Tools Funny Quotes

It's funny: I always imagined when I was a kid that adults had some kind of inner toolbox full of shiny tools: the saw of discernment, the hammer of wisdom, the sandpaper of patience. But then when I grew up I found that life handed you these rusty bent old tools - friendships, prayer, conscience, honesty - and said 'do the best you can with these, they will have to do'. And mostly, against all odds, they do.

Kat," Hale groaned, then fell back onto the pillows. "Funny, I didn't hear a doorbell." "I let myself in; hope that's okay." Hale smiled. "Or the alarm." She stepped inside, tossed a pocket-size bag of tools onto the bed. "You're due for an upgrade." Hale propped himself against the antique headboard and squinted up at her. "She returns." He crossed his arms across his bare chest. "You know, I could be naked in here.

Akmon pulled a ratchet wrench from the tool belt and spun it like a noisemaker. “Oh, very nice! I’m definitely keeping this! Thanks, Blue Bottom!” Blue Bottom? Leo glanced down. His pants had slipped around his ankles again, revealing his blue undershorts. “That’s it!” he shouted. “My stuff. Now. Or I’ll show you how funny a flaming dwarf is.” His hands caught fire.

Shh." I squeeze his hand. His palm feels clammy. "We have to keep it down, okay? We don't want my dad coming in." He grits his teeth against more shivers. "Always knew I'd end up in your bed . . . and hear you say those words one day." He manages a smirk. Jeb snarls. "Unbelievable. Even when he's at death's door he's a tool." He arranges a pillow beneath Morpheus's neck. "Why don't you keep your mouth shut while we help you." Morpheus laughs weakly, his skin flashing with blue light. "What say Alyssa"--his breath rattles--"give my mouth something else to do?

Okay, first of all, I didn’t sleep with you to make amends. I slept with you because I wanted to.” He still didn’t say anything, and she pointed at him again. “And you know what? It was your own damn fault. It was those jeans you wear, and the tool belt. It was the size of your hammer!

Humor is not an end in itself, but a tool to understanding. A dense head must be tickled with an ax.

Some people looove to feel offended because it makes them feel important. When your only tool is a hammer, suddenly every problem starts to look like a nail. And when the only time you feel relevant is when you claim to be offended, suddenly everything looks offensive.

Your sweetheart isn't too happy about this," Shay said, still smiling. I looked toward the back of the room. Ren watched us, holding a pair of scissors. I'd never seen a classroom tool look so dangerous.

Well,' said Can o' Beans, a bit hesitantly,' imprecise speech is one of the major causes of mental illness in human beings.' Huh?' Quite so. The inability to correctly perceive reality is often responsible for humans' insane behavior. And every time they substitute an all-purpose, sloppy slang word for the words that would accurately describe an emotion or a situation, it lowers their reality orientations, pushes them farther from shore, out onto the foggy waters of alienation and confusion.' The manner in which the other were regarding him/her made Can O' Beans feel compelled to continue. 'The word neat, for example, has precise connotations. Neat means tidy, orderly, well-groomed. It's a valuable tool for describing the appearance of a room, a hairdo, or a manuscript. When it's generically and inappropriately applied, though, as it is in the slang aspect, it only obscures the true nature of the thing or feeling that it's supposed to be representing. It's turned into a sponge word. You can wring meanings out of it by the bucketful--and never know which one is right. When a person says a movie is 'neat,' does he mean that it's funny or tragic or thrilling or romantic, does he mean that the cinematography is beautiful, the acting heartfelt, the script intelligent, the direction deft, or the leading lady has cleavage to die for? Slang possesses an economy, an immediacy that's attractive, all right, but it devalues experience by standardizing and fuzzing it. It hangs between humanity and the real world like a . . . a veil. Slang just makes people more stupid, that's all, and stupidity eventually makes them crazy. I'd hate to ever see that kind of craziness rub off onto objects.

This brings up yet another, far more important misconception: that being comically generative and having a sense of humor are one and the same thing. The former is among the least important things in the world, while the latter is among the most. One is a handy social tool, the other an integral component of human survival. It bears repeating a third time: Not being funny doesn't make you a bad person. Not having a sense of humor does.

Thought for the day: Twitter...140 character limit...must be a great tool for fortune cookie writers...

Hands can cook, hands can create, hands can kill. There is no better tool than our hands.

Well," he said, "I think we've found our way in. We just wait until they're duking it out, but trust me, these Humans First types don't have a lot of staying power or they'd have been at the gym with me before. I doubt Grandma Kent there is going to do a lot of damage." He pointed at a gray-haired, hunched lady in a shawl, carrying what looked liked a gardening tool. "It's like Plants Versus Zombies, and I'm not rooting for the zombies, weirdly enough.

Beauty is a funny thing. It tools you into thinking you like someone when really all you want is to possess them. Ultimately, I guess that's what desire is. Something I find so beautiful should be mine!

So a scientist and an engineer are tossed into separate rooms, stocked with tools and parts, and told that they aren't allowed out until they've produced a working prototype for a radio receiver. After two days, the scientist has covered the walls in scribbling and looks like a mad man, raving about how not only is it impossible to build a receiver with the parts given but that he's proven that radio is theoretically impossible anyway. When they check on the engineer, they find that he'd built the receiver in less than a day, fashioned a crude speaker and antenna, and had found a radio broadcast he liked and hadn't bothered to tell them he'd finished.

And it's funny because it was my grandpa who painted it shut (window) in the first place, and he had a whole storage shed full of just about every tool you could imagine. He was one of those guys who thought he could fix anything, but it never worked out quite as well as he planned. He was more of a visionary than a nuts -and bolts kind of guy.

Mortimer had maxed three credit cards stocking the cave with canned goods and medical supplies and tools and everything a man needed to live through the end of the world. There were more than a thousand books along shelves in the driest part of the cave. There used to be several boxes of pornography until Mortimer realized that he'd spent nearly ten days in a row sitting in the cave masturbating. He burned the dirty magazines to keep from doing some terrible whacking injury to himself.

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.

There's a reason caveman started to develop sophisticated tools before the meteor wiped them all out: It's so they could fucking shave. Do you know how frustrating it must have been to be hunched over all night trying to start a fire only to finally succeed just to have your beard go up in flames? No aloe vera back then.

Just like Black Bottom,” Passalos agreed. “Black Bottom?” Leo resisted the urge to jump at the dwarfs’ feet again. He was sure Passalos was going to ruin the Archimedes sphere any second now. “Yes, you know.” Akmon grinned. “Hercules. We called him Black Bottom because he used to go around without clothes. He got so tan that his backside, well—” “At least he had a sense of humor!” Passalos said. “He was going to kill us when we stole from him, but he let us go because he liked our jokes. Not like you two. Grumpy, grumpy!” “Hey, I’ve got a sense of humor,” Leo snarled. “Give me back our stuff, and I’ll tell you a joke with a good punch line.” “Nice try!” Akmon pulled a ratchet wrench from the tool belt and spun it like a noisemaker. “Oh, very nice! I’m definitely keeping this! Thanks, Blue Bottom!” Blue Bottom? Leo glanced down. His pants had slipped around his ankles again, revealing his blue undershorts. “That’s it!” he shouted. “My stuff. Now. Or I’ll show you how funny a flaming dwarf is.

All the world’s a stage. Creative work is a kind of theater. The stage is your studio, your desk, or your workstation. The costume is your outfit—your painting pants, your business suit, or that funny hat that helps you think. The props are your materials, your tools, and your medium. The script is just plain old time. An hour here, or an hour there—just time measured out for things to happen.

Yes, I hate blown glass art and I happen to live in the blown glass art capital of the world, Seattle, Washington. Being a part of the Seattle artistic community, I often get invited to galleries that are displaying the latest glass sculptures by some amazing new/old/mid-career glass blower. I never go. Abstract art leaves me feeling stupid and bored. Perhaps it’s because I grew up inside a tribal culture, on a reservation where every song and dance had specific ownership, specific meaning, and specific historical context. Moreover, every work of art had use—art as tool: art to heal; art to honor, art to grieve. I think of the Spanish word carnal, defined as, ‘Of the appetites and passions of the body.’ And I think of Gertrude Stein’s line, ‘Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.’ When asked what that line meant, Stein said, ‘The poet could use the name of the thing and the thing was really there.’ So when I say drum, the drum is really being pounded in this poem; when I say fancydancer, the fancydancer is really spinning inside this poem; when I say Indian singer, that singer is really wailing inside this poem. But when it comes to abstract art—when it comes to studying an organically shaped giant piece of multi-colored glass—I end up thinking, ‘That looks like my kidney. Anybody’s kidney, really. And frankly, there can be no kidney-shaped art more beautiful—more useful and closer to our Creator—than the kidney itself. And beyond that, this glass isn’t funny. There’s no wit here. An organic shape is not inherently artistic. It doesn’t change my mind about the world. It only exists to be admired. And, frankly, if I wanted to only be in admiration of an organic form, I’m going to watch beach volleyball. I’m always going to prefer the curve of a woman’s hip or a man’s shoulder to a piece of glass that has some curves.

Two cannibals are eating a clown. One says to the other, ‘Does this taste funny to you?

In 2011, two studies out of Stanford University showed that comedy was a more helpful tool than solemnity in helping participants deal with traumatic imagery.

There are only two kinds of people in this world who want to be miserable: poets and method actors.

This guy was a real Pscyho' Mr. Levy said. 'To you character is a psychosis, integrity is a complex. I've heard it all before.

When sleep came, I would dream bad dreams. Not the baby and the big man with a cigarette-lighter dream. Another dream. The castle dream. A little girl of about six who looks -like me, but isn’t me, is happy as she steps out of the car with her daddy. They enter the castle and go down the steps to the dungeon where people move like shadows in the glow of burning candles. There are carpets and funny pictures on the walls. Some of the people wear hoods and robes. Sometimes they chant in droning voices that make the little girl afraid. There are other children, some of them without any clothes on. There is an altar like the altar in nearby St Mildred’s Church. The children take turns lying on that altar so the people, mostly men, but a few women, can kiss and lick their private parts. The daddy holds the hand of the little girl tightly. She looks up at him and he smiles. The little girl likes going out with her daddy. I did want to tell Dr Purvis these dreams but I didn’t want her to think I was crazy, and so kept them to myself. The psychiatrist was wiser than I appreciated at the time; sixteen-year-olds imagine they are cleverer than they really are. Dr Purvis knew I had suffered psychological damage as a child, that’s why she kept making a fresh appointment week after week. But I was unable to give her the tools and clues to find out exactly what had happened.

Testosterone Autism: The person beset by this ailment....develops an interest in various tools and machinery, and he's drawn to the Second World War and the biographies of famous people, mainly politicians and villains.

The universe has certain rules. Among them are: He who owns a sharp tool will eventually cut himself. And: Laboratory accidents never result in super-hero-type powers. And most applicable in this case: He who laughs first gets caught. The first rule could be, at a stretch, applied to Tony Stark and the Iron Man suit, considering recent events. One notable exception to the second rule was currently swinging around New York City on a spider web, which did not bear thinking about.

Punctuation comes from the Latin root punctus, or “point.” Those funny dots, lines, and squiggles help writers point the way. To help readers, we punctuate for two reasons: 1. To set the pace of reading. 2. To divide words, phrases, and ideas into convenient groupings.

A few days later she sent him a two page, single-spaced, typewritten letter preaching to him about the Catholic stand on premarital sex, and especially condemning the use of that horrendous tool of the devil, the seed-killing prophylactic. Don't worry. Those facetious words weren't hers. I paraphrased. This boy was more browbeaten by mommy than Norman Bates.

It’s funny: I always imagined when I was a kid that adults had some kind of inner toolbox, full of shiny tools: the saw of discernment, the hammer of wisdom, the sandpaper of patience. But then when I grew up I found that life handed you these rusty bent old tools—friendships, prayer, conscience, honesty—and said, Do the best you can with these, they will have to do. And mostly, against all odds, they’re enough.

It was certainly true that I had “no sense of humour” in that I found nothing funny. I didn’t know, and perhaps would never know, the feeling of compulsion to exhale and convulse in the very specific way that humans evolved to do. Nor did I know the specific emotion of relief that is bound to it. But it would be wrong, I think, to say that I was incapable of using humour as a tool. As I understood it, humour was a social reflex. The ancestors of humans had been ape-animals living in small groups in Africa. Groups that worked together were more likely to survive and have offspring, so certain reflexes and perceptions naturally emerged to signal between members of the group. Yawning evolved to signal wake-rest cycles. Absence of facial hair and the dilation of blood vessels in the face evolved to signal embarrassment, anger, shame and fear. And laughter evolved to signal an absence of danger. If a human is out with a friend and they are approached by a dangerous-looking stranger, having that stranger revealed as benign might trigger laughter. I saw humour as the same reflex turned inward, serving to undo the effects of stress on the body by activating the parasympathetic nervous system. Interestingly, it also seemed to me that humour had extended, like many things, beyond its initial evolutionary context. It must have been very quickly adopted by human ancestor social systems. If a large human picks on a small human there’s a kind of tension that emerges where the tribe wonders if a broader violence will emerge. If a bystander watches and laughs they are non-verbally signaling to the bully that there’s no need for concern, much like what had occurred minutes before with my comments about Myrodyn, albeit in a somewhat different context. But humour didn’t stop there. Just as a human might feel amusement at things which seem bad but then actually aren’t, they might feel amusement at something which merely has the possibility of being bad, but doesn’t necessarily go through the intermediate step of being consciously evaluated as such: a sudden realization. Sudden realizations that don’t incur any regret were, in my opinion, the most alien form of humour, even if I could understand how they linked back to the evolutionary mechanism. A part of me suspected that this kind of surprise-based or absurdity-based humour had been refined by sexual selection as a signal of intelligence. If your prospective mate is able to offer you regular benign surprises it would (if you were human) not only feel good, but show that they were at least in some sense smarter or wittier than you, making them a good choice for a mate. The role of surprise and non-verbal signalling explained, by my thinking, why explaining humour was so hard for humans. If one explained a joke it usually ceased to be a surprise, and in situations where the laughter served as an all-clear-no-danger signal, explaining that verbally would crush the impulse to do it non-verbally.

It’s so funny you should say this, because if you were one of my students, you’d be wearing your pain like a badge of honor. This generation doesn’t hide anything from anyone. My class talks a lot about their traumas. And how their traumas inform their games. They, honest to God, think their traumas are the most interesting thing about them. I sound like I’m making fun, and I am a little, but I don’t mean to be. They’re so different from us, really. Their standards are higher; they call bullshit on so much of the sexism and racism that I, at least, just lived with. But that’s also made them kind of, well, humorless. I hate people who talk about generational differences like it’s an actual thing, and here I am, doing it. It doesn’t make sense. How alike were you to anyone we grew up with, you know?” “If their traumas are the most interesting things about them, how do they get over any of it?” Sam asked. “I don’t think they do. Or maybe they don’t have to, I don’t know.” Sadie paused. “Since I’ve been teaching, I keep thinking about how lucky we were,” she said. “We were lucky to be born when we were.” “How so?” “Well, if we’d been born a little bit earlier, we wouldn’t have been able to make our games so easily. Access to computers would have been harder. We would have been part of the generation who was putting floppy disks in Ziploc bags and driving the games to stores. And if we’d been born a little bit later, there would have been even greater access to the internet and certain tools, but honestly, the games got so much more complicated; the industry got so professional. We couldn’t have done as much as we did on our own. We could never have made a game that we could sell to a company like Opus on the resources we had. We wouldn’t have made Ichigo Japanese, because we would have worried about the fact that we weren’t Japanese. And I think, because of the internet, we would have been overwhelmed by how many people were trying to do the exact same things we were. We had so much freedom—creatively, technically. No one was watching us, and we weren’t even watching ourselves. What we had was our impossibly high standards, and your completely theoretical conviction that we could make a great game.

It's funny, you know. We're free. We make choices. We weigh things in our minds, consider everything carefully, use all the tools of logic and education. And in the end, what we mostly do is what we have no choice but to do. Makes you think, why bother? But you bother because you do, that's why. Because you're a DNA-brand computer running Childhood 1.0 software. They update the software but the changes are always just around the edges. You have the brain you have, the intelligence, the talents, the strengths and weaknesses you have, from the moment they take you out of the box and throw away the Styrofoam padding. But you have the fears you picked up along the way. The terrors of age four or six or eight are never suspended, just layered over. The dread I'd felt so recently, a dread that should be so much greater because the facts had been so much more horrible, still could not diminish the impact of memories that had been laid down long years before. It's that way all through life, I guess. I have a relative who says she still gets depressed every September because in the back of her mind it's time for school to start again. She's my great-aunt. The woman is sixty-seven and still bumming over the first day of school five-plus decades ago. It's sad in a way because the pleasures of life get old and dated fast. The teenage me doesn't get the jolt the six-year-old me got from a package of Pop Rocks. The me I've become doesn't rush at the memories of the day I skated down a parking ramp however many years ago. Pleasure fades, gets old, gets thrown out with last year's fad. Fear, guilt, all that stuff stays fresh. Maybe that's why people get so enraged when someone does something to a kid. Hurt a kid and he hurts forever. Maybe an adult can shake it off. Maybe. But with a kid, you hurt them and it turns them, shapes them, becomes part of the deep, underlying software of their lives. No delete. I don't know. I don't know much. I feel like I know less all the time. Rate I'm going, by the time I'm twenty-one I won't know a damned thing. But still I was me. Had no choice, I guess. I don't know, maybe that's bull and I was just feeling sorry for myself. But, bottom line, I dried my eyes, and I pushed my dirty, greasy hair back off my face, and I started off down the road again because whatever I was, whoever I was, however messed up I might be, I wasn't leaving April behind. Maybe it was all an act programmed into me from the get-go, or maybe it grew up out of some deep-buried fear, I mean maybe at some level I was really just as pathetic as Senna thought I was. Maybe I was a fake. Whatever. Didn't matter. I was going back to the damned dragon, and then I was getting April out, and everything and everyone else could go screw themselves. One good thing: For now at least, I was done being scared.

ASSERTIVE The Assertive type believes time is money; every wasted minute is a wasted dollar. Their self-image is linked to how many things they can get accomplished in a period of time. For them, getting the solution perfect isn’t as important as getting it done. Assertives are fiery people who love winning above all else, often at the expense of others. Their colleagues and counterparts never question where they stand because they are always direct and candid. They have an aggressive communication style and they don’t worry about future interactions. Their view of business relationships is based on respect, nothing more and nothing less. Most of all, the Assertive wants to be heard. And not only do they want to be heard, but they don’t actually have the ability to listen to you until they know that you’ve heard them. They focus on their own goals rather than people. And they tell rather than ask. When you’re dealing with Assertive types, it’s best to focus on what they have to say, because once they are convinced you understand them, then and only then will they listen for your point of view. To an Assertive, every silence is an opportunity to speak more. Mirrors are a wonderful tool with this type. So are calibrated questions, labels, and summaries. The most important thing to get from an Assertive will be a “that’s right” that may come in the form of a “that’s it exactly” or “you hit it on the head.” When it comes to reciprocity, this type is of the “give an inch/take a mile” mentality. They will have figured they deserve whatever you have given them so they will be oblivious to expectations of owing something in return. They will actually simply be looking for the opportunity to receive more. If they have given some kind of concession, they are surely counting the seconds until they get something in return. If you are an Assertive, be particularly conscious of your tone. You will not intend to be overly harsh but you will often come off that way. Intentionally soften your tone and work to make it more pleasant. Use calibrated questions and labels with your counterpart since that will also make you more approachable and increase the chances for collaboration. We’ve seen how each of these groups views the importance of time differently (time = preparation; time = relationship; time = money). They also have completely different interpretations of silence. I’m definitely an Assertive, and at a conference this Accommodator type told me that he blew up a deal. I thought, What did you do, scream at the other guy and leave? Because that’s me blowing up a deal. But it turned out that he went silent; for an Accommodator type, silence is anger. For Analysts, though, silence means they want to think. And Assertive types interpret your silence as either you don’t have anything to say or you want them to talk. I’m one, so I know: the only time I’m silent is when I’ve run out of things to say. The funny thing is when these cross over. When an Analyst pauses to think, their Accommodator counterpart gets nervous and an Assertive one starts talking, thereby annoying the Analyst, who thinks to herself, Every time I try to think you take that as an opportunity to talk some more. Won’t you ever shut up?

John Cleese once said that when they started Monty Python, they thought that comedy was the silly bits: “We used to think that comedy was watching someone do something silly . . . we came to realize that comedy was watching somebody watch somebody do something silly.” That’s the basis of the tool of Straight Line/Wavy Line.

In the little town in southern America, a farmer knocked on his neighbor’s door. A little boy opened it. Farmer: “kid, is your dad home?” Kid: “no sir, he has gone to town.” Farmer: “well, then would your mom be around?” Kid: “well sir, no. She went along with dad to give him company.” Farmer: “and how about Alex, your brother? Is he home?” Kid: “he isn’t home too. I am alone here.” The farmer kept waiting, unaware what to say next and he nervously shifted his weight from one foot to another. Kid: “would you like me to help you anyway? I know the tools and I can help you borrow it or may be, take a message for someone, if you want?” Farmer: “Actually, I need to talk to your dad because Alex, your brother, knocked my daughter and you know she is pregnant.” The little kid kept thinking for a moment and said, “Well, you will need to talk to dad about it. He charges $200 for the bull and even $100 for the dog, but I have no clue what his rates are for Alex.

Finally, in more serious situations, man humor confronts fear and prepares the heart for action. It’s a tool for dealing with danger, quieting panic, and calling comrades to prepare to charge. Call it gallows humor. Call it foxhole humor. Wherever it happens, it is how men use the sometimes crass but always funny comment to force a laugh and encourage their brothers-in-arms.

You’re really going to kick me out?” “Yes, I really am.” Mrs. Wattlesbrook folded her arms. Jane bit her lip and bent her head back to look at the sky. Funny that it looked so far away. It felt as if it were pressing down on her head, shoving her into the dirt. What a mean bully of a sky. Much of the household was present now. Miss Heartwright was huddled with the main actors, whispering, like rubberneckers shocked at a roadside accident but unable to look away. A couple of gardeners strolled up as well, tools in hand. Martin wiped his brow, confusion (sadness?) heavy on his face. Jane was embarrassed to see him, remembering how she’d ended things, and feeling less than appealing at the moment. The whole scene was rather Hester Prynne, and Jane imagined herself on a scaffold with a scarlet C for “cell phone” on her chest. She realized she was still holding her croquet mallet and wondered that no one felt threatened by her. She hefted it. Would it be fun to bash in a window? Nah. She handed it to Miss Charming. “Go get ‘em, Charming.” “Okay,” Miss Charming said uncertainly. “If you would be so kind as to step into the carriage,” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook. Curse the woman. Jane had just started to have such fun, too. Why didn’t one of the gentlemen come forward to defend her? Wasn’t that, like, their whole purpose of existence? She supposed they’d be fired if they did. The cowards. She stood on the carriage’s little step and turned to face the others. She’d never left a relationship with the last word, something poetic and timeless, triumphant amid her downfall. Oh, for a perfect line! She opened her mouth, hoping something just right would come to her, but Miss Heartwright spoke first. “Mrs. Wattlesbrook! Oh dear, I have only now realized what transpired.” She lifted the hem of her skirts and minced her way to the carriage. “Please wait, this is all my fault. Poor Miss Erstwhile was only doing me a favor. You see, the modern contraption was mine. I did not realize I had it until I arrived, and I was so distressed, Miss Erstwhile kindly offered to keep it for me among her own things where I would not have to look upon it.” Jane stood very still. She thought to wonder what instinct made her body rigid when shocked. Was she prey by nature? A rabbit afraid to move when a hawk wheels overhead? Mrs. Wattlesbrook had not moved either, not even to blink. A silent minute limped forward as everyone waited. “I see,” the proprietress said at last. She looked at Jane, at Miss Heartwright, then fumbled with the keys at her side. “Well, now, ahem, since it was an accident, I think we should forget it ever happened. I do hope, Miss Heartwright, that you will continue to honor us with your presence.” Ah, you old witch, Jane thought. “Yes, of course, thank you.” Miss Heartwright was in her best form, all proper feminine concern, artless and pleasant. Her eyes twinkled. They really did. Everyone began to move off, nothing disturbing left to view. Jane caught a glimpse of Martin smiling, pleased, before he turned away. “I’m so sorry, Jane. I do hope you will forgive me.” “Please don’t mention it, Miss Heartwright.” “Amelia.” She held Jane’s hand to help her descend from the carriage. “You must call me Amelia now.” “Thank you, Amelia.” It was such a sisterly moment, Jane thought they might actually embrace. They didn’t.

comedy has to tell the truth.

When I started, I used to think that comedy was watching someone do something silly. We later came to realize that comedy was watching someone watch someone do something silly.” — John Cleese

The tragedy of many people’s lives is that, given a choice between being ‘right’ and having the opportunity to be happy, they invariably choose being ‘right.’ That is the one ultimate satisfaction they allow themselves.” — Nathaniel Branden

When you start middle school, you still hold the same negative score you racked up during your younger years. You may presume you can make new friends, but the liabilities of your past will sneak their way in somehow. Like it or not, your personal history becomes public domain in the form of funny stories and anecdotes. They have their fun, use it as a convenient communication tool, and then it's all over.

I’m looking out on the road the sky is bright the wind is cold. The wind my element it blows so hard, the sheer force of the world is felt in this air. I feel the life being ****** out and then in to my body at the same time such a beautiful sensation. This is the sensation right before you begin the Great Work when you feel the energy of the universe. The energy just whirling around in circles the path of lapis ruber or another path. But my journey if not for lapis philosophorum my journey is for blank, my mind is not for anything. The journey I travel is not for life it is not for death this journey is not for a **** thing in existence. My journey is for something much more what it is only one on the road will understand. So when I feel the wind blowing I ask myself is it time for me to move? Is it time to start? I am going to the center of the sun what will I do now that I’ve taken the first step has it all begun? It is not possible to turn back not in this particular journey. In this journey once you take a step, the platform you were walking on before is completely destroyed. It is swallowed up in the sea of what, the platform is consumed in the place of never-ending nothingness. Really it is not a place, it is swallowed in the void, so you can’t turn around even if you will it. Now I as I walk this path I sit here and I see the star, on it are five points. The five points of the star are all looking at me I just wonder if the look is inverted or upright. If it is observing me inverted what will I do? If it is watching me uprightly what can I do? These questions are both the same but which way is the star observing me. I couldn’t give a **** either way, but at certain points it seems I would give a ****, now why is that? See I’m on a spiraling path of this something, and it’s becoming clear, it’s not that I’m stepping forward. In this journey I am not stepping forward I am not stepping backwards I am doing much more. But I am stepping. That’s the beauty of this journey where time ceases to exist. It’s because at the end of this journey I might have explored the universe in its entirety. I may have went to the edge of this universe of motion and jumped off the edge. I would have slipped through the corners barely escaping the hound dogs of the barrier. And after facing the eternal beasts, I would have ended up back inside of the universe. It’s funny because after this timeless journey, I may have gained so much and time will have certainly passed. est ruber in terra, populous non est faciem in principia pater sol regnat in terra humanos est regnant. deus sol non est in oceanaia luna non est in caelum nocte quam quam non lux. non lux quam quam sol non est regnat. hominis the rise of the moon is so great that the light of the sun can be overtake. But the light of the moon come from the light of the sun there is nothing else that can actually and truly be done. What to be done is what to be given to all who want to go forward in the way of life. The path of love and the path of light leads to the same sources it is up to one of us to decide which one will be our tool. Back to what I was talking about the sand was awesome. The alpha and the omega a rise of the sun and the fall of the moon also rise of the moon and the fall of the sun.

One evening when I pulled up, Hunter had the Stereo cranking good and loud. He came out of the house and put this big bag of pot on the roof. One thing led to another, and Hunter dragged the couch out of the living room into the snow in the yard, poured gasoline onto it, and set it on fire. Then he walked back to the house with this huge ball of fire going up in the air. He looked me right in the eye and said, "I am a master of tools." A friend of his was ducking up from behind the burning couch firing tracer bullets out of a machine gun over the couch, and then Hunter said, "Holy shit!" In the glare of the flames, it looked like there was a thousand pounds of pot up on the roof. We expected the police would be on us any minute. "Jesus," Hunter said. "We'll go to prison for life.

There was still another 75 minutes left to play. It didn’t matter. Those 75 minutes would end up as a footnote on Carli Lloyd’s stunning performance—one of the most dominant displays in a championship game anywhere, ever. The Americans won the World Cup, 5–2, but it was the performance of a lifetime for Lloyd. When the whistle blew, Lloyd dropped to her knees and cried. Heather O’Reilly ran from the bench straight to Lloyd and slid into her. Soon all the players found their way to one another for a frantic mishmash of hugs. Afterward, in the post-match press conference, Japanese coach Norio Sasaki told reporters: “Ms. Lloyd always does this to us. In London she scored twice. Today she scored three times. So we’re embarrassed, but she’s excellent.” Lloyd, for her part, almost downplayed the performance. She believed she could’ve scored one more goal. “I visualized playing in the World Cup final and visualized scoring four goals,” Lloyd said. “It sounds pretty funny, but that’s what it’s all about. At the end of the day, you can be physically strong, you can have all the tools out there, but if your mental state isn’t good enough, you can’t bring yourself to bigger and better things.

Art feels like complete nonsense until you realize how much you need it, how it gives you the tools to survive in this world.

The most important mystery of ancient Egypt was presided over by a priesthood. That mystery concerned the annual inundation of the Nile flood plain. It was this flooding which made Egyptian agriculture, and therefore civilisation, possible. It was the centre of their society in both practical and ritual terms for many centuries; it made ancient Egypt the most stable society the world has ever seen. The Egyptian calendar itself was calculated with reference to the river, and was divided into three seasons, all of them linked to the Nile and the agricultural cycle it determined: Akhet, or the inundation, Peret, the growing season, and Shemu, the harvest. The size of the flood determined the size of the harvest: too little water and there would be famine; too much and there would be catastrophe; just the right amount and the whole country would bloom and prosper. Every detail of Egyptian life was linked to the flood: even the tax system was based on the level of the water, since it was that level which determined how prosperous the farmers were going to be in the subsequent season. The priests performed complicated rituals to divine the nature of that year’s flood and the resulting harvest. The religious elite had at their disposal a rich, emotionally satisfying mythological system; a subtle, complicated language of symbols that drew on that mythology; and a position of unchallenged power at the centre of their extraordinarily stable society, one which remained in an essentially static condition for thousands of years. But the priests were cheating, because they had something else too: they had a nilometer. This was a secret device made to measure and predict the level of flood water. It consisted of a large, permanent measuring station sited on the river, with lines and markers designed to predict the level of the annual flood. The calibrations used the water level to forecast levels of harvest from Hunger up through Suffering through to Happiness, Security and Abundance, to, in a year with too much water, Disaster. Nilometers were a – perhaps the – priestly secret. They were situated in temples where only priests were allowed access; Herodotus, who wrote the first outsider’s account of Egyptian life the fifth century BC, was told of their existence, but wasn’t allowed to see one. As late as 1810, thousands of years after the nilometers had entered use, foreigners were still forbidden access to them. Added to the accurate records of flood patters dating back centuries, the nilometer was an essential tool for control of Egypt. It had to be kept secret by the ruling class and institutions, because it was a central component of their authority. The world is full of priesthoods. The nilometer offers a good paradigm for many kinds of expertise, many varieties of religious and professional mystery. Many of the words for deliberately obfuscating nonsense come from priestly ritual: mumbo jumbo from the Mandinka word maamajomboo, a masked shamanic ceremonial dancer; hocus pocus from hoc est corpus meum in the Latin Mass. On the one hand, the elaborate language and ritual, designed to bamboozle and mystify and intimidate and add value; on the other the calculations that the pros make in private. Practitioners of almost every métier, from plumbers to chefs to nurses to teachers to police, have a gap between the way they talk to each other and they way they talk to their customers or audience. Grayson Perry is very funny on this phenomenon at work in the art world, as he described it in an interview with Brian Eno. ‘As for the language of the art world – “International Art English” – I think obfuscation was part of its purpose, to protect what in fact was probably a fairly simple philosophical point, to keep some sort of mystery around it. There was a fear that if it was made understandable, it wouldn’t seem important.

You can’t expect to meet the challenges of today with yesterday’s tools and expect to be in business tomorrow. - Raina Chapman

Reframe obstacles into challenges and the stress will dissolve completely. For instance, an embarrassing moment at work can seem funny when put in a long-term frame. When we change the frame we change the meaning. Was it a waste of time or was it a valuable lesson? Did you lose it all or did you get a fresh start? Reframing is one of the most powerful tools you can implement to change your state of mind.

Last thing: one Sunday evening about a year before all this we were on the telephone, my mother and I; it was just after we sold the house and she’d moved to the facility, where she was allowed a small sensible room and a few possessions. As we talked I was watching snow drift down the dusk outside, counting it, one hundred and five, one hundred and six, one hundred and seven, when out of a pause she said, ‘It’s funny to have no home’ — funny being a funny word for what she meant. I say this now to remind myself how words can squirt sideways, mute and mad; you think they are tools, or toys, or tame, and all at once they burn all your clothes off and you’re standing there singed and ridiculous in the glare of the lightning. I hung up the phone. I stared at the snow for some time. I expect she did too.

I thought the Vedas were a load of humbug and it didn’t matter which way you recited them. Some jobless Brahmin like my father, created them thousands of years ago. Instead of making themselves useful, the Brahmins prayed to the Gods they themselves invented for the rain, the sun, horses, cows and money and many other things. It must have been very cold, from whichever cursed places they came. Otherwise, why would they croak like frogs and appeal to the Gods after putting hundreds of assorted twigs into the fire? Perhaps I was prejudiced. I shouldn’t think that the work they were doing, as Yajnas, was useless. In fact, it served as a perfect tool to mint money and gain material favours. They were no fools-these Brahmins. They knew how to project even the mundane tasks of burning twigs as earth-shaking, scientific discoveries and claimed to tame the forces that controlled the world. And it was funny that the majority of people like the carpenters, masons and farmers who were doing something meaningful, had become supplicant to these jokers croaking under the warm sun, sweat pouring from their faces in front of a raging fire and chanting God knows what. They had a Yajna or a Puja for everything under the sun. If you had leprosy or a common cold, there was a God to whom you had to offer a special puja to appease him. You wanted your pestering wife to elope with your bothersome neighbour, there was a puja for that too. You wanted your cow to have a calf or your wife to have son, the Brahmin would help you. He would just conduct a Puja and a divine calf or son would be born. You curried favour with the Brahmins and your son would become the biggest pundit in the world by the age of sixteen. If not, he would perhaps become rowdy like me, who did not respect Brahmins or rituals. He would become a Rakshasa. I think there are many more Rakshasas among us now. Perhaps, it was because the ‘why?’ virus spread. Couldn’t the Brahmins conduct a puja so that our heads were cleared of sinful thoughts? This is something I have to ponder over when I have time.

Is it not funny, in the presence of an unlimited God, we will still be stucked? Sometimes faith overwrites the fact, that some people have not come to realise. Stop giving excuses and telling God what is happening around you. You have the tools.

It still seemed a bit funny to me that we stayed armed with garden tools. One would have thought we’d of come across weapons. Guns? Machetes? Harpoons? Anything. Guns had to be out there. It’s all that was in the news as of late. Civilians and their personal armory stashes. I loved my shovel, felt good in my hands, and now I had one of Josh’s hand shovels in my back pocket, too. Dave’s pitchfork was tough. He had Josh’s other hand shovel. And Allison seemed to have mastered the multitude of hedge clipper uses. We must have resembled crazed farmers scampering between trees and out into the back parking lot of the Distillery.

I went to a restaurant that serves ‘breakfast at any time.’ So I ordered French Toast during the Renaissance.

I studied him the way I studied all the people in my life, noticing the changes of his mood, the times when the edge of his patience came into view, even small physical details like the sickle-shaped scar on the top of his right forearm and the small flourish he made with his hand whenever he set down a tool, as if he was brushing bad air away from it.

The biggest myth about comedy is that it’s magical, unknowable, unteachable. Those who subscribe to that myth believe that the world is divided into two parts: those who are funny, and those who ain’t. And if you ain’t, well, sorry Charley, that’s all she wrote. I have a simple response to that: Bull.

For us, girls and women who often spend their entire lives thinking we are the “only ones,” fandoms are how we find one another—how we discover that we aren’t alone. That we can build real friendships and relationships, have meaningful dialogue, tell jokes that other people will actually find funny, and be valued for being our most real selves. They are the magic of authentic living—made very possible.

Humor has always been my tool of choice when confronting intolerance or ignorance, not only because “funny” material is much more likely to be shared (and thus seen), but also because I firmly believe we all, conservative or liberal, need to laugh more, even at ourselves, and even while standing up for our beliefs.

Some people are disappointed in their life because they are trying to use the tools that God did not authorised them to use in their life, trying to build on a purpose that is not even attached in their personality.

When she turned, Jake was standing over her. His nearness startled her. “Oh!” “Need my level.” Did the man not understand personal space? She stepped back. His lips twitched as he retrieved the tool. Not just the corner, but his whole lips. Not that she was looking. “Is something funny?” He reached toward her, his caramel eyes holding her captive. Her breath caught in her throat as his hand brushed the side of her face. The touch was nothing but a whisper, but it left a trail of fire. She couldn’t move if she tried. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to. He held up his finger, and she pulled her eyes from his. “Flour,” he said. Her scrambled brain took two full seconds, then she turned, wiping her cheek, hating the blush she knew was flooding her face as she exited the room.

Bones informed dryly, watching him arrange his study tools just perfectly. You know there is a name for what you're doing. I believe it's called ... Bones tapped his temple. Something, something, disorder. "Very funny," Reginald muttered in a sing song tone. "You should try actually paying attention when I study. If you did, you'd know it's called obsessive compulsive disorder, or OCD, but that's not what I'm doing. This is simply me being exactly orderly." Right.

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He had been shuffled out so quickly he didn’t even realize what he was wearing, like a King of Spades who wanted to file a complaint to the playing card company manufacturer for not drawing him a garden tool like he specifically asked for.

It was funny, he thought, how the ruins of the past shaped everything that came after. It seemed to work on all levels; one of the truths of the universe. Back in the ancient days, when humanity still lived entirely down a well, the paths laid down by Roman legions had become asphalt and later ferroconcrete without ever changing a curve or a turn. On Ceres, Eros, Tycho, the bore of the standard corridor had been determined by mining tools built to accommodate the trucks and lifts of Earth, which had in turn been designed to go down tracks wide enough for a mule cart’s axle.

Oh, how we use hard work as a great tool, condemning lazy people as great fools. But no sooner success we had achieved than we basked in the joy laziness gives! For truly, sloth is the foe of success: “Getting satisfaction from working less.” Funny but it’s, too, the fruit of success: “Getting pleasure from freedom from work’s stress.

But accusations were funny things: once planted they tended to grow. Watered by our access to instant information & fed by immoral media outlets, simply pointing a finger & laying blame was often enough to tarnish even the most unassailable reputation.

a joke needs to do its job. A joke needs to be funny. It’s great if it’s also thought provoking or somehow profound, but those are not the uttermost functions of a joke. A joke that’s not funny is not a joke. Now, a story is different in that a story doesn’t need to be funny. That said, a funny story needs to be funny. A sad story needs to be sad. An adventure or a thriller needs to be exciting, and a scary story needs to be (drumroll, please) scary. Going in and telling a story means knowing what the story needs to do, and then tweaking it to do that. Comedians don’t just blurt out hilarious shit all day. They aren’t joke robots. They craft their humor. They practice their bits on stage and in front of people; they tweak the timing, they change the silences and applause breaks, they fidget with word choice. And a story is like that, too. Sure, it sounds natural and spontaneous, like you’re just some erupting story volcano, but the truth is, stories are practiced entities. The best tales are those that have gone through countless drafts and countless retellings to get that precious bowl of bear porridge just right.

Trump’s on the case.’ ‘That’s wonderful news, Mr Trill. Because, if I may offer a personal opinion in the strictest of confidence, Mr Trump isn’t the sharpest tool in the box.’ ‘No, Morty. In fact, I don’t even think he’s in the box.

While you can't teach someone to be more talented, you can teach someone to act and write to the best of their ability.

The genius of comedy is that it loves humanity without necessarily forgiving it.

Comedy is the art of telling the truth about what it's like to be human.

Comedy sees all our flaws, and foibles, and failings, and still doesn't hate us for them.

Most days I look like s**t. Today wasn’t much different. I always tell myself lies about how I will work out more or look better. I’m great at making plans in my head, coordinating the steps I’d need to be successful, but I’m not that good at following them. In that moment, my plan is the best thing ever. The idea is revolutionary and will change the world. Until it sits in a pile on the floor in my room with other “great plans” I’ve come up with and one day I learn that the idea wasn’t so original after all. Someone much smarter than me and more determined and organized created it. If this story is not found in a pile in my room, I’d be surprised. Yeah, even when I look good, I look bad. I have so much black under my eyes from lack of sleep you’d think that I was emo. I look like I am ready to kill someone when I’m exhausted (which is more often than not). It is funny to me since I’m not that pessimistic of a person but people who don’t know me and only see my exhaustion may confuse it for anger. Oh no, that guy may blow up a school. He may shoot this place up. I swear I’ve never even thought about doing such crazy things. I just looked p***ed off when I’m tired. What makes my already appealing appearance even worse is that I hate getting haircuts. I never did like sitting in the barber chair as a stranger cuts my hair, using those absurd tools to be precise with my hair follicles. I sit there hoping the guy doesn’t go all Van Gogh on me, and when it is over, I’m always asked how I think it looks. Like I know anything about that. Because now I’m an expert in fashionable hairstyles after sitting in a raised chair for five minutes. A few times I’ve gone in to get a haircut and told the guy it was awesome only to get home and realize it was awful. That was when I went a bunch. Now I will only get like two or three haircuts a year. That is how much I hate it.