly, partially because it makes you feel as if you’re better than they are. That's pretty sad. Oftentimes, even if you're trying to pass an insult off as a joke, you are sending a loud and clear signal to the other person that you can't be trusted and that you have a low view of them. What do you think the overall effect of this perception will have on people who would otherwise want to be your friend?

All of his conclusions in life had been reached through the things he had experienced, seen, or felt, before he could think them out. “Herr Hans Alt suffers from incurable empiricism,” had been another of Freud's sarcastic remarks. This tendency had reached an acute stage in the time of Hans's utter loneliness. To think that human beings should suffer the things he had suffered and seen others suffer; that the chalked-up inscription on troop trains, originally destined for cattle, “Ten Horses and Forty Men,” wiped out the difference between man and animal, he had had to see with his own eyes in order to draw his conclusions about it; that killing was not murder and a crime, as he had been brought up to believe, but heroism, he would not have thought credible had he himself not been required to aim and shoot at unknown men. When he had the incontrovertible proof that all this was done not for his country but against it, he went through a crisis. His faith in authority, which had been hammered into his very marrow by school and home, had been shaken that morning in the violet meadow. Nevertheless, it remained. His school, his father, his Emperor still had right on their side. But now their unrighteousness cried aloud to heaven, so that his faith in authority was dumb. Every one had been shamelessly betrayed. The sons who came back as despised beggars or, worse still, didn't come back and became names on tiny churchyard crosses or numbers in prison camps. The mothers who had given those sons. The fathers who had given all their money for war loans. The last trace of regard for anything that might go by the name of respectability vanished. Everything was criminally false that had been said, taught, required by authority for ages past.