Tosh Quotes

I think many of the boundaries that convention has placed upon us are arbitrary, so we can fiddle with them if we fancy. Gravity's hard to dispute, and breathing, but a lot of things we instinctively obey are a lot of old tosh.

I was drinking tea the other day, and I thought: they used to fight wars over this.

It's not a stereotype if it's always true.

I came up with my own expression. I like to make it hail. Yeah. That's when you throw change on sluts.

And being an "equal opportunity offender"—as in, "It's okay, because Daniel Tosh makes fun of ALL people: women, men, AIDS victims, dead babies, gay guys, blah blah blah"—falls apart when you remember (as so many of us are forced to all the time) that all people are not in equal positions of power. "Oh, don't worry—I punch everyone in the face! People, baby ducks, a lion, this Easter Island statue, the ocean…" Okay, well that baby duck is dead now.

Are they real fires? Or are people just reacting to something? Just because there’s an alarm going doesn’t mean it’s a fire. And I think that people are confusing the two. It’s only a fire when it offends the fans, and the fans turn on you. Tosh has fans, and they get the joke. If you’ve watched enough Tracy Morgan, you let the worst thing go by. When did Tracy Morgan become Walter Cronkite? You have to mean something to me to offend me. You can’t break up with me if we don’t date.

I am not a politician... I only suffer the consequences.

To have the truth in your possession you can be found guilty, sentenced to death.

I am, indeed, against all proselyters, whether they be on my side or on some other side. What moves nine-tenths of them, I believe, is simply the certainty of the result that I have just mentioned. Their lofty pretensions are all tosh. The thing they yearn for is the satisfaction of making someone unhappy: that yearning is almost as universal among them as thirst is in dry Congressmen.

Fiction has two uses. Firstly, it’s a gateway drug to reading. The drive to know what happens next, to want to turn the page, the need to keep going, even if it’s hard, because someone’s in trouble and you have to know how it’s all going to end … that’s a very real drive. And it forces you to learn new words, to think new thoughts, to keep going. To discover that reading per se is pleasurable. Once you learn that, you’re on the road to reading everything. And reading is key. There were noises made briefly, a few years ago, about the idea that we were living in a post-literate world, in which the ability to make sense out of written words was somehow redundant, but those days are gone: words are more important than they ever were: we navigate the world with words, and as the world slips onto the web, we need to follow, to communicate and to comprehend what we are reading. People who cannot understand each other cannot exchange ideas, cannot communicate, and translation programs only go so far. The simplest way to make sure that we raise literate children is to teach them to read, and to show them that reading is a pleasurable activity. And that means, at its simplest, finding books that they enjoy, giving them access to those books, and letting them read them. I don’t think there is such a thing as a bad book for children. Every now and again it becomes fashionable among some adults to point at a subset of children’s books, a genre, perhaps, or an author, and to declare them bad books, books that children should be stopped from reading. I’ve seen it happen over and over; Enid Blyton was declared a bad author, so was RL Stine, so were dozens of others. Comics have been decried as fostering illiteracy. It’s tosh. It’s snobbery and it’s foolishness. There are no bad authors for children, that children like and want to read and seek out, because every child is different. They can find the stories they need to, and they bring themselves to stories. A hackneyed, worn-out idea isn’t hackneyed and worn out to them. This is the first time the child has encountered it. Do not discourage children from reading because you feel they are reading the wrong thing. Fiction you do not like is a route to other books you may prefer. And not everyone has the same taste as you. Well-meaning adults can easily destroy a child’s love of reading: stop them reading what they enjoy, or give them worthy-but-dull books that you like, the 21st-century equivalents of Victorian “improving” literature. You’ll wind up with a generation convinced that reading is uncool and worse, unpleasant. We need our children to get onto the reading ladder: anything that they enjoy reading will move them up, rung by rung, into literacy. [from, Why our future depends on libraries, reading and daydreaming]

You never miss the water til the well runs dry...

Some goin' east; and-a some goin' west, Some stand aside to try their best. Some livin' big, but the most is livin' small. They just can't even find no food at all.

Everyone is crying out for peace... I need equal rights and justice.

Sometimes I cross my own line...it's how I know I still have one.

It’s not a matter of Dad sitting down with his preadolescent son and incorporating 'Don’t be a criminal!' into the 'birds and the bees' talk. (I mean, that couldn’t hurt, probably. But it’s not the point.) It’s about teaching our boys to actively oppose sexual violence. It’s all well and good to say you’re against rape and would never rape anyone, end of story. But somewhere in that crowd of guys laughing about an unconscious girl getting 'a wang in the butthole, dude'—and the one listening to Daniel Tosh say, 'Wouldn’t it be funny if she got gang-raped right now?' and the one reading an op-ed in the Washington Post that puts 'sexual assault' in quotation marks, as though it exists only in the eye of the beholder—somewhere in all of those crowds is the guy who would rape someone. The guy who will rape someone. The guy who has raped someone. And could you blame any of those guys for thinking that rape is not a serious crime, or even something to be particularly ashamed of, when so many 'good' guys around them are laughing at the same jokes?

we got beat to shit tonite. beat to shit. i know tosh is hurt worse than shes letting on, and james must be banged up a treat. owen too, but hes playing it all macho.

Load of old tosh,” said Peter, crossly.

I was always unfailingly polite to Ladon-Tosh. I didn’t care if he never looked at me or spoke to me. I just wanted him to know that he had a friend in me.

La tournée terminée, Tom et Roger pensèrent qu'après le succès de I Shot The Sheriff, ce serait bien de descendre dans les Caraïbes pour continuer sur le thème du reggae. Ils organisèrent un voyage en Jamaïque, où ils jugeaient qu'on pourrait fouiner un peu et puiser dans l'influence roots avant d'enregistrer. Tom croyait fermement au bienfait d'exploiter cette source, et je n'avais rien contre puisque ça voulait dire que Pattie et moi aurions une sorte de lune de miel. Kingston était une ville où il était fantastique de travailler. On entendant de la musique partout où on allait. Tout le monde chantait tout le temps, même les femmes de ménage à l'hotel. Ce rythme me rentrait vraiment dans le sang, mais enregistrer avec les Jamaïcains était une autre paire de manches. Je ne pouvais vraiment pas tenir le rythme de leur consommation de ganja, qui était énorme. Si j'avais essayé de fumer autant ou aussi souvent, je serais tombé dans les pommes ou j'aurais eu des hallucinations. On travaillait aux Dynamic Sound Studios à Kingston. Des gens y entraient et sortaient sans arrêt, tirant sur d'énormes joints en forme de trompette, au point qu'il y avait tant de fumée dans la salle que je ne voyais pas qui était là ou pas. On composait deux chansons avec Peter Tosh qui, affalé sur une chaise, avait l'air inconscient la plupart du temps. Puis, soudain, il se levait et interprétait brillamment son rythme reggae à la pédale wah-wah, le temps d'une piste, puis retombait dans sa transe à la seconde où on s'arrêtait.

I couldn't have written [What Good Are The Arts?] because I--and I'm not alone, by any means--do not have Carey's breadth of reading, nor his calm, wry logic, which enables him to demolish the arguments of just about everyone who has ever talked tosh about objective aesthetic principles. And this group, it turns out, includes anyone who has ever talked about objective aesthetic principles.

anything you want to know about Kingston’s green versus orange war, everything you ever need to know about the rudeboy-cum-gunman is not in Bob Marley’s lyrics or in Peter Tosh’s but in Marty Robbins’s “Big Iron.” He’s

Marketing, much like religion, is an act of mercy. People put their faith in a higher power, and in doing so, absolve themselves of all worry and doubt. Without ad men to repackage the truth, the world would be a much scarier place.

As long as you keep everything you say slightly unclear you can wait to see what the general consensus is before you ascribe it a value. By leaving the option on the table to say, ‘Yeah, that’s what I meant,’ you can always be on the right side of history.

Well, er…it’s…well, it’s…it’s symbolic, Archchancellor.” “Ah?” The Senior Wrangler felt that something more was expected. He groped around in the dusty attics of his education. “Of…the leaves, d’y’see…they’re symbolic of…of green, d’y’see, whereas the berries, in fact, yes, the berries symbolize…symbolize white. Yes. White and green. Very…symbolic.” He waited. He was not, unfortunately, disappointed. “What of?” The Senior Wrangler coughed. “I’m not sure there has to be an of,” he said. “Ah? So,” said the Archchancellor, thoughtfully, “it could be said that the white and green symbolize a small parasitic plant?” “Yes, indeed,” said the Senior Wrangler. “So mistletoe, in fact, symbolizes mistletoe?” “Exactly, Archchancellor,” said the Senior Wrangler, who was now just hanging on. “Funny thing, that,” said Ridcully, in the same thoughtful tone of voice. “That statement is either so deep it would take a lifetime to fully comprehend every particle of its meaning, or it is a load of absolute tosh. Which is it, I wonder?

Music is psychology. And if the music does not penetrate the heart, the soul, the mind and the body, then you ain't gonna feel it. Because reggae music is not something you hear, it's something you feel. And if you don't feel it, you can't know it. It is a spiritual music with spiritual ingredients for spiritual purposes.

When that woman stood up and said, “No, rape is not funny,” she did not consent to participating in a culture that encourages lax attitudes toward sexual violence and the concerns of women. Rape humor is what encourages a man to feel comfortable tweeting to Daniel Tosh, “the only ppl who are mad at you are the feminist bitches who never get laid and hope they get raped so they can get laid,” which is one of the idiotic, Pavlovian responses a certain kind of person has when women have the nerve to suggest that they don’t find sexual violence amusing. In that man’s universe, women who get properly laid are totally fine with rape humor. A satisfied vagina is a balm in Gilead.

Solve the problem; find the solution. It's a simple equation.

Face down, ass up, that's the way we both got stuck

Fret not thyself because of evildoers Neither be thou envious against the workers of inequity For they shall soon be cut down, cut down like grass And they shall wither like herb.

I'm on my way to happiness, where I can find some peace and rest.

Put that on a postcard: "San Francisco; more butt-fucking per square inch...miss you".

In 1976, Michel Foucault was the first to argue that sexual identity was a modern evolution, and that to speak of hetero- or homosexuality in the pre-modern era was anachronistic.

The food they eat might not be as appealing as sausages or curry, but at least the people of North Korea don’t have to wait for Kim Jong-un to push his policy through a hostile senate.

Tosh throws up her hands. 'Tell me what you want!' What I want... To smell the desert after rain? To awake each morning beneath a soft Cheyenne blanket, skin still heavy with his scent? To rip out the flawed cog inside of me that brought it all to a screeching halt, then wind back through the years and do everything all over again. Perhaps that is what I want. A different ending.

...and you wanted to cut her to ribbons to avenge me?" From Nina that was practically a Valentine. "But I don't, I just disarm her. I think maybe you are right Luchik, justice over vengeance." "Bloody hell, woman, have I actually made a dent in you?" She jabbed him in the ribs. "I make a few in you, too." Yes, you have, Ian thought, and not just the fact that I'm addicted to your paperback regency tosh.

How can what is not only dead and gone, but remote and sometimes alien, have any practical bearing on today's world? The answer is that, paradoxically, the value of the past lies precisely in what is different from our world. By giving us another vantage point, it enables us to look at our own circumstances with sharper vision, alert to the possibility that they might have been different, and that they will probably turn out differently in the future.

Good people sometimes have bad days. But, as they add up, rejoice; because, then you multiply the sum by tenfold and you have the equivalent of good days and good things to come. Remember this equation and never let the worst of times get the best of your days.

I don’t think there is such a thing as a bad book for children. Every now and again it becomes fashionable among some adults to point at a subset of children’s books, a genre, perhaps, or an author, and to declare them bad books, books that children should be stopped from reading. I’ve seen it happen over and over; Enid Blyton was declared a bad author, so was R. L. Stine, so were dozens of others. Comics have been decried as fostering illiteracy. It’s tosh. It’s snobbery and it’s foolishness. There are no bad authors for children, that children like and want to read and seek out, because every child is different.

Of all the places I hate, I think I might hate Melbourne the most. They’ve got a Labor premier, the only federal Greens MP, Adam Bandt, comes from there and they follow AFL, which is the sporting equivalent of watching a herd of gazelles run around an oval for two hours. Only in Melbourne, the snowflake capital of the world, would you get a point for missing a goal.

It had simply revealed to her once more the real point of view of the people he and she lived among, had shown her that, in spite of the superficial difference, he felt as they felt, judged as they judged, was blind as they were-and as she would be expected to be, should she once again become one of them. What was the use of being placed by fortune above such shifts and compromises, if in one's heart one still condoned them? And she would have to--she would catch the general note, grow blunted as those other people were blunted, and gradually come to wonder at her own revolt, as Strefford now honestly wondered at it. She felt as though she were on the point of losing some new-found treasure, a treasure precious only to herself, but beside which all he offered her was nothing, the triumph of her wounded pride nothing, the security of her future nothing.

Rowan coughed and spluttered on his gulp of beer. “I’ve never played with my pussy,” he said with an amused glint in his eye.” Her cheeks heated at his dirty language, but the tingles running under her skin made her aware of her reaction to being alone in the hotel room with Rowan, sitting on the big bed and playing silly games. “I’ve never touched a woman’s breasts beside my own.” “I’ve never given a blow job.” “I’ve never received a blow job,” she said, tilting the mini wine bottle to her mouth and realizing it was empty. “I’ve never played I never with a woman I love before,” he said, setting his beer can on the nightstand with a clink. “I’ve never kissed a man in a hotel room before.” She pressed forward onto her hands and knees to reach and kiss him. Their lips lingered for a long moment before she leaned back and waited for his next I never. “I’ve never removed a woman’s shirt in a hotel room.” Now it was his turn to lean forward and tug her sweater up over her head. She thought long and hard about her next words, knowing he would act on whatever she said. “I’ve never ordered a man to take off his shirt in a hotel room,” she said finally and watched happily as he removed his long sleeve navy cotton T–shirt. She’d never tire of seeing his smooth skin over hard pectorals. A narrow line of hair trailed down the center of his belly disappearing into jeans. She’d licked her way along that line yesterday and licked her lips now in anticipation of tasting him again. “I’ve never kissed a woman’s nipples in a hotel room,” he said. In a flash, her bra was flying through the air to land in a pile on the carpet in front of the window, and Rowan’s mouth was on her breasts. Sensation spiraled through her as she shuddered and her arousal built. She’d been on edge since their heated kisses in the car in the parking lot, and it didn’t take much for Rowan’s tongue to turn her into a shuddering, needy wanton. “I think this game has turned from I Never into Truth or Dare,” she said, clasping Rowan’s head to her chest. He pulled away from his decadent kisses to look her in the face. “Let’s do it. Dare me, Jill.” The look in his eye told her she might’ve taken on more than she could handle. Though she’d been an active participant in their lovemaking up to now, Rowan had taken the lead and guided her. She had the power here. The question was what to do with it. “I dare you to”—she licked her lips thoughtfully—“I dare you to get naked and lie on your back. Eyes closed,” she added. When all was as she wanted, she leaned over him and planted a kiss on his lips. Then she kissed her way down his body, stopping at all the best spots. His chin, where his unshaven beard scratched at her skin. His pectorals, one nipple, then another. His belly button. “You’re ticklish,” she observed. “Yeah.” Then she made her way lower to his erection, lying over his belly pointing at the chin. She freaking loved his body and how it reacted to her every touch. Being alone with him in the hotel room was even better. Here there were no echoes of footsteps in the hallway, no clock ticking signaling the end of their hour together, no narrow bed forcing them to get creative in their positions. They had a king–size bed and a whole night to explore. Kneeling at the side, she took him in her mouth, eliciting a moan. His musky taste filled her mouth, and she lovingly used her tongue to drive him wild. His hand found the crease of her jeans between her legs and explored her while she used her mouth on him. She parted her legs, giving him better access, and it was all she could do to concentrate on giving him pleasure when he was making her feel so good. She wanted to straddle him so bad. The temptation to stop the foreplay and ride this thing to completion was great, but she held off. “Are you ready for me?” Rowan asked. “You want my cock in you?” His eyes remained closed, and a smile lingered on his face.

No, no one thought that a spontaneous gang rape was going to take place just then on the stage of the Laugh Factory. But the threat of sexual violence never fully leaves women's peripheral vision. The point of Tosh's 'joke' was to remind that woman that she is vulnerable. More importantly, it reinforces the idea that comedy belongs to men. Therefore, men must be correct when they tell us what comedy is.

came to a close, he saw again the blinding flash of green light, more clearly than he had ever remembered it before — and he remembered something else, for the first time in his life: a high, cold, cruel laugh. Hagrid was watching him sadly. “Took yeh from the ruined house myself, on Dumbledore’s orders. Brought yeh ter this lot . . .” “Load of old tosh,” said Uncle Vernon. Harry jumped; he had almost forgotten that the Dursleys were there. Uncle Vernon certainly seemed to have got back his courage. He was

My heart is like lead in my chest, a heavy weight dragging me down. Lily does not have a family. She can’t run to a brother or sister and get advice. There’s no shoulder to cry on, no Nana to talk to—she’s alone. That hurts me. I don’t want that for her. I want to be the one she knows she can rely on, the one who will always be there. But I also need to respect her wishes right now, and let her have some alone time, as much as it hurts to walk away right now.

His sense of histrionics was far from being tosh. And he acted with soft panache and clarity of mind and vision. The dialogue he partook in spelt the limitless verve in freeway, sound-like pantomime. Thanks a bunch, Christopher Lee.

Preamble The Klassik Era was a cultural and musical revolution that swept through Kenya and East Africa in the early 2010s. It was a time of bold experimentation, fearless expression, and unapologetic individuality that challenged the norms of mainstream music and culture. For the first time, young people from the ghettos and slums of Nairobi, Mombasa, and Kisumu could see themselves represented and celebrated in the music and arts scene, and their voices and stories were given a platform like never before. The Klassik Era was characterized by a fusion of different musical genres and styles, from hip-hop and reggae to dancehall and afro-pop, to create a sound that was uniquely Kenyan and African. It was a time when young artists and producers like Blame It On Don (DON SANTO), Kingpheezle, Jilly Beatz, Tonnie Tosh, Kenny Rush, and many others came together under Klassik Nation, a record label that would change the face of Kenyan music forever. The Klassik Era was also marked by a sense of community and camaraderie, with young people from all walks of life coming together to support each other's art and creativity. It was a time when collaborations and features were the norm, and when artists and producers worked together to create something new and exciting. But the Klassik Era was not without its challenges and controversies. It was a time when the Kenyan music industry was dominated by a few powerful players who controlled the airwaves and the mainstream narrative, and who were resistant to change and innovation. It was a time when artists and producers had to fight tooth and nail to get their music played on the radio and to gain recognition and respect from their peers. Despite these challenges, the Klassik Era left an indelible mark on the Kenyan music industry and on the cultural landscape of Africa. It was a time of creativity, passion, and rebellion that inspired a generation of young people to dream big and to believe that anything was possible. This book is a tribute to that era and to the artists and producers who made it all possible.

part of the battle, before things had gone from bad to worse. Alem imagined himself in Tosh’s position, with death coming

Why not? I thought we were speaking of death and dishonour? You would advance to your grave and I should join the ranks of your numerous dead: Diccon and Salablanca, Tosh and Christian Stewart; Oonagh; Will Scott and his father; Turkey Mat and Tom Erskine; the dog Luadhas; the child Khaireddin.… What shall I say to your son when I meet him? Don’t be surprised: your sire loved me also?’

Not that she wanted to—she’d always been less of a shit-talker and more of a shit-thinker, and she barely left the house.

Attribution given to the Honorable Robert Nesta Marley, Peter Tosh, Jimmy Cliff, Marcus Garvey, Usain Bolt, the Honorable Portia Simpson-Miller, Louise Bennett, Grace Jones, and Shelly-Ann Fraser-Pryce. Deepest gratitude to all the leaders that continue to inspire us to be our best selves.

Ah? So,’ said the Archchancellor, thoughtfully, ‘it could be said that the white and green symbolize a small parasitic plant?’ ‘Yes, indeed,’ said the Senior Wrangler. ‘So mistletoe, in fact, symbolizes mistletoe?’ ‘Exactly, Archchancellor,’ said the Senior Wrangler, who was now just hanging on. ‘Funny thing, that,’ said Ridcully, in the same thoughtful tone of voice. ‘That statement is either so deep it would take a lifetime to fully comprehend every particle of its meaning, or it is a load of absolute tosh. Which is it, I wonder?’ ‘It could be both,’ said the Senior Wrangler desperately. ‘And that comment,’ said Ridcully, ‘is either very perceptive, or very trite.’ ‘It might be bo—

So the first thing is to question or ponder or wonder about something. The second is to create or invent a solution or a new idea. The third is to”—she paused, trying to summarize the discussion we had just had—“evaluate and assess whether it’s a good idea.

I hate them.” “Pity them, Emmon,” Tosh said, “because the world they live in is small, and when it gets bigger fast, they won’t know what to do.

Peter Tosh came through a few months later, saying grudgingly that at least Bob’s death would make room for other artists to be noticed—a belligerent stance that cost him the support of many of his fans. But he had a very warm and humorous side to him too, and over the next seven years we grew close and I interviewed him several times for Reggae Beat

She’s like sunshine on my face. Warm and bright. I feel like I’ve been living in the shade, in a dark corner, and rather than dragging me kicking and screaming out of it—like so many people have tried to—she’s just shifted over a little bit to share her light.

Same-sex contact between men was part of the fabric of everyday life. But to raise a hue and cry about such contact was also a weapon in the arsenal of the slanderer, the fabulist and the blackmailer.

As long as Tosh was home, I kept wishing he'd stop crabbing so much. But now I missed his crabbing. I couldn't crab the way he could, and things kept building up in me. All this reserve and discipline and patience and self-sacrifice only wore you down and made you feel real low.

Father wasn't as haughty as Tosh said. It was the Japanese way, face was that much more important, like the starving samurai who walks around with a toothpick in his mouth, pretending he'd just eaten. You covered up more, and it was rough when you were the one being covered up or you were holding up somebody else's face. But everybody did it... Face was pretending to be perfect or there was nothing wrong, and either way the losing of face meant exposure and shame. You ended up pretending and hiding too much, you ended up with all kinds of skeletons which shouldn't have been skeletons in any closet. You ended up covering for those above you, even defending their wrongs as right.

My own children grew up with a Newfoundland dog named TOsh. It is true that Newfoundlands smell of the sea. They also smell of slobber, dog food, and whatever they have rolled in most recently.

Men commonly criticize women, and women scientists especially, for an over-abundance of sentiment. The reasoning goes that we feel too deeply; and our feelings, being unscientific, damage our scholarly detachment. Thus, by the logic of this syllogism, women are unsuited to scientific work. I have given this a variety of responses over the years, some longer and more elaborately constructed than others, but this being a memoir (and therefore by definition personal in tone), I will simply say that this is utter tosh.

At the same time, she couldn’t say she was fully in favor of marriage, either. Marital union, she reflected as she swathed herself in a woolen blanket and stepped out onto the balcony to watch the sunset, was definitely for women of a different kind. Women with a certain flexibility of character, biddable women, women who were comfortable with such concepts as compromise or accommodation. Miss Prim was definitely not one of those. She couldn’t see herself compromising over anything. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to—she’d always valued the concept in the abstract—she just couldn’t imagine it in practice. She had a certain resistance, she’d realized in various situations throughout her life, to relinquishing, even in part, her view of things. While she found this resistance tiresome, in some ways she was also inwardly proud of it. Why should she concede that a certain composer was superior to another, she told herself, remembering a heated argument about music at the house of friends, when she was absolutely sure that he wasn’t?

She doesn’t have the heart to question Bernie about what he knows about Jamaican cuisine, much less how he plans to influence it. Neither does she have the heart to disappoint him by telling him that she’s not into Bob Marley; that Bob Marley was forbidden in her household; that she’d rather listen to Peter Tosh, since Uncle Curtis told her he wrote most of Bob’s lyrics anyway. She still thinks it’s unfair that Peter is the lesser known of the two. Maybe that’s how it is—maybe life favors certain people and relegates the rest to living in their shadows.