Sock Humor Quotes

When beetles fight these battles in a bottle with their paddles and the bottle's on a poodle and the poodle's eating noodles... ...they call this a muddle puddle tweetle poodle beetle noodle bottle paddle battle.

Perhaps I can stay by the fire and mend your socks and scream if I hear any strange noises.

Even on the most solemn occasions I got away without wearing socks and hid that lack of civilization in high boots

I love money. I love everything about it. I bought some pretty good stuff. Got me a $300 pair of socks. Got a fur sink. An electric dog polisher. A gasoline powered turtleneck sweater. And, of course, I bought some dumb stuff, too.

I box in yellow Gox box socks.

Women speak because they wish to speak, whereas a man speaks only when driven to speak by something outside himself-like, for instance, he can't find any clean socks.

There are some socks that shouldn't be washed by your mom.

Sadly, my socks are like snowflakes, no two are exactly alike.

-BDB on the board- Knitter's Anonimous May 8, 2006 Rhage (in his bedroom posting in V's room on the board) Hi, my name is V. ("Hi, V") I've been knitting for 125 years now. (*gasping noises*) It's begun to impact my personal relationships: my brothers think I'm a nancy. It's begun to affect my health: I'm getting a callus on my forefinger and I find bits of yarn in all my pockets and I'm starting to smell like wool. I can't concentrate at work: I keep picturing all these lessers in Irish sweaters and thick socks. (*sounds of sympathy*) I've come seeking a community of people who, like me, are trying not to knit. Can you help me? (*We're with you*) Thank you (*takes out hand-knitted hankie in pink*) (*sniffles*) ("We embrace you, V") Vishous (in the pit): Oh hell no...you did not just put that up. And nice spelling in the title. Man...you just have to roll up on me, don't you. I got four words for you, my brother. Rhage: Four words? Okay...lemme see... Rhage, you're so sexy. hmmm.... Rhage, you're SO smart. No wait! Rhage, you're SO right! That's it, isn't it...g'head. You can tell me. Vishous: First one starts with a "P" Use your head for the other three. Bastard. Rhage: P? Hmm... Please pass the yarn Vishous: Payback is a bitch! Rhage: Ohhhhhhhhhhhh I'm so scuuuuuurred. Can you whip me up a blanket to hide under?

If you want to marry me, here's what you'll have to do: You must learn how to make a perfect chicken-dumpling stew. And you must sew my holey socks, And soothe my troubled mind, And develop the knack for scratching my back, And keep my shoes spotlessly shined. And while I rest you must rake up the leaves, And when it is hailing and snowing You must shovel the walk...and be still when I talk, And-hey-where are you going?

I can't go back because I lost all my Soul Reaper powers! - Rukia You lost your powers? What are they, socks? - Ichigo

Whether it’s chocolate or socks, the rule is the same; the darker the better.

Where’s my white out?” “Chapter ten is missing!” “Has anyone seen my socks?” Linda spun around. Mistress Yvonne gripped her shoulders. “This is a regular occurrence. No need to get involved.” Faint shouts echoed down the hall. “Leprechauns!

Wearing a condom is like eating an icecream cone with a sock on your tongue.

Now let me teach you another thing about my daughter. I love her very much but she has the ability to hide as expertly as a sock in a washing machine. No one knows where it goes, just as no one knows where she goes, but at least when she decides to come back, we're all here, waiting for her.

Slow down and explain to us plebeians. If you have to, use sock puppets.

When I was young I found out that the big toe always ends up making a hole in a sock. So I stopped wearing socks.

She spoke under her breath to Nick. "Is there a reason he's only wearing one sock?" "He puked on his foot." "Oh." She turned back to Huxley. "Can we get you another sock? Maybe a blanket or something?

Stop stealing the funeral meats right now, you wee scuggers!" She shouted. The Feegles stopped and stared at her. Then Rob Anybody said: "Socks wi'oot feets?

Everybody was stark naked, day and night. Luckily it was hot. They let me wear socks.

As usual, the sock yarns have no idea what is going on.

He always has a joke to tell or is doing something so seriously ridiculous that you can’t help but laugh at him. Last night, he tried to dry his socks in the microwave. Yeah. Then Boo yelled at him. She told him the oven works better.

Tad socked him. Hard. Twice. Someday the bad guys would realize monologues were a bad thing.

Why Is It That When You Wash Two Socks You Only End Up With One? Is There Life After Death? and Where Did The Other Sock Go?

Go make love to a tube sock.

Sorry,ʺ she said, her face shining with joy when she saw me. ʺShould have put a sock on the door. Didnʹt realize things were getting hot and heavy.ʺ ʺNo avoiding it,ʺ I said lightly, clasping Dimitriʹs hand. ʺThings are always hot with him around.ʺ Dimitri looked scandalized. Heʹd never held back when we were in bed together, but his private nature wouldnʹt let him even hint about such matters to others. It was mean, but I laughed and kissed his cheek. ʺOh, this is going to be fun,ʺ I said. ʺNow that everythingʹs out in the open.ʺ ʺYeah,ʺ he said. ʺI got a pretty ‘funʹ look from your father the other day.

Have you guys ever thought about the fact that socks are like the donut holes of underpants?

He did not believe in having a sock drawer or a T-shirt drawer. He believed that all drawers were created equal and filled each with whatever fit. My mother would have died.

He spent the next weeks blocking scenes of the bureaucrat fucking his wife. On the floor with cooking ingredients. Standing, with socks still on. In the grass of the yard of their new and immense house. He imagined her making noises she never made for him and feeling pleasures he could never provide because the bureaucrat was a man, and he was not a man. Does she suck his penis? he wondered. I know this is a silly thought, a thought that will only bring me pain, but I can't free myself of it. And when she sucks his penis, because she must, what is he doing? Is he pulling her hair back to watch? Is he touching her chest? Is he thinking of someone else? I'll kill him if he is.

I feel like a blind man searching a dark room for a pair of black socks that aren’t there.

His only real financial failure came at the age of thirteen when, in an uncharacteristic error of judgement, he invested £200,000 of his own savings in wooden socks, an invention that never caught on as he had hoped.

The room looks as if a giant dog after a large lunch of food, socks, paints, trousers and pencils, walked into that room and vomited everywhere.

Samuel didn't move. 'What will you do if I climb off the bed?' 'Well I can eat you, or I can drag you down to the depths of Hell, never to seen or heard from again. Depends, really.' 'On what?' 'Lost of things: hygiene, for a start. After tasting that sock, I don't fancy eating any part of you, to be honest, so it'll have to be the depths of Hell for you, I'm afraid.

Three pairs of socks, one pair of trousers, an extra shirt. One canteen. A tin cup and plate. A cylindrical slide rule, a chronometer, a jar of spruce sap, my collection of anticorrosives -” “You were only supposed to pack what you need.” David gave an empathetic nod. “Exactly.” “Please tell me you didn’t bring all of Morozova’s journals,” I said. “Of course I did.” I rolled my eyes. There had to be at least fifteen leather-bound books. “Maybe they’ll make good kindling.” “Is she kidding?” David asked, looking concerned. “I can never tell if she’s kidding.

Commissioner Marlowe stood on the platform with his arms crossed as we disembarked. He had the cheerful demeanor of someone who has been beaten about the face all night with a sock full of porridge--only even more so than usual.

You know when I'm down to my socks it's time for business That's why they're called business socks It's business, it's business time

Shrouded in his red cassock, he padded off to the bathroom lost in the silent ecstasy or wearing new socks.

I'm a Skeptic. And I'm a Journalist. I look up things in the library—a lot! I believe in the motto of Missouri, the 'Show-me, don't just blow me' state. I need evidence. I need demonstrations. I need show-and-tell. Even though I pray to God every once in a while, especially when I'm in trouble—which for most guys my age is every 28 days—I still think deeply about the issues and don't automatically jump to a religious or mystical answer to questions. I am, by nature, doubtful about the existence of God, and even whether He is a He or a Her. I don't believe in New Age stuff. For me, 'Past Life Regression' means not calling a girl after she gives me her phone number. Sure I own a lucky rabbit's foot, a lucky penny, a lucky 4-leaf clover and a lucky horeshoe [sic], and a pair of lucky underwear and several pairs of lucky socks that I only wash every seven days. But under it all I am a died–in-the-wool skeptic.

He sighed and opened the black box and took out his rings and slipped them on. Another box held a set of knives and Klatchian steel, their blades darkened with lamp black. Various cunning and intricate devices were taken from velvet bags and dropped into pockets. A couple of long-bladed throwing tlingas were slipped into their sheaths inside his boots. A thin silk line and folding grapnel were wound around his waist, over the chain-mail shirt. A blowpipe was attached to its leather thong and dropped down the back of his cloak; Teppic picked a slim tin container with an assortment of darts, their tips corked and their stems braille-coded for ease of selection in the dark. He winced, checked the blade of his rapier and slung the baldric over his right shoulder, to balance the bag of lead slingshot ammunition. As an afterthought he opened his sock drawer and took a pistol crossbow, a flask of oil, a roll of lockpicks and, after some consideration, a punch dagger, a bag of assorted caltrops and a set of brass knuckles. Teppic picked up his hat and checked it's lining for the coil of cheesewire. He placed it on his head at a jaunty angle, took a last satisfied look at himself in the mirror, turned on his heel and, very slowly, fell over.

Contrary to popular belief and Pinterest, not everything is made better by being sorted into containers. Socks don’t need their own little cubbies. They’re socks—they’re not going to wander off or get into fights.

If a person leads an ‘active’ life, as Wiggs had, if a person has goals, ideals, a cause to fight for, then that person is distracted, temporarily, from paying a whole lot of attention to the heavy scimitar that hangs by a mouse hair just about his or her head. We, each of us, have a ticket to ride, and if the trip be interesting (if it’s dull, we have only ourselves to blame), then we relish the landscape (how quickly it whizzes by!), interact with our fellow travelers, pay frequent visits to the washrooms and concession stands, and hardly ever hold up the ticket to the light where we can read its plainly stated destination: The Abyss. Yet, ignore it though we might in our daily toss and tussle, the fact of our impending death is always there, just behind the draperies, or, more accurately, inside our sock, like a burr that we can never quite extract. If one has a religious life, one can rationalize one’s slide into the abyss; if one has a sense of humor (and a sense of humor, properly developed, is superior to any religion so far devised), one can minimalize it through irony and wit. Ah, but the specter is there, night and day, day in and day out, coloring with its chalk of gray almost everything we do. And a lot of what we do is done, subconsciously, indirectly, to avoid the thought of death, or to make ourselves so unexpendable through our accomplishments that death will hesitate to take us, or, when the scimitar finally falls, to insure that we ‘live on’ in the memory of the lucky ones still kicking.

He coordinated his socks and underwear," she commented when Peabody came back in. "Colors and patterns. Who does that, and why?" "I read this article about how what you wear under your clothes is all about what makes you feel empowered and in control. It's the Under You." "If wearing matching boxers and socks make you feel empowered, you're a weenie.

Mandy (lentil eating, lesbian, long socks) in PR

Everybody had a good year Everybody let the hair down Everybody pulled their socks up Everybody put their foot down Everybody had a wet dream Everybody saw the sun shine, oh yeah

Dude, socks. If you just wore socks, this wouldn’t have happened.

I don’t know why religious zealots have this compulsion to try to convert everyone who passes before them – I don’t go around trying to make them into St Louis Cardinals fans, for Christ’s sake – and yet they never fail to try. Nowadays when accosted I explain to them that anyone wearing white socks with Hush Puppies and a badge saying HI! I’M GUS! probably couldn’t talk me into getting out of a burning car, much less into making a lifelong commitment to a deity, and ask them to send someone more intelligent and with a better dress sense next time, but back then I was too meek to do anything but listen politely and utter non-committal ‘Hmmmm’s’ to their suggestions that Jesus could turn my life around. Somewhere over the Atlantic, as I was sitting taking stock of my 200 cubic centimetres of personal space, as one does on a long plane flight, I spied a coin under the seat in front of me, and with protracted difficulty leaned forward and snagged it. When I sat up, I saw my seatmate was at last looking at me with that ominous glow. ‘Have you found Jesus?’ he said suddenly. ‘Uh, no, it’s a quarter,’ I answered and quickly settled down and pretended for the next six hours to be asleep, ignoring his whispered entreaties to let Christ build a bunkhouse in my heart.

His only real financial failure came at the age of thirteen, when in an uncharacteristic error of judgement he invested £200,000 of his own savings in wooden socks, an invention that never caught on as he had hoped.

Adventuring turned out to be boring. Zach thought back to all the fantasy books he'd read where a team of questers traveled overland, and realized a few things. First he'd pictured himself with a loyal steed that would have done most of the walking, so he hadn't anticipated the blister forming on his left heel or the tiny pebble that seemed to have worked its way under his sock, so that even when he stripped off his sneaker he couldn't find it. He hadn't thought about how hot the sun would be either. When he put together his bunch of provisions, he never thought about bringing sunblock. Aragorn never wore sunblock. Taran never wore sunblock. Percy never wore sunblock. But despite all that precedent for going without, he was pretty sure his nose would be lobster-red the next time he looked in the mirror. He was thirsty, too, something that happened a lot in books, but his dry throat bothered him more than it had ever seemed to bother any character. And, unlike in books where random brigands and monsters jumped out just when things got unbearably dull, there was nothing to fight except for the clouds of gnats, several of which Zach was pretty sure he'd accidentally swallowed.

These are among the people I've tried to know twice, the second time in memory and language. Through them, myself. They are what I've become, in ways I don't understand but which I believe will accrue to a rounded truth, a second life for me as well as them. Cracking jokes in the mandatory American manner of people self-concious about death. This is the humor of violent surprise. How do you connect things? Learn their names. It was a strange conversation, full of hedged remarks and obscure undercurrents, perfect in its way. I was not a happy runner. I did it to stay interested in my body, to stay informed, and to set up clear lines of endeavor, a standard to meet, a limit to stay within. I was just enough of a puritan to think there must be some virtue in rigorous things, although I was careful not to overdo it. I never wore the clothes. the shorts, tank top, high socks. Just running shoes and a lightweight shirt and jeans. I ran disguised as an ordinary person. -When are you two going to have children? -We're our own children. In novels lately the only real love, the unconditional love I ever come across is what people feel for animals. Dolphins, bears, wolves, canaries. I would avoid people, stop drinking. There was a beggar with a Panasonic. This is what love comes down to, things that happen and what we say about them. But nothing mattered so much on this second reading as a number of spirited misspellings. I found these mangled words exhilarating. He'd made them new again, made me see how they worked, what they really were. They were ancient things, secret, reshapable.The only safety is in details. Hardship makes the world obscure. How else could men love themselves but in memory, knowing what they know? The world has become self-referring. You know this. This thing has seeped into the texture of the world. The world for thousands of years was our escape, was our refuge. Men hid from themselves in the world. We hid from God or death. The world was where we lived, the self was where we went mad and died. But now the world has made a self of its own.

Gran follows recipes by looking at picture—to the eye, delicious; to the tongue, boiled socks. Makes you wanna cry really.

You’d have been scared too if that big troglodyte had put his hands on you. He smelled like dirty socks and store brand cola.” Chet Andrews

There's something very disconcerting about a sock with Winnie the Pooh on it wriggling and squirming about my knicker drawer. Looking for its honey pot.

You do know that I don't have plans to separate you from your socks as you sleep?

there are some socks which shouldn't be washed by your mum

Unfortunately when I'm on my death bed I believe I'll be like most people and still looking for Jesus. And yes I've checked my sock drawer.

We are rats We're quicker than cats And we're twice as clever Don't need shoes Don't need socks Don't need soap Don't need clocks Don't need rules Don't need schools We can writhe We can wriggle We can laugh We can giggle We can squeak We can squeal We can fart We can burp We can slobber We can slurp We can poo We can pee We can dribble in the sea We are rats We are alive We will survive

I knew that one of my sharpest memories of sixth grade was forever doomed to be that moment—sitting there with the overwhelming odor of rotten eggs, spaghetti, manure, dead dog, wet schoolbags, smelly socks, and the girly perfume of Amy Bellini’s shampoo … all filling my nostrils.

Quite. But Hedy has inherited her mother's skills as a seamstress. Very good. Tell her to come and see me. If you can't sew, can you knit? A little. Although I made my father a pair of socks once and he said he would only wear them on Sundays because they were so holey. One of the volunteers snorted with laughter.

The Sublime. The almost tangible, entirely believable, mathematically verifiable nirvana just a few right-angle turns away from dear boring old reality: a vast, infinite, better-than-virtual ultra-existence with no Off switch, to which species and civilizations had been hauling their sorry tired-with-it-all behinds off to since - the story went - the galaxy had still been in metaphorical knee socks.

There was a knock on the bedroom door and Romeo stiffened. “What!” he yelled. “I hope no one’s naked, ‘cause I’m coming in!” Braeden hollered. A few seconds later, the door opened and he stepped inside. One of his hands covered his eyes. “Is it safe?” he asked. I giggled. “Is that a no for tacos?” Romeo shook his head and rolled his eyes. “We’re dressed, man.” Braeden dropped the hand over his eyes and he zeroed in on me. It took everything in me not to shrink back from embarrassment. He came across the carpeting and held out my glasses. “Here,” he said. “I figured you might need these.” Ah, that explained why everything still looked so blurry. I slid them on and smiled as my sight adjusted back to normal. I noticed Braeden was soaking wet. “Oh!” I exclaimed. “You have to be freezing!” I rushed around the room, pulling out clothes and socks and tossing them at Braeden’s feet. “Here! Put this stuff on.” “She’s giving away your clothes, man,” Braeden said to Romeo. “Chicks.” He sighed. Braeden shook his head. “You’re dripping on the carpet!” I reminded him. He laughed and went in the bathroom to get dressed. “Just leave your clothes with ours. I’ll wash them for you,” I yelled through the door. He laughed. “Laundry service? Damn! I’m moving in.” Romeo shook his head. I yawned. This entire day was catching up to me. Romeo frowned. “I’ll make everyone leave…” He began. “No!” I exclaimed. “This is your victory party! Go enjoy it. I’ll stay here.” He seemed torn on what to do. Braeden came out wearing Romeo’s clothes (they fit him pretty well) and ran his eyes over me in concern. “You okay?” I nodded. “Did you jump in the pool to get my glasses?” He nodded. “Actually, he jumped in the pool right after I did. In case I needed help towing you out.” Romeo corrected. I glanced at Braeden for confirmation. He shrugged. “What kind of brother would I be if I let you drown?” Without thought, I walked over and wrapped my arms around him. He seemed a little taken aback by my display of affection, but after a minute, he hugged me back. “Thank you,” I whispered. “Anytime, tutor girl.” His voice was soft and his arms tightened around me just slightly. For all his witty humor, sarcastic one-liners, and jokes, Braeden was a really good guy. “We need to teach you to swim.” He observed. I shuddered. “I know how to swim.” “Well, you sank to the bottom like an anchor,” he grumbled.

I [Christopher Hitchens] moved into Mart's sock—where you lived was your 'sock.' Your rug was your 'hair.' Your knee was still your knee: we couldn't think of another word for it. We called our penises our 'willie winkies' and our shared lavatory 'the bog.' There were a lot of brilliantly inventive word games of that kind. What if you changed 'heart' to 'dick' in any well-known song or phrase? Bury my dick at Wounded Knee. Dick-break Hotel. Don't go breaking my dick ... They may, in retrospect, seem infantile, but they built intellectual muscle and taught us all we knew about philosophy, psychology, and other -ologies too numerous (and humorous!) to mention. It was at the time of the wholly reprehensible bombing of Cambodia. These dazzling jests were part of the reason why, when Mart and I got together, nobody felt able to leave the room, or sock-toe. A glimpse, if you will, of another era, a time when Mr. Wilde had sparred so felicitously with Mr. Whistler across their effortlessly groaning table at the imperious Cafe Royal.

Stories can do and be anything they wish. Just like thoughts are sometimes upside down and inside out and sometimes don’t make sense, stories don’t have to make sense, even to themselves. So if something seems catawampus or upside down in these stories, please don’t spend too much time trying to figure it out. Just figure it’s a quirk. After all, people like to eat normal foods, but sometimes they might eat a laugh or a chortle or a snicker or they might wear yellow socks on their heads. You see, people and dogs and other Beings do the most amazing and silly things, just because.

Lamb, Laura. Survived by son Ralph Lamb (Abigail) and no one else. No other soul in the world had tethered itself to hers by choice, and that should tell you something. She won’t really be missed by her strange, scabby neighbor, or the inanimate objects she carted to the casino and worshipped like little gods. She might have been missed by her daughter-in-law, who was ready to love her like a mother, who could have loved a rolled-up pair of socks if she had to, who did love a fucking couch, for Christ sake. But Laura didn’t want that. Despite her faults, Laura Lamb managed to raise the most genuinely good person in the entire world, and for that Abby will always love her, even though the woman was honestly a horrible fucking bitch.

It is an autumn New York morning, and therefore glorious; it is his first day of his long journey, the day before the interview, and his clothes are still clean and neat, socks still paired, blue suit unwrinkled, toothpaste still American and not some strange foreign flavor. Bright-lemon New York light flashing off the skyscrapers, onto the quilted aluminum sides of food carts, and from there onto Arthur Less himself. Even the mean delighted look from the lady who would not hold the elevator, the humor-free girl at the coffee shop, the tourists standing stock-still on busy Fifth Avenue, the revved-up accosting hawkers (“Mister, you like comedy? Everybody likes comedy!”), the toothache sensation of jackhammers in concrete—none of it can dull the day. Here is a shop that sells only zippers. Here are twenty of them. The Zipper District. What a glorious city.

It’s the first time a boy has been in my room, but Eliot probably doesn’t qualify as a boy in the boy sense. I shove aside dirty clothes on my bed to make space. I’ve taken care of enough injured teammates to know what to do. “How’s your head?” “More functional than most.” “Are you dizzy?” “What about you? Are you all right?” “Answer, don’t ask.” “Typical ISFJ, playing doctor.” “Oh, Jesus. Tell me what just happened. Do you remember?” “You were there.” “Eliot.” “I may not have thought it through. But that’s a rarity, I promise.” “That is so obviously a true thing you just said.” I shine my phone flashlight in Eliot’s face. He squints. Regular dilation. “I don’t think you have a concussion. Does anything feel broken?” “Just my dignity.” “It’ll recover.” I dip a clean sock in the glass of water on my bedside table and wipe blood off his jaw. “Thank you,” he says quietly.

In The After Light “They don’t burn do they? Not like us.” -Cole Stewart “Darling, If it were between you and a hundred of Gray’s finest. I’d pick you everytime.” -Liam Stewart “It raine the day I walked into Thurmond and It rained the day I walked out.” -Ruby Never Fade “Do I… look as pretty as I feel?” -Cole Stewart “If you think you’re going to faint, sit your ass down. I told you this because you’re a big girl and I need your help’ -Cole Stewart “That’s my Gem!” -Cole Stewart “I have all the time in the world for you, Gem” -Cole Stewart “I don’t want to just see someone’s face; I want to know his shadow, too” - Jude “How cute! I have one of those too!” -Vida “ ‘I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m down to hear about that one-eyed chick’ Vida said. ‘You are actually the worst person I ever met’ Chubs said. ” -Chubs And Vida “You had day of the week underwear growing up, didn’t you?” -Jude “Ass-Clown” -Vida The Darkest Minds “I don’t know, Green; why don;t you hit her up for a chat and tea the next time she tries to capture us?” -Chubs “Oh my God, Green. Just take the damn socks and put the kid out of his misery’ -Chubs “I had pegged him’ -Ruby (Full sentence: I had pegged him for a Zepplin Fan) “Are you kidding me? Yesterday he thought a mailbox was a clown.” -Liam Stewart “Ruby! For the love of… We were talking about Black Betty not your Orange ass!” -Chubs “...Crackers…Yesssss…” -Chubs “Wake up, Team! Time to carpe the hell out of this diem!” -Liam Stewart “I know who It is! Santa!” -Liam Stewart “Did I just get sassed by a twelve-year-old?” -Liam Stewart Extra Quotes From Through The Dark “Home isn’t four walls, It’s the people you’re with” “Of course. My girl? She’s incredible” “Crazy is only crazy when it works

In the tumultuous business of cutting-in and attending to a whale, there is much running backwards and forwards among the crew. Now hands are wanted here, and then again hands are wanted there. There is no staying in any one place; for at one and the same time everything has to be done everywhere. It is much the same with him who endeavors the description of the scene. We must now retrace our way a little. It was mentioned that upon first breaking ground in the whale’s back, the blubber-hook was inserted into the original hole there cut by the spades of the mates. But how did so clumsy and weighty a mass as that same hook get fixed in that hole? It was inserted there by my particular friend Queequeg, whose duty it was, as harpooneer, to descend upon the monster’s back for the special purpose referred to. But in very many cases, circumstances require that the harpooneer shall remain on the whale till the whole flensing or stripping operation is concluded. The whale, be it observed, lies almost entirely submerged, excepting the immediate parts operated upon. So down there, some ten feet below the level of the deck, the poor harpooneer flounders about, half on the whale and half in the water, as the vast mass revolves like a tread-mill beneath him. On the occasion in question, Queequeg figured in the Highland costume—a shirt and socks—in which to my eyes, at least, he appeared to uncommon advantage; and no one had a better chance to observe him, as will presently be seen. Being the savage’s bowsman, that is, the person who pulled the bow-oar in his boat (the second one from forward), it was my cheerful duty to attend upon him while taking that hard-scrabble scramble upon the dead whale’s back. You have seen Italian organ-boys holding a dancing-ape by a long cord. Just so, from the ship’s steep side, did I hold Queequeg down there in the sea, by what is technically called in the fishery a monkey-rope, attached to a strong strip of canvas belted round his waist. It was a humorously perilous business for both of us. For, before we proceed further, it must be said that the monkey-rope was fast at both ends; fast to Queequeg’s broad canvas belt, and fast to my narrow leather one. So that for better or for worse, we two, for the time, were wedded; and should poor Queequeg sink to rise no more, then both usage and honor demanded, that instead of cutting the cord, it should drag me down in his wake. So, then, an elongated Siamese ligature united us. Queequeg was my own inseparable twin brother; nor could I any way get rid of the dangerous liabilities which the hempen bond entailed. So strongly and metaphysically did I conceive of my situation then, that while earnestly watching his motions, I seemed distinctly to perceive that my own individuality was now merged in a joint stock company of two; that my free will had received a mortal wound; and that another’s mistake or misfortune might plunge innocent me into unmerited disaster and death. Therefore, I saw that here was a sort of interregnum in Providence; for its even-handed equity never could have so gross an injustice. And yet still further pondering—while I jerked him now and then from between the whale and ship, which would threaten to jam him—still further pondering, I say, I saw that this situation of mine was the precise situation of every mortal that breathes; only, in most cases, he, one way or other, has this Siamese connexion with a plurality of other mortals. If your banker breaks, you snap; if your apothecary by mistake sends you poison in your pills, you die. True, you may say that, by exceeding caution, you may possibly escape these and the multitudinous other evil chances of life. But handle Queequeg’s monkey-rope heedfully as I would, sometimes he jerked it so, that I came very near sliding overboard. Nor could I possibly forget that, do what I would, I only had the management of one end of it.

Now, any other man in Cedar Dell would catch hell for wearing a pink shirt. Not Nicholas Sutherland. He'd still ooze masculinity if he wore pink sneakers and socks with purple pom-poms.

But where are the socks in the morning, Mom? Not outside in the hall. No matter how long I look for them I can’t find any at all.

I’ve been trying to write the perfect book since high school. The results are in a large Rubbermaid tub in my closet. I don’t know what all is in there, but I do know that the tub makes a great stepping stool when I want to organize my socks on the top shelf of my closet.

Socks were meant for holes.

DON’T EVEN TRY to love me or I’ll knock your socks off

When a lab monkey doesn’t have a mother, a cigarette-smoking man in a white coat and horn-rimmed glasses will give the monkey a rolled-up pair of socks and the socks become their mother. Or, more accurately, the monkey needs a mother so badly that it can project enough mother things onto the socks that they do the trick. Become a Motherthing.

Barbara was all too familiar with the reality that boys are very different from girls. For example, their sense of humor is different. A group of boys can watch old "Three Stooges" episodes and howl with laughter while girls just shake their heads in confusion, wondering what's so funny. Boys' eating habits (and preferences) are also very different than girls. It's not that one is right and the other wrong. It's just that a boy finds nothing strange about a ketchup-and-peanut butter sandwich, or a cold piece of pizza for breakfast, or putting French fries inside his hamburger. In a boy's room, it's not altogether unlikely to discover a petrified chicken bone or a year-old empty Coke can stuffed into the back of a sock drawer.

The pair of them were both sans socks so beneath their footwear they were matching and going toe-to-toe.

Socks!” Skylar’s displeased shout broke their moment. They both smiled at the teenage growl. “Who gets socks on Christmas?” “You’ll be sad when you stop getting those,” Nick called back.

- they'll tie your shoelaces together and stuff - but these are going to be much worse. I thought they could, oh, spook the horses and cut ropes and put rocks in people's beds-" "-put pepper in the flour an' set fire to bedrolls-" "-steal their daggers and their socks-" "-put out their eyes while they're asleep!" "Let's not get carried away, Spindle.

Thought you could steal the pepper, did you?! Thought you could try darning my socks while I was asleep, did you?! I wanted those holes there, you little bastard! I wanted those holes there!" He throttled the duck and swung it up and down, whumping it on the table.

He hadn’t said a word to me until we had been roommates for eight months. And even then it had only been, “You’re wearing my socks.

Jimmie says our socks and clothes are very religious because they are so holey

One day when I was out walking on an early January morning, the brisk air had quickened my pace and I felt invigorated to repeat out loud The Prayer of Jabez, which I’d recently read. It was helping me reconnect with God. I came to the passage which says, “And Jabez called upon God of Israel saying, ‘Oh that You would bless me indeed.’” The author’s interpretation of this particular section was that God was waiting to shower us with blessings, big ones; all we need is the courage to ask, as Jabez did. Well, I substituted the name of Jabez for mine and added a few twenty-first century verses of my own. I said, “And Karen called upon God of Israel saying, ‘Oh that You would bless me indeed.’ Pile it on, God — give it to me — heap it on — sock it to me — sock it to me — sock it to me!” Okay God, if you are listening, show me a sock! I knew it was silly, but I needed something, anything, to know He was listening. I walked a few feet ahead and glanced to my left at a snow bank. There lying in the snow, next to the curb, was a wet dirty sock. Not a comb, not a glove, but one sock. Now, I have the proof that God does listen, that He can be spontaneous and humorous. That day, not only did I take home one slightly used sock, but a renewed faith in God.

Judith insisted he attend some crunchy little granola academy where all plastic is forbidden and all the teachers wear thick wool socks and old sandals.

Talking to that fool is like trying to put socks on an octopus!

I notice his socks are unmatched -- one black, the other a dark navy -- and suddenly I am provoked by his gall. Who is he to tell me I'm angry, I think to myself, when he can't even match his own socks?

Why does everything want to eat children?!” Neferre smiled. “Because you taste like candy. Stinky socks would mask your delicious scent from the aziza. We must get you stinky socks. So they do not eat you.” “That’s not much of a bedtime story! You really haven’t done this before!

Incase the title was misleading, this is the story of Qorth. He was an alien, but he was more normal, more boring, more goofy, and more ho-hum than any human I’d ever known . . . to the point that I sometimes wonder if he was really even an alien. To be fair, he did have “magical” otherworldly powers and some weird traits, like pointed ears. It rained when he was sad. His eyes were solid black, which really creeped me out in the beginning but, eh, I got used to it. He had weird tastes in food, like he would put ketchup on pancakes, and animals were sock puppets to him. The night I found him, it was the animals who led me to him.

I don’t take kindly to any of you shanty boys touching me,” she said. “So unless I give you permission, from now on, you’d best keep your hands off me.” With the last word, she lifted her boot and brought the heel down on Jimmy’s toes. She ground it hard. Like most of the other shanty boys, at the end of a day out in the snow, he’d taken off his wet boots and layers of damp wool socks to let them dry overnight before donning them again for the next day’s work. Jimmy cursed, but before he could move, she brought her boot down on his other foot with a smack that rivaled a gun crack. This time he howled. And with an angry curse, he shoved her hard, sending her sprawling forward. She flailed her arms in a futile effort to steady herself and instead found herself falling against Connell McCormick. His arms encircled her, but the momentum of her body caused him to lose his balance. He stumbled backward. “Whoa! Hold steady!” Her skirt and legs tangled with his, and they careened toward the rows of dirty damp socks hanging in front of the fireplace. The makeshift clotheslines caught them and for a moment slowed their tumble. But against their full weight, the ropes jerked loose from the nails holding them to the beams. In an instant, Lily found herself falling. She twisted and turned among the clotheslines but realized that her thrashing was only lassoing her against Connell. In the downward tumble, Connell slammed into a chair near the fireplace. Amidst the tangle of limbs and ropes, she was helpless to do anything but drop into his lap. With a thud, she landed against him. Several socks hung from his head and covered his face. Dirty socks covered her shoulders and head too. Their stale rotten stench swarmed around her. And for a moment she was conscious only of the fact that she was near to gagging from the odor. She tried to lift a hand to move the sock hanging over one of her eyes but found that her arms were pinned to her sides. She tilted her head and then blew sideways at the crusty, yellowed linen. But it wouldn’t budge. Again she shook her head—this time more emphatically. Still the offending article wouldn’t fall away. Through the wig of socks covering Connell’s head, she could see one of his eyes peeking at her, watching her antics. The corner of his lips twitched with the hint of a smile. She could only imagine what she looked like. If it was anything like him, she must look comical. As he cocked his head and blew at one of his socks, she couldn’t keep from smiling at the picture they both made, helplessly drenched in dirty socks, trying to remove them with nothing but their breath. “Welcome to Harrison.” His grin broke free. “You know how to make a girl feel right at home.” She wanted to laugh. But as he straightened himself in the chair, she became at once conscious of the fact that she was sitting directly in his lap and that the other men in the room were hooting and calling out over her intimate predicament. She scrambled to move off him. But the ropes had tangled them together, and her efforts only caused her to fall against him again. She was not normally a blushing woman, but the growing indecency of her situation was enough to chase away any humor she may have found in the situation and make a chaste woman like herself squirm with embarrassment. “I’d appreciate your help,” she said, struggling again to pull her arms free of the rope. “Or do all you oafs make a sport of manhandling women?” “All you oafs?” His grin widened. “Are you insinuating that I’m an oaf?” “What in the hairy hound is going on here?” She jumped at the boom of Oren’s voice and the slam of the door. The room turned quiet enough to hear the click-click of Oren pulling down the lever of his rifle. She glanced over her shoulder to the older man, to the fierceness of his drawn eyebrows and the deadly anger in his eyes as he took in her predicament.

All kidding aside…” I focus back on Pyke, genuine sincerity in my tone. “Thank you…for everything. For dragging my ‘clueless ass’ through the ocean, and over hill and vale, when you knew it was futile and stupid—but that I’d still try to do it, with or without your help. Thanks for tracking me down when I was alone and helpless; and for giving me a voice when I thought all hope was lost—” “Ugh, for crying out loud…Enough already,” Pyke squirms, a nauseated grimace twisting his hairy face. “Now you’re going way overboard with the gratitude…That kind of gushy crap is meant to be dished out in small doses,” he gripes. “Please make it stop…before I have to snap my own neck, just to end the suffering.” He backs away into the crowd, giving Tristan’s shoulder one more slap with a sly wink. “Hurry up, Man, and do something. Kiss her, muzzle her…shove a sock in her mouth—

Men looove pussy. They can never get enough of it. If you send a guy a pussy pic, he's gonna think you're awesome. And he assumes you feel the same way if he sends you an unsolicited dick pic. He loves jerking off while looking at pussy, and in his mind he's certain that you must love dick pics as much as he loves pussy pics. It is such a given to him, it never even occurred to him that it might not be true. If you have a dog, you know what I'm talking about. Sometimes a dog brings you his favorite toy in the whole world. And he puts it in your lap. Not because he wants you to throw it. This is not for him. This is for you. He wants you to have it. When you look at his toy, all you see is a dirty old sock, covered in crusty dried dog spit. But that's not what he sees. To him that sock is the most awesome thing in the whole world. And he is putting The Most Awesome Thing In The Whole World in your lap. Then he sits down in front of you and stares into your eyes as if to say: "This is my gift to you. May it give you the same endless hours of joy and happiness that it has given me." And that's exactly what men think when they send you a dick pic.

True story: I’m too lazy to even wash my socks. I buy seven or eight pairs and wear them all once, and then I shake them out, sort them by how bad they smell, and wear them again. Then I finally stuff them into the laundry bag and send them off to be washed. Rinse and repeat, ad nauseam. Every so often a sock goes missing, so its partner ends up among the mismatched. I didn’t start wearing them in pairs until after Shen Wei moved in.

Hello? I just wanted to call and tell you that you're wrong about me. I'm great, and I have the socks to prove it.

COMPRESSION SOCKS ARE A REAL HOSE TO PUT ON

Are you kidding me?” I asked. “You’re holding enough demerits in your hand to get us both expelled.” I started to shake in my mismatched socks.

Shared laughter doesn’t just create closeness in the moment. It’s equally effective at strengthening relationships over time. While the tan socks gag lasted less than a minute, Hennessey says the sense of camaraderie and cohesion it created “lasted well beyond the meeting.

Our annual year-end bash was a tradition as sturdy as our conviction that socks and sandals were a fashion faux pas. From fashion outlaws, we became accepted as fashion forward style icons. -Kim Lee ‘The Big Apple Took a Bite Off Me’ Now on Amazon Books and Kindle

Communication is the ultimate love potion, making hearts skip a beat and minds swoon with delight. It's like a magnetic force, drawing people in with the irresistible pull of your words. So, go ahead, charm the socks off everyone you meet, and watch how your wit becomes the secret ingredient to a charisma cocktail that's simply irresistible!

I’m not an amateur, so I grab the mixing bowl full of brownie batter and make a break for it. Except…I’m not moving. My socked feet are gliding on the hardwood but going absolutely nowhere. Who put a treadmill in this floor?! I look over my shoulder and see Nathan has the back of my shirt pinched between his fingers. And now I’m being slid backward, closer to him. That large hand reaches over my shoulder, and I watch it dip—his whole entire hand—into the bowl of brownie mix I’m clutching tightly in front of me. There’s nothing for me to do but close my eyes as he slowly presses a blob of sticky batter onto the right side of my face. Hair and all. That’s going to be fun to get out. Can I just say, this is the weirdest, slowest food fight anyone has ever witnessed? And oddly, it’s making me super hot and tingly. I spin around to face him, and it’s my turn now. I take a dip of batter then smear it across both of his eyebrows. He looks like Eugene Levy now, and I have to press my fist to my mouth to keep from laughing. With a subtle grin, he loads up his finger then uses the batter to paint brown lipstick across my lips—really…freaking…slowly. Oh.

I designed his costume!" Wardrobe paled in horror at the terrible truth. "But I didn’t know someone would use it for evil!" "It has skulls on the socks!" Felix snarled, pointing a finger at Ryan’s boots. "What did you expect?

As Pinky said to the Brain when Brain asked him if he was thinking what Brain was thinking, "I don't know, Brain. I'm just wondering how we're going to get the socks on all those roosters.

She felt, rather than saw, his eyes on her, the interplay of determination and, oddly, humor. “You aren’t taking another step on this journey of yours without me. Someone’s got to knit the socks.