Skills Funny Quotes

Halt regarded him. He loved Horace like a younger brother. Even like a second son, after Will. He admired his skill with a sword and his courage in battle. But sometimes, just sometimes, he felt an overwhelming desire to ram the young warrior's head against a convenient tree. "You have no sense of drama or symbolism, do you?" he asked. "Huh?" replied Horace, not quite understanding. Halt looked around for a convenient tree. Luckily for Horace, there were none in sight.

The manlier you are, the harder it is to understand what a woman wants: there is not a hint of female brain in you.

My negotiation skills are are on par with George Bush's reading ability. And just like Dubya, every time I've tried to put forth an effort, I am reminded that my only true strength lies in drinking.

A man's love for a woman is not defined by his availability in bed, but by every ingredient he adds to improve the taste of the relationship.

Are you okay with what we ordered?” Angeline asked him. “You didn’t pipe up with any requests.” Neil shook his head, face stoic. He kept his dark hair in a painfully short and efficient haircut. It was the kind of no-nonsense thing the Alchemists would’ve loved. “I can’t waste time quibbling over trivial things like pepperoni and mushrooms. If you’d gone to my school in Devonshire, you’d understand. For one of my sophomore classes, they left us alone on the moors to fend for ourselves and learn survival skills. Spend three days eating twigs and heather, and you’ll learn not to argue about any food coming your way.” Angeline and Jill cooed as though that was the most rugged, manly thing they’d ever heard. Eddie wore an expression that reflected what I felt, puzzling over whether this guy was as serious as he seemed or just some genius with swoon-worthy lines.

Men often laugh with surprise when they find women funny, as though it’s a skill we’re not expected to possess.

Buck is a mammoth, like a yeti. A huge perverted, hairy whore of a yeti. According to the sportscasters, Buck's an excellent hockey player. I'd agree, based on his yearly salary alone. No one gets much money for sucking, not even extremely skilled prostitutes.

Women got that feeling about him, that funny one we all get when we know something isn't right, but we don't know how to politely extricate ourselves from the situation without escalating the threat of violence or harassment. That is not a skill women are taught, the same way men are not taught that it is okay to leave a woman alone if what she wants is to be left alone.

I fixed your car," he said, tossing the keys from a jade dish on the little maple end table. I palmed them and eyed him speculatively. "You fixed my car?" "I have walked the earth for more than a century. I managed to pick up some skills along the way," he said, before reluctantly adding, "and one of them is finding skilled mechanics." I smirked, leaning against the wall. "You almost had me there." "I supervised," he insisted.

By God, you Assassins are a cheery bunch, eh? All frowns and furrowed brows.” He glared at me. “Captain Kenway. You have remarkable skill.” “Ah, thanks, mate. It comes natural.

It is usually unbearably painful to read a book by an author who knows way less than you do, unless the book is a novel.

Marketing is so powerful that it can make even an extremely untalented musician a one-hundred-hits wonder.

It's good that you can be horrid when neccesary. It's a useful skill." She leaned on her elbow, settling her chin onto her hand. "Funny, my brother never seemed to think so.

That’s the funny thing about guns; even untrained hands can feel powerful using them. But take that gun away and you’re left with nothing but a coward whose only skill is how to blindly pull a trigger.

The funny thing about almost-dying is that afterward everyone expects you to jump on the happy train and take time to chase butterflies through grassy fields or see rainbows in puddles of oil on the highway. It’s a miracle, they’ll say with an expectant look, as if you’ve been given a big old gift and you better not disappoint Grandma by pulling a face when you unwrap the box and find a lumpy, misshapen sweater. That’s what life is, pretty much: full of holes and tangles and ways to get stuck. Uncomfortable and itchy. A present you never asked for, never wanted, never chose. A present you’re supposed to be excited to wear, day after day, even when you’d rather stay in bed and do nothing. The truth is this: it doesn’t take any skill to almost-die, or to almost-live, either.

The kidney was removed with great skill. We have an image of the kidney taken from that broadcast. Viewers are advised that the following image is quite graphic, and-" "I am getting so sick of looking at this kidney," I said. "It's a farce," Jazza replied. "They act like they're shocked and horrified, and then they show it off twenty times a day." "Have you seen the singing kidney video?" I asked. "Ugh. No." "It's really funny. You should watch it.

Halt regarded him. He loved Horace like a younger brother. Even like a second son, after will. He admired his skill with a sword and his courage in battle. But sometimes, just sometimes, he felt an overwhelming desire to ram the young warrior's head against a convenient tree.

...Ty grabbed my phone and threatened to tell Otter that I liked being spanked during sex. This proceeded to lead up on a long tangent where I had to have him explain to me how he knows about stuff like people getting spanked during sex. He said he might have heard it mentioned while watching MSNBC. I told him he was grounded from watching the news channels for a week. That's where this whole sidebar should have ended, but then I was forced to explain S & M and bondage to my little brother, who was persistent on the topic, and who kept staring at me with mounting horror when I finally /did/ explain, and I realized I had maybe gone too far, and we had to spend the next five minutes swearing to God that I had never nor would I ever attempt to do anything like that. He might now be the only nine-year-old who has heard the terms "cock ring" and "fisting". My parenting skills are unparalleled.

You could get a real job," he said with a little smile. "Fuck that," I said emphatically. "Anyway, doing what? I've got a high school diploma from years ago and no employment history whatsoever. If I got an interview for McDonald's, what am I supposed to tell them? My idea of interpersonal skills is taking two dicks at the same time.

... reading was hardly as practical a skill as being able to handle a dagger or use Allomancy?

We need you to go out there and cover for us while we search for whoever's bugging us," Amy said. "Whoever it is, he or she is probably nearby." "All you have to do is keep talking. We've thought a lot about this, and we think you have the necessary skills," Dan said. "Very funny, Dan-o. But true. When it comes to nonstop chat, I'm the champ," Nellie agreed. Nellie turned off the shower and they all returned to the main room. "That pool is so fine," she said, as if she'd never been interrupted. "I met this couple from Scotland, and I was all, whoa, you have some delish smoked salmon in your excellent country...." Amy raised the window carefully, not making a sound. She and Dan quietly climbed out. "--and they were all, 'Aye, lassie, we dew, ye ken our bonny fish, ye dew!'" Nellie said in a terrible Scottish accent. "So I said, 'You know what ye lads and lassies need in Scotland? Bagels! To go with!' 'Whoa,' they said, 'lassie, ye canna be serious, that is one orrrig-in-al guid idea....'" "Okay, you can stop now." "Man, that's guid news," Nellie said. "This lassie is about to pass out.

First of all, I was running scams when you were at keggers at Kappa Kappa Werewolf. You don’t know much about me but I am way smarter than Gabriel was. I’m a consummate liar. I can street fight with the best of them and I can cheat at cards like nobody’s business. This on top of my computer skills. I may not howl at the moon and have superhuman strength but I can hold my own.

No, Roger had not seen the funny side. But there had been a moment when, after looking at his watch, he had thought: I can remember when Christmas morning would start at about half past ten with a glass of Buck's Fizz in bed. Now it begins at half past five, with a test of my fine motor skills and ability to read Korean.

Sometimes it seemed that he'd said six or eight funny things in his life, and that what passed for his sense of humor would always depend on a skillful recycling of old material, over and over again.

A TV show comprises many departments—Costumes, Props, Talent, Graphics, Set Dressing, Transportation. Everyone in every department wants to show off their skills and contribute creatively to the show, which is a blessing. You’re grateful to work with people who are talented and enthusiastic about their jobs. You would think that as a producer, your job would be to churn up creativity, but mostly your job is to police enthusiasm. You may have an occasion where the script calls for a bran muffin on a white plate and the Props Department shows up with a bran cake in the shape of Santa Claus sitting on a silver platter that says “Welcome to Denmark.” “We just thought it would be funny.” And you have to find a polite way to explain that the character is Jewish, so her eating Santa’s face might have negative connotations, and the silver tray, while beautiful, is giving a weird glare on camera and maybe let’s go with the bran muffin on the white plate. And then sometimes Actors have what they call “ideas.” Usually it involves them talking more, or, in the case of more experienced actors, sitting more. When Actors have ideas it’s very important to get to the core reason behind their idea.

I'm so proud of you, and so amused at your discomfort in being recognized for you dedication and skill." "Amused? Here's another funny for you. You're getting a medal, too." He dropped her hand. "What? I'm a civilian, as you continually remind me." "The Civilian Medal of Merit, and they don't given them out like candy, pal, especially to shady characters." "I don't think it's appropriate." She loved it, just loved when he turned all dignified. "Oh, it is, and how I get to be amused. You're the one who started sticking his nose in, then his whole body. Now you're going to have to stand up there on Wednesday afternoon - fourteen hundred, so put that in your book - and take what you get. And I'm pretty damn proud of you, too, so suck it up.

His brain cells had sunk to an area of his body that didn´t help his vocabulary skills.

The Comedy Equation: An ordinary guy or gal struggling against insurmountable odds without many of the required skills and tools with which to win yet never giving up hope.

Lucien had never prayed before, never imagined that there might be a deity listening who would be interested in what he had to say, so his supplication skills were a tad rusty. But now Lucien prayed. Please don’t take her from me just as I’ve found her. If you do, I’ll come for your ass. Any gods listening would do well to heed him. Lucien never made a promise that he couldn’t keep.

Using love as a bait and replacing respect with ego-pampering makes you a skillful social animal; unfortunately, all kinds of animals are less evolved than human beings. Would you like to evolve?

What’s SQ?” asked Evan. “Sexual Quotient.” “What’s that?” “Basically, it’s your odds of getting laid. Everyone has an SQ. just like everyone has an IQ.” “I’ve never heard that term before.” “That’s because I made it up.” “That figures. Finally applying your actuarial skills to what really matters, eh?

Funny thing about the army, they always promise to teach you “marketable skills,” but they never mention that, by far, there’s nothing more marketable than knowing how to kill some people while keeping others from being killed.

ROSA MET ME at the door with a shotgun. Strictly speaking, not aimed at me, but you don’t really have to aim a sawed-off shotgun. She swung it toward me. “You, get in there.” She turned her attention to the crowd. “The rest of you will take a number and have a seat.” Her paperwork skills might have been lousy, but her personal touch was something I aspired to.

... something in the back of her mind whispered that there was no help coming and if she ran out of money, she had no real way to earn more. Her only skills were embroidery and weeding gardens. I suppose I could sell my body, but I'm not sure how one does that, either. It seemed like it would be a lot more complicated than getting a seat on a coach. Dis you approach people, or did they approach you, and how did you start a conversation that ended in money for sex? Was there an etiquette? This was not the sort of thing one was taught at convents. It was easier just to sleep in the coaches.

Brüks digested that. “Well, if it was supposed to be some kind of compliment, her delivery needs work. You’d think someone with all that brainpower would be able to cobble together a few social skills.” “Funny thing”—Moore’s voice was expressionless—“Sengupta couldn’t figure out how someone with all your interpersonal skills could be so shitty at math.

Elisandra read while I tried my hand at embroidering a pillowcase that she lent me. The results were execrable. I had no skill with a needle, and no desire to learn, either. "I wouldn't shame a dog by laying this upon his bed," I remarked, showing Elisandra my efforts. She actually smiled. "I like it," she said. "I'll put it on one of my pillows." "Bryan won't let you sleep in the same bed with him if you bring this as your dowry," I said with an attempt at humor. She bent her head back over her book. "Then stitch me another.

One person may look and only see a tree, whereas others may look and see a tree with leaves.

People tend to spend so much time focusing on what they feel they can't do, rather examining the true potential of what they can.

You were going to let me drown!" he protested, pushing us off again "Yes, in knee deep water. It would take some skill, but I believe in you

What makes a good teacher today is what has always made a good teacher: command of a subject, a critical mind, a demanding nature, and an ability to inspire students to pursue knowledge for some end beyond mere financial rewards. A good teacher might be entertaining and funny, but shouldn’t set out to be. A good teacher may have broad experience with and skills using technology, but the mere possession of such experience and skills doesn’t make one a good teacher.

Walking out of an A level paper isn't funny." "It's not that I'm laughing at." "So what is it?" "No one ever tells you when you're doing all that course work and revision and timed essays and study skills that it's an option." "But it isn't an option." "It is, because I just took it.

Women got that feeling about him, that funny one we all get when we know something isn’t right, but we don’t know how to politely extricate ourselves from the situation without escalating the threat of violence or harassment. That is not a skill women are taught, the same way men are not taught that it is okay to leave a woman alone if what she wants is to be left alone.

The size doesn’t matter.” The imp in her, the one that had obviously heard her sister one too many times, retorted, “Funny, I was always told by the girls that it’s all about the size. The bigger, the better.” While her own words didn’t make her blush, his reply did. “I assure you, I have more than enough size to please you, little kitten. And my oral skills are to scream for.

While waiting for Carl Vespa to arrive, Grace started picking up the bedroom. Jack, she knew, was a great husband and father. He was smart, funny, loving, caring, and devoted. To counter that, God had blessed him with the organization skills of a citrus beverage. He was, in sum, a slob. Nagging him about it—and Grace had tried—did no good. So she stopped. If living happily was about compromise, this seemed to her like a pretty good one to make. Grace

This rain is crazy, huh?" "Yeah. Hope your ark-building skills are decent, or we could be in trouble." "We don't need an ark. I have some inflatable pool lounges. They have cup holders." "Fancy." "No expense spared to save my woman from the watery apocalypse." "Nothing says 'I love you' more than quality recreational inflatables." He makes a noise. "Now I have visions of that inflatable sheep Avery bought for his pool." "We said we'd never discuss that.

Stand,' he says against my lips. 'Xaden.' My heart thunders. 'I fucking need you, Violet. Right now. And I don't need anyone, so I'm not quite sure how to handle this feeling, but I'm giving it my best. And if you don't want this tonight, that's fine, but I'm going to need you to walk out that door right now, because if you don't, I'm going to have you naked on your back in the next two minutes.' The intensity in his eyes and the vehemence of his words should frighten me, but they don't. Even if this man loses every ounce of his self-control, I know he'll never hurt me. Not with his body, at least. 'Walk away or stay, but either way, I need you to stand up,' he begs. 'I think two minutes might be overestimating your skills with a corset.' I glance down at my armour. He grins and lifts me from his lap. My feet hit the floor. 'I'm timing you.' 'Is that-' 'One. Two.' I hold up my fingers. 'Three.' He's on his feet in a heartbeat, and then his mouth is on mine, and I stop counting.

Kids spend hours each day engaging with ideas and one another through screens—but rarely do they have an opportunity to truly hone their interpersonal communication skills. Admittedly, teenage awkwardness and nerves play a role in difficult conversations. But students’ reliance on screens for communication is detracting—and distracting—from their engagement in real-time talk. It might sound like a funny question, but we need to ask ourselves: Is there any 21st-century skill more important than being able to sustain confident, coherent conversation?

Luc: After hundreds of years I have found the only other terrible prospect who understands me. She's brave and funny, but she thinks she's only valued for what she can do instead of who she is. After a dramatic life event she's convinced I don't want her. I have no useful skills to benefit her, and a job that constantly disrupts my life. I'm also going to outlive her by a hundred years. Elle: Yeah, that's pretty terrible. Luc: Maybe even 200 years. Elle: Don't rub it in. You can join the club. The San Francisco chapter of Terrible Prospects International.

It wasn’t until high school, when I took my first creative writing class, that I began to sense trouble. I realized, with shock, that I wasn’t good at creative writing. I was good at grammar and arguing, at remembering things people said, and at making stressful situations seem funny. But it turned out these weren’t the skills you needed in order to invent quirky people and give them arcs of desire. I already had my hands full writing about the people I actually knew, and all the things they said. That was what I needed writing for. Now I had to invent extra people and think of things for them to say?

Even in the warm faelight of the foyer, the gown glittered and gleamed like a fresh-cut jewel. We had taken my gown from Starfall and refashioned it, adding sheer silk panels to the back shoulders, the glittering material like woven starlight as it flowed behind me in lieu of a veil or cape. If Rhysand was Night Triumphant, I was the star that only glowed thanks to his darkness, the light only visible because of him. I scowled up the stairs. That is, if he bothered to show up on time. My hair, Nuala had swept into an ornate, elegant arc across my head, and in front of it... I caught Cassian glancing at me for the third time in less than a minute and demanded, 'What?' His lips twitched at the corners. 'You just look so...' 'Here we go,' Mor muttered from where she picked at her red-tinted nails against the stair banister. Rings glinted at every knuckle, on every finger; stacks of bracelets tinkled against each other on either wrist. 'Official,' Cassian said with an incredulous look in her direction. He waved a Siphon-topped hand to me. 'Fancy.' 'Over five hundred years old,' Mor said, shaking her head sadly, 'a skilled warrior and general, famous throughout territories, and complementing ladies is still something he finds next to impossible. Remind me why we bring you on diplomatic meetings?' Azriel, wreathed in shadows by the front door, chuckled quietly. Cassian shot him a glare. 'I don't see you spouting poetry, brother.' Azriel crossed his arms, still smiling faintly. 'I don't need to resort to it.

The funny thing about almost-dying is that afterward everyone expects you to jump on the happy train and take time to chase butterflies through grassy fields or see rainbows in puddles of oil on the highway. It’s a miracle, they’ll say with an expectant look, as if you’ve been given a big old gift and you better not disappoint Grandma by pulling a face when you unwrap the box and find a lumpy, misshapen sweater. That’s what life is, pretty much: full of holes and tangles and ways to get stuck. Uncomfortable and itchy. A present you never asked for, never wanted, never chose. A present you’re supposed to be excited to wear, day after day, even when you’d rather stay in bed and do nothing. The truth is this: it doesn’t take any skill to almost-die, or to almost-live, either.

Thank you, Clara,” I say. “How did you get the key?” “Dumb luck,” she says. “Those twins with the funny names dropped it just a few feet away from me.” “They… dropped it?” Those guys are the most skilled sleight-of-hand tricksters I’ve ever seen. Hard to imagine either of them dropping anything. “Yeah, they were juggling a bunch of things between them as they walked. The key just fell and they didn’t notice.” “But you did.” “Sure.” “How did you know it was the key to our police car?” She lifts the key tag to show me. It’s a clear plastic holder that’s probably meant for pictures. This one frames a piece of paper with a note scrawled in little-kid block letters: “Penryn’s police car—Super Secret.” If I ever see the twins again, it looks like I owe them a zombie-girl mud fight.

When one thinks of 'matrices' and 'codes' it is sometimes helpful to bear these figures in mind. The matrix is the pattern before you, representing the ensemble of permissible moves. The code which governs the matrix can be put into simple mathematical equations which contain the essence of the pattern in a compressed, 'coded' form; or it can be expressed by the word 'diagonals'. The code is the fixed, invariable factor in a skill or habit; the matrix its variable aspect. The two words do not refer to different entities, they refer to different aspects of the same activity. When you sit in front of the chessboard your code is the rule of the game determining which moves are permitted, your matrix is the total of possible choices before you. Lastly, the choice of the actual move among the variety of permissible moves is a matter of strategy, guided by the lie of the land-the 'environment' of other chessmen on the board. We have seen that comic effects are produced by the sudden clash of incompatible matrices: to the experienced chess player a rook moving bishopwise is decidedly 'funny'.

He needs to be talked to." "This is funny, but I know how to talk, too." Brian swore under his breath. "He prefers singing." "Excuse me?" "I said,he prefers singing." "Oh." Keeley tucked her tongue in her cheek. "Any particular tune? Wait, let me guess. Finnegan's Wake?" Brian''s steely-eyed stare had her laughing until she had to lean weakly against the gelding.The horse responded by twisting his head and trying to sniff her pockets for apples. "It's a quick tune," Brian said coolly, "and he likes hearing his name." "I know the chorus." Gamely Keeley struggled to swallow another giggle. "But I'm not sure I know all the words.There are several verses as I recall." "Do the best you can," he muttered and strode off.His lips twitched as he heard her launch into the song about the Dubliner who had a tippling way. When he reached Betty's box, he shook his head. "I should've known. If there's not a Grant one place, there's a Grant in another until you're tripping over them." Travis gave Betty a last pat on the shoulder. "Is that Keeley I hear singing?" "She's being sarcastic, but as long as the job's done. She's dug in her heels about grooming Finnegan." "She comes by it naturally.The hard head as well as the skill." "Never had so many owners breathing down my neck.We don't need them, do we, darling?" Brian laid his hands on Beetty's cheek, and she shook her head, then nibbled his hair. "Damn horse has a crush on you." "She may be your lady, sir, but she's my own true love.Aren't you beautiful, my heart?" He stroked, sliding into the Gaelic that had Betty's ears pricked and her body shifting restlessly. "She likes being excited before a race," Brian murmured. "What do you call it-pumped up like your American football players.Which is a sport that eludes me altogether as they're gathered into circles discussing things most of the time instead of getting on with it." "I heard you won the pool on last Monday nights game," Travis commented. "Betting's the only thing about your football I do understand." Brian gathered her reins. "I'll walk her around a bit before we take her down. She likes to parade.You and your missus will want to stay close to the winner's circle." Travis grinned at him. "We'll be watching from the rail." "Let's go show off." Brian led Betty out.

Hiya, cutie! How was your first day of school?" She pops the oven shut with her hip. He shakes his head and pulls up a bar stool next to Rayna, who's sitting at the counter painting her nails the color of a red snapper. "This won't work. I don't know what I'm doing," he says. "Sweet pea, what happened? Can't be that bad." He nods. "It is. I knocked Emma unconscious." Rachel spits the wine back in her glass. "Oh, sweetie, uh...that sort of thing's been frowned upon for years now." "Good. You owed her one," Rayna snickers. "She shoved him at the beach," she explains to Rachel. "Oh?" Rachel says. "That how she got your attention?" "She didn't shove me; she tripped into me," he says. "And I didn't knock her out on purpose. She ran from me, so I chased her and-" Rachel holds up her hand. "Okay. Stop right there. Are the cops coming by? You know that makes me nervous." "No," Galen says, rolling his eyes. If the cops haven't found Rachel by now, they're not going to. Besides, after all this time, the cops wouldn't still be looking. And the other people who want to find her think she's dead. "Okay, good. Now, back up there, sweet pea. Why did she run from you?" "A misunderstanding." Rachel clasps her hands together. "I know, sweet pea. I do. But in order for me to help you, I need to know the specifics. Us girls are tricky creatures." He runs a hand through his hair. "Tell me about it. First she's being nice and cooperative, and then she's yelling in my face." Rayna gasps. "She yelled at you?" She slams the polish bottle on the counter and points at Rachel. "I want you to be my mother, too. I want to be enrolled in school." "No way. You step one foot outside this house, and I'll arrest you myself," Galen says. "And don't even think about getting in the water with that human paint on your fingers." "Don't worry. I'm not getting in the water at all." Galen opens his mouth to contradict that, to tell her to go home tomorrow and stay there, but then he sees her exasperated expression. He grins. "He found you." Rayna crosses her arms and nods. "Why can't he just leave me alone? And why do you think it's so funny? You're my brother! You're supposed to protect me!" He laughs. "From Toraf? Why would I do that?" She shakes her head. "I was trying to catch some fish for Rachel, and I sensed him in the water. Close. I got out as fast as I could, but probably he knows that's what I did. How does he always find me?" "Oops," Rachel says. They both turn to her. She smiles apologetically at Rayna. "I didn't realize you two were at odds. He showed up on the back porch looking for you this morning and...I invited him to dinner. Sorry." As Galen says, "Rachel, what if someone sees him?" Rayna is saying, "No. No, no, no, he is not coming to dinner." Rachel clears her throat and nods behind them. "Rayna, that's very hurtful. After all we've been through," Toraf says. Rayna bristles on the stool, growling at the sound of his voice. She sends an icy glare to Rachel, who pretends not to notice as she squeezes a lemon slice over the fillets. Galen hops down and greets his friend with a strong punch to the arm. "Hey there, tadpole. I see you found a pair of my swimming trunks. Good to see your tracking skills are still intact after the accident and all." Toraf stares at Rayna's back. "Accident, yes. Next time, I'll keep my eyes open when I kiss her. That way, I won't accidentally bust my nose on a rock again. Foolish me, right?" Galen grins.

It’s not all about hitting. There’s an art to it. A talent. You need power but also smarts. When to hit and where. You have to outthink your opponent. It’s not all about size. Determination and experience play a part.” “Like in business,” she said. “The skill set translates.” She wrinkled her nose. “Doesn’t it hurt when you get hit?” “Some. But boxing is what I knew. Without it, I would have just been some kid on the streets.” “You’re saying hitting people kept you from being bad?” “Something like that. Put down your glass.” She set it on the desk. He did the same, then stepped in front of her. “Hit me,” he said. She tucked both hands behind her back. “I couldn’t.” The amusement was back. “Do you actually think you can hurt me?” She eyed his broad chest. “Probably not. And I might hurt myself.” He shrugged out of his suit jacket, then unfastened his tie. In one of those easy, sexy gestures, he pulled it free of his collar and tossed it over a chair. “Raise your hands and make a fist,” he said. “Thumbs out.” Feeling a little foolish, she did as he requested. He stood in front of her again, this time angled, his left side toward her. “Hit me,” he said. “Put your weight behind it. You can’t hurt me.” “Are you challenging me?” He grinned. “Think you can take me?” Not on her best day, but she was willing to make the effort. She punched him in the arm. Not hard, but not lightly. He frowned. “Anytime now.” “Funny.” “Try again. This time hit me like you mean it or I’ll call you a girl.” “I am a girl.” She punched harder this time and felt the impact back to her shoulder. Duncan didn’t even blink. “Maybe I’d do better at tennis,” she murmured. “It’s all about knowing what to do.” He moved behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. “You want to bend your knees and keep your chin down. As you start the punch, think about a corkscrew.” He demonstrated in slow motion. “That will give you power,” he said. “It’s a jab. A good jab can make a boxer’s career. Lean into the punch.” She was sure his words were making sense, but it was difficult to think with him standing so close. She was aware of his body just inches from hers, of the strength and heat he radiated. The need to simply relax into his arms was powerful. Still, she did her best to pay attention, and when he stepped in front of her again so she could demonstrate, she did her best to remember what he’d said. This time, she felt the impact all the way up her arm. There was a jarring sensation, but also the knowledge that she’d hit a lot harder. “Did I bruise you?” she asked, almost hoping he would say yes, or at least rub his arm. “No, but that was better. Did you feel the difference?” “Yes, but I still wouldn’t want to be a boxer.” “Probably for the best. You’d get your nose broken.” She dropped her arms to her sides. “I wouldn’t want that.” She leaned closer. “Have you had your nose broken?” “A couple of times.” She peered at his handsome face. “I can’t tell.” “I was lucky.” She put her hand on his chin to turn his head. He looked away, giving her a view of his profile. There was a small bump on his nose. Nothing she would have noticed. “You couldn’t just play tennis?” she asked. He laughed, then captured her hand in his and faced her. They were standing close together, his fingers rubbing hers. She shivered slightly, but not from cold. His eyes darkened as he seemed to loom over her. His gaze dropped to her mouth. He swallowed. “Annie.” The word was more breath than sound. She heard the wanting in his voice and felt an answering hunger burning inside her. There were a thousand reasons she should run and not a single reason to stay. She knew that she was the one at risk, knew that he wasn’t looking for anything permanent. But the temptation was too great. Being around Duncan was the best part of her day.

Any idiot can point out a problem. So, bosses do.

Shit Can Happen" Bitch Yeah... [1] - Shit can happen [8X] [Kon Artis] Yo, yo, huh, yo, yo, yo That's right motherfuckers we back Same slanging, orangatangin, wilding out on hoodrats They say I act like I'm too famous to say hi And tell 'em what my name is but really I'm still nameless... You niggas don't get it yet do you Dealing out platinum or flop I still put it through you Wit a luger that'll spit fire And hit higher than a pitch by a bitch like Mariah You think for one second since we got a deal That we won't deal wit you in front of St Andrew's still? You gay rappers better learn that I won't stop until I see 'em turn back If you don't slow that roll you got You gonna see these Runyan Ave. niggas that really need some Prozac For' sure' that, ask the others But gator lay you down next to your mother's mother's grandmother [Kuniva] You know I'm feeling real rowdy tonight Ready to fight and half the niggas I give dap to I don't even like The same cat who never gave a damn about your name I gives a fuck about it like the next selling Clippers' game I kill you in ways you couldn't even fathom You and your madame, it's really unexplainable how I have 'em Who call theyself screaming about a challenge Nigga we got a gift while you barely making it off mere talent My skills are deeply embedded even your hoe said it She was knock kneed I fucked her now she's bow legged In the middle of rappin I drop the mic And have a stare down and jump in the crowd and start scrappin Kuniva and Kon Artis my nigga we get it cracking While the paramedics pick you up we on the side laughing [HOOK: 1- in background] [Kon Artis] Now this aint funny so don't you dare laugh Shit can happen in him and yo' ass You can be touched don't think you can't Cause niggas aint fucking around no more man [repeat] [Swifty McVay]

AIG’s Financial Products subsidiary (AIG FP), where its mammoth CDS business was housed, managed to get itself regulated by the Office of Thrift Supervision (OTS) because the corporate parent company had acquired a few small savings banks. Savings banks? Aren’t those the stodgy thrift institutions on the corner that take savings deposits and grant mortgages to homeowners? Seems like a funny place to lodge one of the world’s largest derivatives operations. Well, AIG FP was not actually lodged there, but merely lodged there for regulatory purposes. Call it skillful regulatory shopping.

The issue of who will throw the garbage won’t be so trivial when no one is throwing it away, and it starts to stink. When the plates pile up in the kitchen sink, or when the bathroom is grimy and the shampoo ran out. No, it won’t be funny then.

Sarcastic Susan: Susan’s the master of double meanings. When she asks a question or gives a comment, the thick sarcastic tone usually causes you to doubt how she wants you to answer. Susan thinks she’s funny because of her sarcastic “wit” but her negative commentary is very wearing. In meetings, she’s free with inflection-laden suggestions, usually at the expense of another. When she’s confronted about her comments, she always denies she said anything wrong. And let’s face it, technically, the words were fine; it was the sarcasm suffocating them that stopped productive communication.

Gary’s love of practical jokes was legendary. Not his skill in executing them, just his love of them. Before discovering magic, his idea of a great joke was placing a flaming bag of dog poop on someone’s doorstep. After discovering magic, he graduated to transporting the flaming bag of dog poop into the house. Thus, whenever something happened that was simultaneously inexplicable and not at all funny, all eyes turned to him.

THE SEVEN TRAITS OF HIGHLY SUCCESSFUL COMEDY PEOPLE 1 Self-Doubt 2 Excellent Procrastination Skills 3 Fear of the Unknown 4 Laziness 5 Fear of Failure 6 Poor Planning 7 A Need to Express Something to the World

Leon went to show his Coven insignia to prove he was a member but had a wicked thought slither into his brain. A wildly crazy smile coiled on his lips as he skillfully kept the silver emblem from sight. He thumbed back at the door. “You know how girls are. Make one joke about the size of their thighs, and it’s out the door with you.

If you have the right heart, and the passion for taking care of people, that’s the most important thing you need. Caring is the most important part of care. Sounds funny, but all the other skills can be learned. But it’s hard to train someone to care.

Robbie and I disagreed about guns. He believed that owning one was his right as an American, which he must’ve picked up when the Panthers out in Oakland were arming themselves. That was screamingly funny when I thought about it: a black man, one who’d been locked up twice, clinging to the Second Amendment. The strongest gun laws the country had ever passed were to prevent the men who’d inspired him, the Oakland Panthers, from having guns. If he’d been a little more intentional about his stance, it would have been subversive. But he wasn’t. He owned a gun because he liked them, and thought he was entitled to do so. Pop raised me to believe that guns weren’t for civilians. I think that stance was too soft; I think he shouldn’t have taught us to shoot. It wasn’t a beneficial skill, or even a neutral one. It was knowledge that had attracted and bred the violence in my life.

To be a great warrior is not enough. Flesh and blood, however skilled, can be destroyed... you must be more than just a man in minds of your opponents.

That’s so funny. Personally, I, too, have always found my swagger coach to be more skilled at providing treatment than an accredited medical professional.” Nicole,

Your mother can’t hear you here.” “Distance is no match for my mother’s eavesdropping and mind-reading skills.” “I had steel anti-mind-reading plates installed this week. Specially designed to be Marilyn-proof. Also sounds an alarm if she gets within two hundred yards of the building, and I sent the guards downstairs to ninja training. You’re safe.

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,

Why waste the space on a stack of half-read books and periodicals, when you could turn your nightstand into a tactical toolbox?

Bill Door had carefully ensured a local reputation as the worst bowman in the entire history of toxophily; it had never occurred to anyone that putting arrows through the hats of bystanders behind him must logically take a lot more skill than merely sending them through a quite large target a mere fifty yards away. It was amazing how many friends you could make by being bad at things, provided you were bad enough to be funny.

As a professional speaker, my facial expressions are essential for effectively telling stories, engaging audiences, fostering involvement, and connecting on a personal level. One day I decided to get Botox in my forehead to erase a few wrinkles and signs of aging. Much to my surprise and disappointment, I could no longer raise my eyebrows. My face was stuck in a heavy-browed expression, which is the polar-opposite of my joyful spirit and enthusiastic nature. It makes a funny story, but it taught me that authenticity wins over vanity any day!

It's true; I have a skill and it's... it has not related to acting, it's not related to auditions, it's not related to studios, not related to public whim. It's whether I'm funny or not and whether I can entertain people.

When I was a young and aspiring speaker, I sought mentorship from a man who had been a Dale Carnegie trainer for decades. Eagerly wanting to know how to improve my stage presence and build my career, I contacted Dr. Joe Carnley in Destin, Florida and invited him out to lunch. After we placed our order at the Harbor Docks Restaurant, he dove right in and gave me some of the best advice of my life. He said, “Susan, you have to make them laugh! When they leave your presentations, you want them to feel better and leave happier than when they came in. Help them enjoy your time together.” He continued to describe the magical power that humor has over the human spirit. When we craft humor into our speeches, we can take our audiences on a journey they will never forget. Immediately after our delightful lunch ended, I drove straight to a Books-a-Million store and headed for the humor section. Since I was not a particularly funny person, I needed all the help I could get. For over an hour I stood there reading titles, flipping through funny books, and enjoying outrageous belly laughs, giggles, and snorts. People were staring, and probably thinking, “I want what she is having!” The humor section was one of the smallest in the entire bookstore, but it may well have been the most important. When I turned around, I noticed the opposite aisle was the “Self-Improvement” section. It ran half the length of the store and displayed hundreds of books. At that cathartic moment, I had a huge "Ah-Ha" moment.

Follow your heart, but take your brain with you!" After buying an armload of funny books filled with clean jokes, one-liners, and speech openers, I discovered how truly "spot-on" Joe had been. Inserting humorous zingers throughout my programs has worked like a charm and improved my presentation skills.

Expand Your Repertoire . . . Professional humorists and comedians, like Jeanie Robertson, maintain joke files filled with assorted topics, anecdotes, and titles. When something outrageously funny happens, she makes a note of it, puts it away, and saves it for the day she can integrate it into her hilarious presentations.

Find Your Funny Bone . . . Life provides plenty of material for things for you to laugh at. Seek irony, coincidence, and the abundance of simple humor in life’s little absurdities.

Watch, Listen, & Learn . . . Broaden your sense of humor by watching funny movies and shows, reading funny books, visiting live comedy shows, or enjoying YouTube clips.

So, what if you are not naturally funny? Don’t get discouraged. Do your research, gather ideas, and find your fun. Seek ways to laugh. Not only will doing this provide you with new material for making a great first impression, but laughter will bring you personal delight and satisfaction. Putting a smile on someone’s face is one of the best gifts you can deliver.

When Humor Falls Flat “Humor is not a "one-size fits all" guarantee. What is hilarious to one person may be offensive to another. By being emotionally intelligent and self-aware, you can discern how, when, why, or where to be funny . . . or not. You might be walking on thin ice and risk making a damaging first impression if you use humor that is: • At the expense of others. • Thoughtless sarcasm. • Belittling or condescending. • Hitting below the belt. • Creepy or profane. • Raunchy humor with sexual innuendo. • Politically incorrect. • Mean-spirited.

And then suddenly someone somewhere wanted a thousand elephants, and the lad had raised his head and a gleam had come into his eye and you could see that under that grin was a skilled kilopachydermatolist ready to answer the call. Funny. You could know someone for their whole life and not realize that the gods had put them in this world to move a thousand elephants around the place.

humor does not have to be original to be funny.

He was enormously relieved to hear the facts at last. Riva Allen was brought in. She entered the room with an air. She seemed intelligent, assured and quite gay. She had obviously abandoned her act of being an unregistered courtesan. She looked at Marin with a bright smile and said cheerfully, “Well—lover!” And she laughed, an easy, tinkling, relaxed laughter. Marin glanced questioningly at the women who had escorted his captive. He recognized them as skillful interrogators. He asked, “Get anything?” The older woman answered, “We’ve been with her ever since she was turned over to us at a quarter to nine. Everything we ask her, every persuasive method we use, just makes her laugh.” Marin nodded calmly. But there was no doubt of the defeat that was here. His guess the night before had been correct. Chemicals. Most likely, she had had the stuff concealed in a false tooth, which simply required her to bite down once, hard. He knew this “laughing” drug. It ended all fear. Threat of death, use of torture, were equally funny to the individual under its influence. The effect would last about twenty-four hours. By taking such a drug, this woman spy had removed herself as a participant during the decisive hours ahead. Marin said, reluctantly but with finality, “Take her away! Keep her under arrest!” His secretary came in. “Lieutenant David Burnley to see you, sir, by your instructions.” Marin said, “Send him in.

Dad went back to the front, taking Jovie with him, and Kye cornered me. Backing me up until my ass bumped into one of the workshop tables. “You have no sense of personal space, do you?” Not that I minded. Especially when he trapped me there, planting soft kisses against my throat and shoulder. “We could try for a workshop-table-baby.” His laughter rumbled in his chest, making my toes curl. “How about it?” It took an extreme amount of willpower to not let his kisses distract me. “First, we’re not trying for any kind of baby while Dad’s here.” He grunted, twisting the ends of my hair around his fingers. “We could come back after hours.” My brows hiked into my hairline. “Why would we come all the way back into town when we have a perfectly comfortable bed. And kitchen. And living room. And the armchair that we still have yet to christen.” We shared a wicked smirk before I gave him a quick, chaste kiss and whispered, “I don’t want a chisel poking my ass while you fuck me. Not sexy.” “Armchair baby it is,” he sighed, like he was accepting the next best option. “Should I at least buy you a drink first? Soften you up a bit?” “Hmmm,” I hummed, reaching up to tap his chin with my index finger. “Well, if you insist. How about hot cocoa?” He shook his head, laughter dancing in his eyes, and I had to keep myself from getting swept away by his gaze. “I know just the place.” Kye donned his coat and slid his hand into mine. We made our way to The Bowl, ordered our drinks, and met at the windows where, almost exactly one year ago, I’d dabbed whipped cream off his nose. I reached up now to do the same after he took his first sip, because he still didn’t have the skills to drink The Bowl’s monstrosity properly. “I’m starting to think you do it on purpose,” I accused, balling up the napkin. I’d never openly admit it was one of my favorite things. “Holly?” “Yes?” “Shut up and forking kiss me.” And I did. I forking kissed the big, Krampus-looking, kindhearted, funny, foul-mouthed, available all-months-of-the-year alien. It just happened to be another one of my favorite things.

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

I don’t think I woke up and presto I was funny. I think it is something that you can cultivate. Like anything else, it is a skill. Yes, it does help if you have the inclination, and especially if you can laugh at yourself, so learn to laugh at yourself. It’s really the easiest place to begin. It’s about humility. Laugh at yourself and don’t be so pompous and serious. If you start looking for the humor in life, you will find it.

In a foreign language, a lot of social and psychological conditioning gets thrown out the window. First, you begin to interact with people who do not know you outside of the target language. The blank canvas effect here is true of any new people you meet, in general. Second, every language is a world unto itself. It is common to hear people comment on the particularity of an individual’s foreign language skills. “She speaks French well. His Spanish is formal or funny. I want to hear them speak Arabic.” In other words, people expect there to be some differences between the native-language version of yourself and the target-language version. If you want to exaggerate these differences, then more power to you. As the saying in the intro goes, the multiple personalities effect with people who speak more than one language is real but bears none of the oft associated pathology.

Hire character. Train skill. -Peter Schutz (1930 -

The Secret on How to Write Comedy In a fashionable context, comedy is a subjective element. Making humans funny is an incredibly difficult job and developing a chunk of comedy is even more difficult. If you are an aspiring comedy writer, there is loads to be found out and Filipino concert in Las Vegas( ticklemecomedy.com) in case you lack that writing skills, there's no way you may produce an excellent comedy piece. So how do you write stuff that is actually funny and will make everyone roll round in laughter? Are there definitely techniques on how to write comedy or steps with a view to decorate your comedic writing? Maybe these are the questions rambling around your thoughts now. Well, happily, there are some easy strategies on for writing humorous cloth. Tips on How to Write Comedy Like all different forms of writing, comedy writing is no one of a kind. It additionally takes exercise to get it right. Some comedic writers might also master the artwork of comedy writing with only a little exercise while a few conflict lots before getting Filipino show in Las Vegas to know it. With that being said, every person who wants to realize the secret to writing high-quality comedy need to consider some easy pointers. Whether you come to be being funny or no longer, the most essential element is which you have discovered how to excellent write comedic cloth and are capable of produce quality comedy pieces. To assist you emerge as a very good comedic writer, beneath are some guidelines. • Choose the type of comedy - One tip on how to write comedic portions is to pick out the type of humor you need to exhibit. There are various forms of comedy along with slapstick, parody, dark humor, edgy humor, own family humor, dry observational humor, and plenty of others. You simply need to select one in your comedy piece and paintings on it. Failure to consciousness on one sort of humor will end result on your audience being careworn. • Use warfare - Another golden rule is to discover the battle in anything and play on the boundaries. Professional comedic writers say that anger is frequently the middle of all comedy. But this doesn't suggest however that you need to be a raging psycho simply so one can realize the way to write comedy. This virtually approach that you got to have the ability to address a conflict in a humorous manner. • Carefully choose your words - Successful comedic playwrights realize nicely the way to maximize the comedic impact. Obviously, they are experts in finding the funniest in everything. Choose phrases that sound funny and discover ways to tweak your paintings to give you actual funny piece. • Know how and whilst to magnify - In comedy, "extra" is generally better. Think approximately conditions that might be funnier if things have been exaggerated a chunk. Something mildly humorous can quickly Las Vegas Filipino shows become hilarious with a little bit of embellishment. • Timing - In comedy, timing is the whole thing. It is a totally critical component in writing comedy. You want to inject the proper joke inside the proper location and in the right time. This is in which your punch traces ought to appear. This also manner understanding whilst to end. But take word that timing depends significantly at the sort of comedy you're pursuing. Practice makes best After being given these few hints on how to write comedy, you need to have a terrific begin composing fine, comedic work. But as the famous adage says "Practice makes best" so preserve to exercise and work at your stuff. You don't always want to be intrinsically humorous to study comedic writing but it'll help.

The golden-haired High Fae's mask gleamed with the last rays of the afternoon sunshine. 'Before you ask again: the food is safe for you to eat.' He pointed to the chair at the other end of the table. No sign of his claws. When I didn't move, he sighed sharply. 'What do you want, then?' I said nothing. To eat, flee, save my family. Lucien drawled from his seat along the length of the table. 'I told you so, Tamlin.' He flicked a glance toward his friend. 'Your skills with females have definitely become rusty in recent decades.

And anger is easier. It’s easier to be angry at Gabe for what happened ten years ago. Not just the embarrassment I felt in realizing that I’d been sucked into his magnetic pull and spit out. But I can also fault him for the way I can never tell if the success I have is due to my own skills or because of him. I heap all that blame on him. I lean hard into those feelings—those safe, powerful, angry feelings.

To my mother . . . I finally get it. This raising kids shit? Is hard. Thank you for not giving up. To my father . . . I miss you, and I hope you’ve found peace. And finally, to my son. You are a weird, amazing, hysterically funny, brilliant person who has flourished in spite of my awkward parenting skills. I can’t wait to see where life takes you.

Kaz had tapped his crow’s head cane on the flagstones of the tomb floor. “Do you know what Van Eck’s problem is?” “No honor?” said Matthias. “Rotten parenting skills?” said Nina. “Receding hairline?” offered Jesper. “No,” said Kaz. “Too much to lose. And he gave us a map to what to steal first.” Bardugo, Leigh. Crooked Kingdom (Six of Crows) (p. 106). Henry Holt and Co. (BYR). Kindle Edition.

Salesman: Oh God! Bless me with dumb customers today, so they will buy whatever I wish to sell. God: What if they are so dumb that they fail to understand that you are trying to sell them something. Salesman: In that case, please make them a little bit smart. God: How smart exactly? If I grant them smartness, they might go to the next shop which is offering similar items at a lower rate. Salesman: I didn’t think of that, in that case make the other shop disappear. God: I can’t do that? Salesman: Why? God: The owner of the other shop requested the same, now I am confused who to grant their wish. Salesman: But I spent all my time praying for better sales? God: Yes, you did, but I wish you would have asked for a little bit of smartness, so you would have understood that, it’s not the fulfilment of the wish which matters, it’s what you do once the wish is fulfilled. The wish is granted once you prove yourself worthy of the grant. My job is to help the weak and make them self-sufficient, and your job is to learn from the guidance and improve your vision, thinking & skills. Work towards your dream and with a little guidance you can do it on your own. Salesman: Oh, lord, thank you for opening my eyes, now I understand, please grant it this time, next time I will pray with new vision, thinking & better praying skills...

Except for some topical references to styles or political events, the show ages well due to the skill of the writers in conceiving funny situations which are still pertinent. Even many of references to World War II rationing are still amusing because of the way the lines are phrased such as Molly’s comment about Fibber on November 10, 1942: “He’s as proud and happy as a man who doesn’t own a car, can’t eat sugar, and hates coffee.

Once upon a time, in the glory days of the early internet, when UX wasn’t even an afterthought, websites were clunky, confusing and about as user-friendly as a cactus. Have any of you ever seen those fonts or animated gifs from the early inter- net? A sight to be seen.

You are exceptionally skilled at being disobedient,' he growled. 'Only second to your talent of driving me crazy.

It was an odd promise considering the source. Rod’s career, until that point, had been anything but a paradigm of reform. His father-in-law, Dick Mell, was a Chicago alderman and ward boss, and used his influence to get Rod elected to the state legislature in Springfield. After four years of doing little in state government, opportunity struck. Dan Rostenkowski, the longtime congressman from Chicago’s north side, was forced to resign in scandal after being caught writing personal checks on his government account. In the next election, a Republican—Mike Flanagan—managed to win the seat. But this was a Democratic district through and through and whoever won the nomination to oppose Flanagan next time around was guaranteed victory. Rod, although having accomplished literally nothing in his four years in the state legislature, had two things going for him: his innate political skills and his father-in-law. In many ways, Rod exemplified the distinction between the skill set needed to run for office and the skill set needed to serve in office. Rod was an incredible public speaker. Charismatic. Charming. Funny. Self-deprecating. He could go into a black church, sing gospel—unironically—and bring the place down. He knew what you wanted to hear and had no qualms saying it, regardless of what it was or whether he actually meant it. He could shine in a speech to the state legislature, at a union hall, and in a TV ad. His retail political skills were better than anyone I’d ever seen (except maybe Bill Clinton) and when you combined that with his ward boss father-in-law’s clout, beating more-qualified opponents to win the Democratic nomination to the House was within reach.

Unfortunately, Beck and Adrian weren’t allowed to sleep, either. Maybe two minutes after they’d snuggled into each other, and Adrian was about to get his nap on, there was a relentless pounding on Beck’s door. Beck grabbed something and threw it at the door. Not the lube, Adrian hoped. Whatever it was made a satisfactory thud. “Go the fuck away," Beck bellowed. “What the hell is going on in there? Half the frat is complaining you woke them up. The other half is bitching that you’re having way too much fun and it’s rude to not share with everyone.” Adrian recognized the voice. It was Travis, the frat President, and he sounded super butthurt. “No sharing,” Beck bellowed. “Get your own twink.” “What?” Travis yelled back. Beck got out of bed and flung open the door. On the other side was Travis, and behind him was an assortment of other brothers. Most of them Adrian knew by sight but couldn’t put names to the faces. “Go away,” Beck snarled at Travis. “You’re harshing my afterglow.” “You’re naked,” Travis pointed out. He seemed confused as he looked over Beck’s shoulder and saw Adrian in Beck’s bed. Adrian gave Travis a little wave with his fingers. “And there’s a dude in your bed.” “Thank you, Captain Observation. Go. Away.” “But you’re not gay.” Travis glanced at some of the brothers who stood behind him like he was searching for moral support. “Right?” “None of your fucking business. In future, we’ll try to keep down the noise. I think I need to muzzle the kid. Or maybe just keep my dick in his mouth.” Adrian grinned. He had no idea how long Beck’s attraction would last, but he decided he was gonna ride that gravy train as long as possible. “But then you couldn’t fuck my tight ass, Daddy,” he called out. The brothers outside the room looked shocked, like they were a bunch of middle-aged white women who’d been shown porn for the first time. It was fucking hilarious and Adrian couldn’t help but giggle. Beck turned back to him. “This is true, and your ass is very fine. Ball gag it is.” He turned back to Travis. “Does a ball gag work for you?” “I… what?” Travis’ voice had gone weak and plaintive. It was clear he no longer wished to be a part of the conversation. “A. Ball. Gag. Used for stifling the noises made by twinks who are apparently screamers. I had no idea the kid was gonna be a screamer, Travis. Hell, I had no idea he was hiding in my bathroom, spying on me. But thanks to that glory hole bullshit, I did know that the kid could suck a golf ball through a garden hose and that’s not a skill I think should go to waste. So he’s mine now. He’s gonna move his shit out of the basement and into my room. And he’s mine, you get me? No one lays even the tiniest finger on him. Fuck. Don’t even look at him cross-eyed. Mine. Get your own twinks.