Serials Funny Quotes

Accept who you are. Unless you're a serial killer.

God, she had forced a married man, a father, to kiss her. Now people thought that he was having an affair. His wife was probably crying into her pillow. His kids would grow up with horrible daddy issues and become serial killers.

The worst part is, he’s been extra sweet because he’s trying to make everything okay again. If he weren’t a serial killer, he’d be the perfect boyfriend

He stared at Avery's socks and felt an odd sense of wonder. Socks were so normal. So mundane. How could someone who pulled on socks in the morning be a serial killer? Socks were not hard or dangerous. Socks were funny; foot mittens, that's what socks were. They made a knobbly hinge of your toes and became comical sock-puppets. Surely anyone who wore socks could not truly be a threat to him or anyone else?

It may surprise you to know this, but there are children--some of them teenage boys, just like you--who actually carry on open, honest conversations with their mothers." "I find it very hard to believe that there are other teenage boys just like me." I finished my cereal and stood up. "I also find it a little terrifying.

Tex, you look like a serial killer in this picture!” I shouted. “Yeah, so?” Tex answered. I stared. “You think people wouldn’t pay good money to have a serial killer make them coffee?” he boomed.

Just as funny, as ridiculous, as the notion of decomposing bodies and the way we all become one. Disappearing wasn't mysterious, it wasn't thrilling; it was cold bodies with stiff limbs and purpling patches as the blood inside pooled.

SWAT? For me?" Still trembling, one hand clung to the ambulance gurney, the other held a massive sterilised cotton wool wad under my nose. "Tactical Support was busy. You got Dennis and Arlo," said Harry, speed-reading the papers he'd snatched from inside my jacket. Closest his hands had been to my chest in a long time. "Which one broke my nose?" "That'd be Dennis.

Serial killers don't procrastinate, so neither should you.

Apparently, we're all in the frame," I heard Harry murmur somewhere behind me. And I whirled back to him. Innate, irrational anger surged. Then stopped, dead - as I suddenly took in Handsome, Robert and Doc. They were all staring at me. They were concentrating, all resolute, all a tad furrow-browed… upon my face. Self-consciousness burgeoned. I gingerly fingered my and lips and my chin, "Am I drooling?" "Your arse is hanging out," said Harry, not looking up from the forensics he was scanning. And so it was. Handsome, Robert and Doc averted their eyes as I, wishing I'd merely been dribbling, grabbed the back flaps of my breezy hospital gown, fully placed my back against the wall. Then, thinking better of it, dived hurriedly, carefully, back into bed. If Chinese Lady'd been here, she could've, would've, told me. I missed her already.

Is it not late? A late time to be living? Are not our generations the crucial ones? For we have changed the world. Are not our heightened times the important ones? For we have nuclear bombs. Are we not especially significant because our century is? - our century and its unique Holocaust, its refugee populations, its serial totalitarian exterminations; our century and its antibiotics, silicon chips, men on the moon, and spliced genes? No, we are not and it is not. These times of ours are ordinary times, a slice of life like any other. Who can bear to hear this, or who will consider it?... Take away the bomb threat and what are we? Ordinary beads on a never-ending string. Our time is a routine twist of an improbable yarn...There must be something heroic about our time, something that lifts it above all those other times. Plague? Funny weather? Dire things are happening... Why are we watching the news, reading the news, keeping up with the news? Only to enforce our fancy - probably a necessary lie - that these are crucial times, and we are in on them. Newly revealed, and we are in the know: crazy people, bunches of them. New diseases, shifts in power, floods! Can the news from dynastic Egypt have been any different?

You are either the friendliest man on the planet,” I say, “or a world-class serial killer.” “Why not both?

Learning how to be a human to be human by attending a frat is alike learning how to ride a horse by going to a Tijuana donkey show.

So you went bike riding, then," she said. "Just around town? Out on the forest trails somewhere?" "Yes," I said, "we went out to Forman's place." Her face twisted, eyes widening, eyebrows curling, nostrils flaring. It was her "shocked" face, with a dash of "confused." "Really?" "Of course not," I said, "but the face you just made almost makes this conversation worth it.

One quick glance around the room and I realise that I have somehow stumbled into a wannabe serial killer convention. Every single person in the room looks as if they are concealing a weapon of some sort. My heart thuds rapidly in my chest as I sneak past an elderly man who grins lecherously at me, flashing his gold tooth. Oh dear God, I’m going to die! First, I get dumped – on my birthday no less – and now I’m going to get knifed in some seedy bar!

I spend most of my days up to my elbows in someone’s chest cavity. Really, I know zip about music." He didn’t bother hiding his surprise. “Wow. That must be...messy.” “That didn’t sound too great, did it? Let me reassure you—I’m a doctor, not a serial killer.

I smiled. Mom laughed, shaking her head. “That’s the punchline? Why is that even funny?” “It’s the Pythagorean theorem,” said Lauren. “It’s a math formula for . . . something.” “Right triangles,” I said, and looked pointedly at Margaret. “I told you I’d already done geometry.

When Victor was making Skype calls for work, I’d silently crawl up behind him and have Rory slowly and menacingly rise up over Victor’s shoulder until the person on the call froze because they noticed a mentally unbalanced raccoon was leaning in like a furry, eavesdropping serial killer. Then Victor would realize Rory was behind him and he’d sigh that sigh he does so well and remind himself to lock his office door. If anything, though, Victor should have thanked me, because the perfect test to see if your friends and coworkers really have your back is if they’re willing to say, “Hey, there’s a raccoon creeping on you.

my reworking of that marvellous list. 1. Live as enjoyably as you can within financial reason. 2. If you have a bath, draw an inch or two of cold water and splash about in it. A cold shower will have the same uplifting effect. 3. Never stay up all night watching Netflix Originals about serial killers. 4. DON’T THINK TOO FAR AHEAD. EVENING IS FINE, BUT TOMORROW CAN LOOK AFTER ITSELF. 5. Keep reasonably busy. 6. See as much as you can of the friends who like you, support you and make you laugh. See as little as you can of the friends who judge you, compare you to others and tire you (and don’t pretend you don’t know who they are). 7. Apply the same rules to casual acquaintances. If your instincts tell you they are toxic, walk away and don’t look back. 8. If you are low in the water, do not pretend that you aren’t. It makes it so much worse, and A STIFF UPPER LIP ONLY GIVES YOU A SORE JAW. 9. Good coffee and tea are a genuine help. 10. DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES OR FOR ANY REASON AT ANY TIME COMPARE YOURSELF TO ANYONE ELSE. 11. Cultivate a gentle, healthy pessimism. It can result in more nice surprises. 12. Avoid drama about what is wrong with the world (unless it is funny), emotionally powerful music, other sad people, and anything likely to make you feel anxious or that you are not doing enough. 13. RANDOM ACTS OF KINDNESS ARE HUMAN ANTIDEPRESSANTS. 14. Form a close bond with a local tree. 15. Make the room you most like sitting in as much of a comfy nest as you can. 16. Listen to David Attenborough. 17. STOP JUDGING YOURSELF. STOP PUNISHING YOURSELF. IT’S NOT YOUR FAULT. 18. Keep warm. 19. Think as much as you can about space, infinity and the beyond. Anything that much bigger than you can be very relaxing. 20. Trust me.

What’s THAT?!” Laurent screeched as the bushes directly next to them began to move. A hundred things ran through Madi’s mind: that serial killers really should choose more productive ways to spend their time, that her sister Sarah was going to be out-of-control when their parents broke the news Madi’d been murdered, that it was a really stupid twist of fate that Madi’d found the man of her dreams only to lose him, and lastly— That really looks like a squirrel. “RUN!” Laurent bellowed as the little creature took two bouncing steps toward them and stopped, staring at them with interest.

Ale, obejrzawszy ten serial, jedno wam powiem: nigdy nie bądźcie żadnymi dobrymi kobietami!!) (Nieszczęsna Krystle, ta poczciwina podobna staremu, smutnemu źrebięciu – jej jedynym zajęciem jest bycie piękną. Albo wypoczywa w ogrodzie, albo szczotkuje włosy, albo poleca zmienić wodę w wazonach; nic nie ma do roboty). (A taka Alexis? Może zła, ale przynajmniej ma swoje zainteresowania. Maluje, strzela do ptactwa i całymi dniami rąbie szampana z kieliszka.

I smirked. “Careful, Aussie, that almost sounded like a compliment.” I reached to take the knife, but Matthias caught my wrist, reeled back his arm, and stabbed the blade into my hand. I screamed. The Aussie laughed. Okay, it was only a prick. On my finger. But his serial-killer plunge and deranged look of delight got my heart pumping.

Serial killers are people too, and sometimes they are funny.

He decided to try television, but it was all sex and zombies, serial killers and sad cops. The comedies weren’t funny.

Lisa added, "The big trigger for Rache is mistreatment of dogs. I think you could kick a toddler in the face, and she wouldn't flinch. But if you kicked a dog in front of her, she'd probably kill you on the spot. "I'll, uh, keep that in mind," I said. Then, double checking that nobody was in a position to overhear, I figured it was as good a time to as as any, "Has she killed anyone?" "She's wanted for serial murder," Brian sighed. "It's inconvenient.

Yeah, they’re babies being raised by a psychic and a serial killer,” Asa reminded, eyes widening as something occurred to him. “Oh, God. And the serial killer is the voice of reason.

I just…like the way he smells. I look at him and I find myself wondering what his skin tastes like.” “Oof. Easy, Dahmer,” Adam said. “Maybe don’t start with that.” “Don’t start with anything. He thinks you kill people,” Atticus said, practically apoplectic at that point. “He does kill people?” Adam reminded.

He already knew Lucas’s deep, dark secret and hadn’t run screaming in the other direction. Because he’s a murderer. Nobody’s perfect, right?

Why would you do a drug when you didn't even know what it was?" Noah shrugged. "What are you, the morality police? You kill people, like, as a hobby.

That would have been, like, three kills each,” Atticus chimed in. “Two for one of us,” August corrected. “I hate math,” Aiden muttered. “And twenty separate crime scenes to clean up,” Noah reminded them. “I’m just saying, killing three guys in one night would have been cool,” Avi pouted. “But, instead, you get to kill twenty guys during the day, with your brothers, as a family,” August said. “Other families just have barbeques,” Archer said, tone dripping with sarcasm.

Hmm. Is this Bogdan's downside? He's a serial murderer? That would be tough to overlook. Not impossible though, given those shoulders.

She was acting funny, like she was . . . I couldn’t tell. I had trained myself to read visual cues from people I knew well, so that I could tell what they were feeling, but someone like Brooke was illegible to me.

What crawled up your ass?" "That fucking murderous Barbie

Then one magical day, the actress and fitness instructor Jane Fonda wore a pair of Reeboks in her popular series of aerobics videos—and sales went crazy! First in the women’s market but then the men wanted in on the action too. In five years, they went from $9 million in sales to almost $900 million. It’s funny how even in the days before social media, influencers could still make a difference for your business. What’s old is new again.

I scuttled across the screen like Prufrock's crab. I was very clearly the one who was going to grow up to be a serial killer, or to keep dozens and dozens of cats. Instead, I got funny.

I reached up to remove the elastic hair-tie, unwinding my standard bun until my hair fell around my shoulders in dark waves. I scrunched my hands in it at my scalp, shaking it out to try to get it to lose the kinks from being wound up so long. I still had that funny, half-painful feeling around my temples of my hair being pulled back. Maybe I should wear it down more. I might be giving myself headaches with this style. "So it's down to about..." I started to gesture, then realized I was about to point to just below my breasts. "Anyway. The more you know." Sam was still looking at my hair, his gaze traveling to the ends before he, too, seemed to realize that he was basically also now staring at my breasts. He focused instead on some point at the crown of my head, clearing his throat. "It's pretty," he said. "You have very pretty hair." Under my shirt, my nipples were tight and almost painful against the thin fabric of my bra. I'd never been more grateful for the thick screen-printed image of Jim Carrey's Riddler, because it hopefully did a good job of hiding this reaction.

First of all, I have no claim to Sam, nor do I want one. Second, you know that the greatest trick the patriarchy ever pulled was pitting women against each other." I meant every word. At the same time, it did give me a funny feeling, learning more about Sam. I didn't know why. Maybe it just felt strange, having to acknowledge that he was a real person with a past and a present and a life beyond the little snippets I observed and pretended I could draw conclusions about. It was the way I'd felt when I saw him hug Barbara at the party. It had been so clear in that moment, that these people all had relationships with each other, inside jokes and histories and real feelings. And if I normally felt like a fish out of water at most parties, suddenly I felt like the biggest bottom dweller who shriveled from any exposure to daylight. Sam looked like he gave great hugs, and I'd wanted one so bad. Disgusting.

I like being rough with you, Lucille, as you already know by now. And after getting to know you, I know you like it, too. I also know that I’ve terrorized the crap out of you and stepped over the line many times. But now that you’ve let me in, I need you to feel safe with me.” “Safe with you…” she says with a nice dollop of sarcasm. “Coming from my psychopathic stalker.” “The irony isn’t lost on me.

There are the things that should go without saying. Throw away the milk after it’s chunky and smelly; run when something with teeth bigger than your forearms looks at you the wrong way. Maybe don’t keep a serial killer locked up in your parents’ bedroom.

Was Vonnegut there?” “Yes, and he thinks it’s all very funny.

The most convicted serial killers." Sanjay said. "because the best police. Like Bones.

Not too many people in life made Jaworski feel small in any way, but Carlo’s shoulders were almost twice as wide as those of the 6’6”, 240-pound hitman in the driver’s seat. Jaworski’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror to confirm this fact. Carlo’s hulking figure filled half the back seat, the yellow light glinting in the rear windshield to light his round head from the back. He was a big slab of muscle wrapped in a layer of smooth fat and mostly hairless flesh. In a strange way, he looked like a baby, Jaworski thought, his skin folding funny at his wrists like a newborn. A gigantic, serial killing baby.

Sophia raised an eyebrow at her. "Don't ever tell a psychologist about your dreams. They sound like they belong to a serial killer in the making.

We are all serial killers, killing most of the ideas which cross our minds, because beginning of every idea is either too funny or absurd for being given a second thought. Don't fall into this trap, killing of an idea is also a death to self-improvement; Give life to every idea - it should be owned, well-thought-of & tried.

It's funny when you decide you don't like someone. I am the kind of person who, if my feelings are unrequited, can completely detach from someone emotionally if I simply put my mind to it. That's why I'm always saying I would be a great serial murderer.