Spare Funny Quotes

Would you like to borrow a pair of my panties to wave around at the next Council meeting to get the point across?” His eyes flashed. “Got any to spare?” I could’ve picked somebody rational. But no, I had to fall in love with this arrogant idiot. Come to the Keep with me, be my princess. Mourn me when your crazy dad kills me. Yeah, right.

 It’s like you had a coming-out party,” Andrea said. “You’ve been presented to polite society, except now everybody wants to kill you.” “Spare me.” “Kate Daniels, a debutante.” Andrea grinned. “It’s not funny.” “It’s hilarious.” The smile slid off Andrea’s face and she vomited on the snow. “Karma,” I told her.

Most animals show themselves sparingly. The grizzly bear is six to eight hundred pounds of smugness. It has no need to hide. If it were a person, it would laugh loudly in quiet restaurants, boastfully wear the wrong clothes for special occasions, and probably play hockey.

In my spare time I like to stare at shit. I mean, not literally. I like to stare at the TV, or the Internet, or a book, or cat videos. There’s a lot of sitting very still and not moving involved. I suspect in a former life I was probably a statue because I am profoundly good at it.

World is so full of idiots that you can't even imagine to escape. The only solution is isolation. But it still spares one!

What's a Dullahan?' 'He's a headless horseman, in the service of the banshee.' 'Headless?' 'Yes.' 'Seriously?' 'Yes.' 'So he has no head?' 'That's usually what headless means.' 'No head at all?' 'You're really getting hung up on this headless thing, aren't you?' 'It's just kind of silly, even for us.' 'Yet you spend your days with a living skeleton.' 'But at least he has a head.' 'True.' 'He even has a spare.

TV was like a third parent- a source of ideas and information and impressions. and not such a bad parent- always with time to spare, always eager to please, often funny.

I wish I had only offered you a sovereign instead of ten pounds. Give me back nine pounds, Jane; I’ve a use for it.' 'And so have I, sir,' I returned, putting my hands and my purse behind me. 'I could not spare the money on any account.' 'Little niggard!' said he, 'refusing me a pecuniary request! Give me five pounds, Jane.' 'Not five shillings, sir; nor five pence.' 'Just let me look at the cash.' 'No, sir; you are not to be trusted.

Yes, I will — two eyes, as often as I can spare them.

I could use all the confidence I could get. If possible, I would steal some from the egotistical Chase. He had more than enough to spare.

Using Facebook is like taking a Dyson to your spare time.

New Rule: Instead of killing 99.9 percent of germs, Lysol has to just go ahead and kill them all. Why spare the remaining 0.1 percent? So they can return to their villages and tell the other germs, "Dude, do not mess with Lysol"?

even one centimetre can make an awful lot of difference when you don't have many to spare.

Funny how much we all suffer trying to spare others a bit of pain.

This sunball-watching person doesn't fit with my mental image of the Shadow of Death.' 'Sorry to disappoint.' Hunt's turn to lift a brow. 'What do you think I do with my spare time?' 'I don't know. I assumed you cursed at the stars and brooded and plotted revenge on all your enemies.

History is a funny little creature. Do you remember visiting your old Aunt that autumn when the trees shone so very yellow, and how she owned a striped and unsocial cat, quite old and fat and wounded about the ears and whiskers, with a crooked, broken tail? That cat would not come to you no matter how you coaxed and called; it had its own business, thank you, and no time for you. But as the evening wore on, it would come and show some affection or favor to your Aunt, or your Father, or the old end-table with the stack of green coasters on it. You couldn’t predict who that cat might decide to love, or who it might decide to bite. You couldn’t tell what it thought or felt, or how old it might really be, or whether it would one day, miraculously, decide to let you put one hand, very briefly, on its dusty head. History is like that. Of course, unlike your Aunt’s cat, history is going on all around you, all the time, and is often quite lively. Sometimes it rests in a sunbeam for a peaceful century or two, but on the whole, history is always plotting, and it bites very hard. It stalks around the world, fickle and dissatisfied and often angry. It demands to be fed just a little earlier each day, until you find yourself carving meat from the bone as fast as you can, faster than you thought possible, just to satisfy it. Some people have a kind of marvelous talent for calming it and enticing it onto their laps. To some it will never even spare a glance.

Ah well. When in Vegas, ignore the douches, let the good times roll, and always carry a spare set of panties in your purse, just in case. That’s what Mom used to tell me.

I’d normally spare you the details, but that would kind of defeat the purpose of writing a story.

How long are you going to wait for this guy?” I’m thrown by his sudden shift. “Ah . . . I don’t know.” “Give me your keys.” “What?” “Give me your keys. I’m going to change your tire while we’re waiting.” I fish in my purse and come up with a handful of keys. “You’re going to—” “Stay in the car.” He grabs the keys and practically yanks them out of my fingers. Then he slams the door in my face. I watch him in the path of his headlights, mystified. He opens my trunk, and, moments later, emerges with the spare tire. He lays it beside the car, then pulls something else from the darkened space. I’ve never changed a tire, so I have no idea what he’s doing. His movements are quick and efficient, though. I shouldn’t be sitting here, just watching, but I can’t help myself. There’s something compelling about him. Dozens of cars have passed, but he was the only one to stop—and he’s helping me despite the fact that I’ve been less than kind to him all night. He gets down on the pavement—on the wet pavement, in the rain—and slides something under the car. A hand brushes wet hair off his face. I can’t sit here and watch him do this. He doesn’t look at me when I approach. “I told you to wait in the car.” “So you’re one of those guys? Thinks the ‘little woman’ should wait in the car?” “When the little woman doesn’t know her tires are bald and her battery could barely power a stopwatch?” He attaches a steel bar to . . . something . . . and starts twisting it. “Yeah. I am.” My pride flinches. “So what are you saying?” I ask, deadpan. “You don’t want my help?” His smile is rueful. “You’re kind of funny when you’re not so busy being judgmental.” “You’re lucky I’m not kicking you while you’re down there.” He loses the smile but keeps his eyes on whatever he’s doing. “Try it, sister.

What's this about slippers?" Stephanie's mom said, walking in. "Dad's just saying he could never lead the resistance against a robot army because he wears slippers." "This is very true," her mum said. "Then it's decided," Stephanie's father said. "When the robot army makes itself known, I will be one of the first traitors to sell out the human race." "Wow," said Stephanie. "Now that's an about-turn," said her mum. "It's the only way," said her dad. "I have to make sure my family survives. The two of you and that other one, the small one--" "Alice." "That's her. You're all that matter to me. You're all I care about. I will betray the human race so that the robot army spares you. And then later, I will betray you so that the robot army spares me. It's a dangerous ploy, but someone has to be willing to take the big risks, and I'll be damned if I'm about to let anyone else gamble with my family's future." "You're so brave," Stephanie's mum said. "I know," said her dad, and then quieter, "I know.

Tragedies, I was coming to realize through my daily studies in humanities both in and out of the classroom, were a luxury. They were constructions of an affluent society, full of sorrow and truth but without moral function. Stories of the vanquishing of the spirit expressed and underscored a certain societal spirit to spare. The weakening of the soul, the story of the downfall and the failed overcoming - trains missed, letters not received, pride flaring, the demolition of one's own offspring, who were then served up in stews - this was awe-inspiring, wounding entertainment told uselessly and in comfort at tables full of love and money. Where life was meagerer, where the tables were only half full, the comic triumph of the poor was the useful demi-lie. Jokes were needed. And then the baby feel down the stairs. This could be funny! Especially in a place and time where worse things happened. It wasn't that suffering was a sweepstakes, but it certainly was relative. For understanding and for perspective, suffering required a butcher's weighing. And to ease the suffering of the listener, things had better be funny. Though they weren't always. And this is how, sometimes, stories failed us: Not that funny. Or worse, not funny in the least.

I'm at your apartment and ready to go through your underwear drawer. She'd written back immediately, You're early. I'll be there in ten. Don't leave drool stains on my lace ones. Or worse. No promises, he'd answered, and she'd replied, Just spare the pink bra, please.

Maximus coughed a while longer, but in the middle of the night towards the end of the week, they were all woken by a terrible squealing, distant shrieks of terror and fire; in a panic they burst out from the tents to discover Maximus attempting guiltily to sneak unnoticed back into the parade grounds, with as much success as was to be expected in this endeavor, and carrying in his already-bloodied jaws a spare ox. This he hurriedly swallowed down almost entire, on finding himself observed, and then pretended not to know what they were talking about, insisting he had only got up to stretch his legs and settle himself more comfortably.

Victor and I have different ideas about what we should do in our spare time. In my spare time I like to stare at shit. I mean, not literally. I like to stare at the TV, or the Internet, or a book, or cat videos. There’s a lot of sitting very still and not moving involved. I suspect in a former life I was probably a statue because I am profoundly good at it.

Where are we?” I interrupted Gregory as he spoke with the other angels. He looked around. “Intercourse, Pennsylvania.” I snorted—he said “intercourse”. What a great name for a town. I needed to move to Intercourse, Pennsylvania. I wondered if there was a Climax, Pennsylvania? Gregory’s lips twitched. “Yes, there’s a Climax, Pennsylvania. It takes about four hours to get there by car from Intercourse.” I didn’t know what was more funny, the fact that Climax was four hours from Intercourse or that the two angels standing beside Gregory had expressions of horror on their faces. An archangel, the archangel, had just made a sex joke. Damn, I loved him. “I can get there faster,” I choked out between laughter that nearly brought me to my knees. “Because four hours from intercourse to climax is cause for immediate medical attention.” He waved a hand. “For paltry humans, maybe. Four hours for an angel is a quickie.” Those other two angels looked as if they were ready to sink through the ground. “Oh, please, can we have a quickie? I’ve got four hours to spare, and we are in Intercourse. It’s fate.

You know, you spend your childhood watching TV, assuming that at some point in the future everything you see there will one day happen to you: that you too will win a Formula One race, hop a train, foil a group of terrorists, tell someone 'Give me the gun', etc. Then you start secondary school, and suddenly everyone's asking you about your career plans and your long-term goals, and by goals they don't mean the kind you are planning to score in the FA Cup. Gradually the awful truth dawns on you: that Santa Claus was just the tip of the iceberg — that your future will not be the rollercoaster ride you'd imagined, that the world occupied by your parents, the world of washing the dishes, going to the dentist, weekend trips to the DIY superstore to buy floor-tiles, is actually largely what people mean when they speak of 'life'. Now, with every day that passes, another door seems to close, the one marked PROFESSIONAL STUNTMAN, or FIGHT EVIL ROBOT, until as the weeks go by and the doors — GET BITTEN BY SNAKE, SAVE WORLD FROM ASTEROID, DISMANTLE BOMB WITH SECONDS TO SPARE — keep closing, you begin to hear the sound as a good thing, and start closing some yourself, even ones that didn't necessarily need to be closed.

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.

To love is to lose, Sam. Unfortunately, it’s just that simple. Maybe not today but someday. Maybe not when she’s too young and you’re too young, but you see that being old doesn’t help. Maybe not your wife or your girlfriend or your mother, but you see that friends die, too. I could not spare you this any more than I could spare you puberty. It is the inevitable condition of humanity. It is exacerbated by loving but also simply by leaving your front door, by seeing what’s out there in the world, by inventing computer programs that help people. You are afraid of time, Sam. Some sadness has no remedy. Some sadness you can’t make better.” “So what the hell do I do?” “Be sad.” “For how long?” “Forever.” “But then why isn’t everyone walking around miserable all the time?” “Because ice cream still tastes good. And sunny and seventy-five is still a lovely day. And funny movies make you laugh, and work is sometimes fulfilling, and a beer with a friend is nice. And other people love you too.” “And that’s enough?” “There is no enough. You are the paragon of animals, my love. You aspire to such greatness, to miracle, to newness and wonder. And that’s great. I’m so proud of you. But you forgot about the part that’s been around for time immemorial. Love, death, loss. You’ve run up against it. And there’s no getting around or over it. You stop and build your life right there at the base of that wall. But it’s okay. That’s where everyone else is too. Everyone else is either there or on their way. There is no other side, but there’s plenty of space there to build a life and plenty of company. Welcome to the wall, Sam.

I stare at the writing on the wall. Hypnotised. Can’t look away. The author has a strong hand. Each letter energetic; bold strokes. Such funny shapes. Such jagged, edged lines. A patchwork woven in the deepest black ink. I reach out to touch its upright, elegant beauty. I gasp as it starts to grow. Big and threatening. Its lines stretch into long, long legs. Its shapes swell into mouths with sharp teeth that transform into gigantic knives. It jumps off the wall, out at me. I scream. Try to run away. Too late. A blade slashes me in the back. I fall. Agonising pain rips through me. I beg for mercy. The knife is a huge needle now heading for my face…

The Sun ran a correction for their porn story. In a tiny box, on page two, where no one would see it. What did it matter? The damage had been done. Plus it cost Meg tens of thousands of dollars in legal fees. I rang Pa yet again. Don’t read it, darling— I cut him off. I wasn’t about to hear that nonsense again. Also, I wasn’t a boy anymore. I tried a new argument. I reminded Pa that these were the same shoddy bastards who’d been portraying him as a clown all his life, ridiculing him for sounding the alarm about climate change. These were his tormentors, his bullies, and now they were tormenting and bullying his son and his son’s girlfriend—did that not inspire his outrage? Why have I got to beg you, Pa? Why is this not already a priority for you? Why is this not causing you anguish, keeping you up at night, that the press are treating Meg like this? You adore her, you told me so yourself. You bonded over your shared love of music, you think she’s funny and witty, and impeccably mannered, you told me—so why, Pa? Why? I couldn’t get a straight answer. The conversation went in circles and when we hung up I felt—abandoned.

He fakes a smile and then turns to unlock the door. I follow him inside; he stops me at the kitchen island. “I found it right here.” He points to the countertop. “You found what right where?” I ask, feeling my face scrunch up in bewilderment. “The crossword puzzle from today.” He pulls it out of his pocket. “I found it here when I was making breakfast this morning.” “Wait, you didn’t get it in the mail?” “I’m sorry; I thought I mentioned that.” “No,” I say, holding back from whacking him in the head. “I think I would’ve remembered if someone had broken into your apartment. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, and then lets out a stress-filled sigh. “So, someone broke in here last night while you were asleep?” “I’m not sure. I was thinking that, too, but then . . . what if I just didn’t see it last night when I got home?” “Are you sure you didn’t set your mail down here, maybe even for a second, and then leave this piece behind?” “What difference does it makes?” “It makes a huge difference.” My voice gets louder. “The difference between someone breaking in or not.” I peer around the kitchen and living room, trying to see if anything looks off. “I don’t know.” He reaches for a box of cereal. “I mean, I’m pretty sure I would’ve noticed getting another puzzle in the mail, especially since we’ve been talking so much about this stuff.” “Who has a key to your apartment?” “No one that I know of.” “None of your friends? Did you leave a spare under the doormat, maybe?” “No, and no.” “Then what?” I ask, completely frustrated. “Look,” he says, running his fingers through his shaggy brown hair. “I don’t have all the answers. That’s why it’s a puzzle.” “This isn’t funny,” I tell him. “Someone’s sending you threatening notes, writing twisted messages on your door, and possibly breaking into your apartment. Worrying isn’t an option. It’s an order.” “So what do you order me to do?” “Call the police.” “And tell them what? That someone’s sending me crossword puzzles? That I got an angry message on my door, but I didn’t even feel the need to save it? They’ll give me a Breathalyzer test and ask me what I’ve been drinking.

Orpheus literally had his hands full, holding on to her while she struggled to break away from him and plunge into the water, time after time. How the other Argonauts laughed! Jason was exasperated. He needed Orpheus to keep the rowers working together and he was short by three men since the battle. He couldn’t spare anyone else from the crew to keep the girl from killing herself. When he ordered Herakles to grab her and tie her to the mast, our “dove” showed us that she spoke our language well enough to spew blistering curses and threats. “Listen to that!” Herakles exclaimed with an exaggerated shudder. “She’s a witch’s daughter, sure enough. She’ll put a spell on me if I offend her.” “Stop that nonsense and control the brat,” Jason snapped. “Alas, beloved prince, I can’t.” Herakles sighed and hung his head with such a pathetic air that Milo, Hylas, and I stuffed our knuckles into our mouths to stifle snickers. “I made a vow to Hera not to touch a woman until we come to Colchis.” That was too much for Hylas. He burst into hoots of laughter, and Milo and I joined in, until we had to clutch one another to keep from falling over. I was still trying to catch my breath when Jason’s foot shot out and dealt me an undeniable kick in the behind. “You think this is funny? You watch her!” he barked at me. “If anything happens to the scrawny little bitch, we’ll stick you in a dress, hand you over to her flea-bitten relatives, and be halfway to Colchis before they figure out they’ve been duped. If you’re lucky, they’ll kill you quickly. If not, they might decide to use their knives to turn you into the daughter they lost. See if you can laugh your way out of that, boy!” He showed his teeth in a satisfied smirk and didn’t understand why I kept on laughing at his threat, even while I walked off to assume my new job as the girl’s keeper.

I'll spare you the escort duties tomorrow,' he said, shrugging as he walked to the cell door. 'But the night after, I expect you to be looking your finest.' He gave me a grin that suggested my finest wasn't very much at all. He paused by the door, but didn't dissolve into darkness. 'I've been thinking of ways to torment you when you come to my court. I'm wondering: Will assigning you to learn to read be as painful as it looked today?' He vanished into shadow before I could launch myself at him. I paced through my cell, scowling at the eye in my hand. I spat every curse I could at it, but there was no response. It took me a long while to realise that Rhysand, whether he knew it or not, had effectively kept me from shattering completely.

So is this what you do with your lives? Spare humans from the Treaty and have fine meals?' I gave a pointed glance toward Tamlin's baldric, the warrior's clothes, Lucien's sword. Lucien smirked. 'We also dance with the spirits under the full moon and snatch human babes from their cradles to replace with changelings-

I’ve blown my cover,” I told him. “Now every weirdo with a drop of power will be coming over to investigate.” “It’s like you had a coming-out party,” Andrea said. “You’ve been presented to polite society, except now everybody wants to kill you.” “Spare me.” “Kate Daniels, a debutante.” Andrea grinned. “It’s not funny.” “It’s hilarious.” The smile slid off Andrea’s face and she vomited on the snow. “Karma,” I told her.

Hi, Mad,” Piper’s voice sang out in her ear. “Oh, it’s you,” Madison said, falling back on the pink brocade duvet covering her double bed. “Of course it’s me. I always call you at this time,” Piper said. “Who’d you think it was?” “I thought you were Blue,” she said with a giggle. “But that’s, of course, impossible, since Blue doesn’t even know my name.” “Just what are you talking about?” Piper demanded. “And who is Blue?” “Blue”--Madison grabbed one of her pink furry pillows that lined her headboard and hugged it to her chest--“is my Heart-2-Heart partner. And I think I’m in love.” “What?” Piper screeched into the phone. “We were just assigned our partners yesterday. I have spent almost every spare minute with you, except for a few hours last night and the two hours since we left Giorgio’s. When could you possibly have found the time to fall in love?” “Okay,” Madison said, rolling over onto her stomach. “Maybe not love with a capital L. But a very strong like. Blue is funny and smart--he knows how flies land on the ceiling upside down. And talented--he can do a backflip. Or at least he could when he was nine at his cousin’s house in Issaquah.” “He put all that in one letter?” Piper asked. Madison giggled. “Of course not. We’ve e-mailed several letters. In fact, I’m expecting one now.” “Geez,” Piper said a little wistfully. “I haven’t even checked to see if my Heart-2-Heart pal wrote back.” Madison plucked at the fuzzy strands of yarn on her pillow. “You should. I love this program! We can tell each other anything. It’s so great!” “And this guy’s name is Blue?” Piper’s voice sounded doubtful. “I don’t remember any kid at school named Blue. There was that one guy we called Green in our chem lab, remember? But I think we called him that because his last name was Green and we could never remember his first name.

The Best for His Father The man went to the mortuary to make arrangements for the funeral of his father who had just died.  The man explained that he wanted the very best for this father and not to spare any expense. After the funeral he was sent a bill for $20,000.   He knew his father had received the best the mortuary had to offer, so he gladly paid the bill. The next month he received a bill for $125.  The following month he received another bill for $125.  The third month he received a bill for $125 again.  He thought he had better figure out what these monthly charges were for, so he called the mortuary. The person he had worked with at the mortuary reminded the man that he had asked for the very best for his departed father.  In addition to the best coffin, the best flowers, and the best ceremony, they also rented for his father a tux.

Life as a private investigator, slash bounty hunter wasn’t all Gary Beck wanted it to be. There weren’t any big mansions on a palm beach owned by an affluent writer generous enough to let him live rent-free and use his spare Ferrari. But then you have to ask yourself, what could you expect living on a planet like Deanna? As a third-rate colony in the Terran Empire, Deanna had more than its fair share of dull moments. It orbits a star called Ramalama. If you think that’s funny, Deanna’s two moons are called Ding and Dong, respectively (this is a local joke) and one of them falls down occasionally.

The reason for the peculiar name could be found in the whimsical sense of humor of the early colonists who arrived on Deanna several decades in the past and found very little at all there to laugh at. Obsidian Crows might seem funny at first, unless you just happened to ride over one with your Jeepo five miles out of town and didn’t have a spare tire. Although there was a reasonable expectation of hitting one of these diminutive brutes on the roads, this did not happen nearly as often as you might think.

own. Save a parrot’s tree. Save ten. Without our help, without needed legislative protection and worldwide consciousness-raising on their behalf, parrots will be lost in short years to come. It is fitting to end this book with this succinct summation from Wayne Pacelle, president of the Humane Society of the United States:   We are at an odd moment in history. There are more people in this country sensitized to animal protection issues than ever before. The Humane Society of the United States alone has 8 million members, and in addition, there are more than 5,000 other groups devoted to animal protection. At the same time, there are more animals being harmed than ever before—in industrial agriculture, research and testing, and the trade in wild animals. It is pitiful that our society still condones keeping millions of parrots and other wild birds as pets—wild animals that should be free to fly and instead are languishing in cages, with more being bred every day. It’s an issue of supply and demand and it’s also an issue of right and wrong. Animals suffer in confinement, and we have a moral obligation to spare them from needless suffering. Every person can make a difference every day for animals by making compassionate choices in the marketplace: don’t buy wild animals as pets, whether they are caught from the wild or bred in captivity. If we spare the life of just one animal, it’s a 100% positive impact for that creature. If we can solve the larger bird trade problem, it will be 100% positive for all parrots and other wild birds in the U.S. and beyond our borders. I believe we will look back in 50 -75 years and say “How could we as a society countenance things like the decades long imprisonment of extraordinarily intelligent animals like parrots?” Acknowledgments For this work, which took more than two and a half years to research and write, I amassed thousands of documents and conducted several hundred interviews with leading scientists, environmentalists, paleontologists, ecological economists, conservationists, global warming experts, federal law enforcement officers, animal control officers, avian researchers, avian rescuers, veterinarians, breeders, pet bird owners, bird clubs, pet bird industry executives and employees, sanctuaries and welfare organizations, legislators, and officials with the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora (CITES), and other sources in the United States and around the world.

To this hyperaerobicized, kale-munching crowd, Annie’s spare tire was about as funny as cancer or female genital mutilation.

I brought light comic relief to the other soldiers who were finding it hard. During moments of spare time I would do impressions of the NCOs who were in charge of us - just on a whim, to bring joy to my fellow cadets. One day I was caught doing this by the NCO I was impersonating. He was not happy at all and decided to make an example of me. 'You think you're funny, Darby?' 'Yes, corporal.' 'Well, we'll see how funny you are when I get you to do your impressions directly in front of those who you mock!' '...' 'Nothing to say to that, Darby?' 'No, corporal. I'm just slightly excited about this opportunity.

Ohhhhhhhhhh The King’s hair is quite fair, And his smile’s all there. Yet beside of all this, The King has no heir! Foooooooooor The King is not there, down there. No the King is not there, down there. Aaaaaaaaaaaaall The maids are so pretty, And some even witty! But still no heir is there, And say so my ditty! The King is not there, down there. No the King is not there, down there. Sooooooooooo Don’t hang your brother, For the sake of your mother! Cuz we’ve still no heir to spare, Unless she whelped another! Whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy The king is not there, down there. No, the King is not there, down there.

Did I expect my soulmate to have a dick? No. But hell, my own was always fun enough to play with; now, I've got a spare.

Okay, a lot of pee came out. ALRIGHT! I PEED SO MUCH I HAD TO CHANGE MY PANTS! There, are you happy now? It’s funny, okay? And it isn’t all about vomit and farts either (okay, a lot of it is about vomit and farts, but what’s wrong with that?) *Every Monday at school, Reggie writes an essay that begins with “On the weekend…” WARNING: You might want to have a spare pair of undies handy while you read about Reggie's weekends.*

It takes all sorts of people to make a world, as I've often heard, but I think there are some who could be spared.

There’s nothing funny about shame. Don’t lighten up the subject. Nietzsche said, ‘What do you consider the most humane? To spare someone shame. What is the seal of liberation? To no longer be ashamed in front of oneself.’ Be serious. You have the credentials.

To this hyperaerobicized, kale-munching crowd, Annie’s spare tire was about as funny as cancer or female genital mutilation. Annie