Typo Quotes

I’ve always felt that the best place to hide a body is in the trunk of a cop car, with a note affixed to the body that reads, “I’m sorry.

I want to protect innocent people from sin by locking them in cages, where the evil can't get to them.

The only time I really think is when I smoke, and I quit smoking years ago.

I’ve often wondered why more science textbooks don’t tell teenagers that the only thing sharks like to eat more than fish, are dead prostitutes.

There Are Two Typos Of People In This World: Those Who Can Edit And Those Who Can’t

Sometimes I wish Jim Morrison were still alive, because I'd love to see a concert in which "The Doors" opened up for "The Cars.

I have a real problem keeping friends. I'm always running out of space in my freezer.

My close friends are fond of telling me that I put the “yalt” in loyalty. Well, I don’t know if I’d go that far with it, but yeah, I guess I am a pretty yalty person.

I’d love to work with an Asian guy named Wu Hu, because just saying his name would get me all pumped up and excited.

Flowers and fear are a lot alike. For one, flowers and fear have a distinct smell, and two, I’m currently trying to grow both in my garden.

Moral codes are like the ocean. Some people live by them, while others, such as myself, would rather live by a lake.

My father was incredibly indecisive. As an example, take his wedding day. He couldn't decide where to sit in the getaway car, decide the fact he was supposed to be driving.

I once bought my producer a case of Mountain Dew, his favorite soda, as a thank you for all he'd done for me. He was really surprised - his favorite drink is actually 7UP. But he complimented me for getting the color of the can right.

If you didn't already know, game show talent works fewer days a year than almost every profession, except maybe members of Congress.

I love tables. And dancing. Oh, and I love table dancing, although Grandmother always says, "Wait until we're finished eating.

There are two typos of people in this world: those who can edit, and those who can't.

The best part about being kidnapped is being blindfolded and getting kicked into the trunk of a car. Boy, normally I have to beg my friends to treat me that well.

I can imagine few worse fates than walking around for the rest of one's life wearing a typo.

Scientists estimate the universe unfolded from its state of infinite destiny* - a moment commonly referred to as "the big bang" - approximately 1.3-2 x 10^10 years ago. *Typo: "destiny" should read "density.

I’m a businessman,” he’d told her. “No more, no less.” “You’re a thief, Kaz.” “Isn’t that what I just said?

I make art for one person and one person only. And as soon as I find that one person, I sure hope he has a lot of wall space, because he’ll be getting a lot of art from me.

I got the job as a Bingo host and did better than they imagined. Never before had they had an emcee so affable and funny, so enthusiastic to give away prizes, or so quick to make a tumor joke after calling out 'B-9'".

I don't want to work a 9-5 job, because 20 hours a day is just too much.

I’m glad scrambled eggs don’t have lips, because when I’m grinning over a hearty breakfast, it would really freak me out to see my breakfast grinning back. I’ve eaten a man for less than that.

The other day I went to the Huddle House. I wasn’t hungry, I just wanted to call some plays.

I saw a bottle of conditioner the other day that said, "Family Size," and I thought, That's odd, I didn't know too many families showered together.

My parents always said that knowledge was the best gift they could give me, probably because they were too cheap to buy me Christmas or Birthday presents.

If writers write, then rangers range. And I’d like to wake up every morning and be a mother, so I could eat my own clothes.

He’s been known to obsess over typos in e-mails to the point that he could not see past the errors and read the actual content of the messages. Even in social settings, Musk might get up from the dinner table without a word of explanation to head outside and look at the stars, simply because he’s not willing to suffer fools or small talk.

I want to create moonglasses, and then write a song called, "I Wear My Moonglasses at Noon." Hopefully, with a little lunar luck, my track will also feature Corey Hart.

I told the waitress I wanted some coffee. She asked if I wanted leaded of unleaded, so I had to leave the restaurant, because I quit drinking gasoline years ago.

I didn’t feel like buying him the jacket he asked for for Christmas, so I just got him a coat hanger with a sticky note attached that read, “Here’s something for you to hang your dreams on, pal.

I bet you've seen the fundamentalist bumper sticker that says, "God said it! I believe it! That settles it!" It must be a typo because what the driver really means is, "I said it! God believes it! That settles it!

Grandpa always used to make me ride in the bed of his pickup truck, so he could keep up his conversations with the 100-pound sack of manure he kept buckled up in the passenger seat. Grandpa said all they ever talked about was grass, but I know Grandpa used to do a little flirting, too.

Sometimes I'll spend an hour writing a tiny email. I work on it until I've created the illusion that I've dashed it off in three minutes. If I make a typo, I let it stand. Sometimes in fact I correct the typo without thinking, and then I back up and retype the typo so that it'll look more casual. I don't know why.

One piece of wisdom a writer quickly learns ~ typos keep you humble.

I was told The average girl begins to plan her wedding at the age of 7 She picks the colors and the cake first By the age of 10 She knows time, And location By 17 She’s already chosen a gown 2 bridesmaids And a maid of honor By 23 She’s waiting for a man Who wont break out in hives when he hears the word “commitment” Someone who doesn’t smell like a Band-Aid drenched in lonely Someone who isn’t a temporary solution to the empty side of the bed Someone Who’ll hold her hand like it’s the only one they’ve ever seen To be honest I don’t know what kind of tux I’ll be wearing I have no clue what want my wedding will look like But I imagine The women who pins my last to hers Will butterfly down the aisle Like a 5 foot promise I imagine Her smile Will be so large that you’ll see it on google maps And know exactly where our wedding is being held The woman that I plan to marry Will have champagne in her walk And I will get drunk on her footsteps When the pastor asks If I take this woman to be my wife I will say yes before he finishes the sentence I’ll apologize later for being impolite But I will also explain him That our first kiss happened 6 years ago And I’ve been practicing my “Yes” For past 2, 165 days When people ask me about my wedding I never really know what to say But when they ask me about my future wife I always tell them Her eyes are the only Christmas lights that deserve to be seen all year long I say She thinks too much Misses her father Loves to laugh And she’s terrible at lying Because her face never figured out how to do it correctl I tell them If my alarm clock sounded like her voice My snooze button would collect dust I tell them If she came in a bottle I would drink her until my vision is blurry and my friends take away my keys If she was a book I would memorize her table of contents I would read her cover-to-cover Hoping to find typos Just so we can both have a few things to work on Because aren’t we all unfinished? Don’t we all need a little editing? Aren’t we all waiting to be proofread by someone? Aren’t we all praying they will tell us that we make sense She don’t always make sense But her imperfections are the things I love about her the most I don’t know when I will be married I don’t know where I will be married But I do know this Whenever I’m asked about my future wife I always say …She’s a lot like you

I believe it was Thursday; my last memory was Tuesday night, and I did not use to die more than two days in a row.

A friend of mine once told me that, no matter how much you proofread, the first time you open the final version of your book, you will find a typo on the very first page you look at. Ugh.

The girl's cigarette released this shocking pink smoke reserved for the feminine genre.

Just because of that one disastrous blind date she had last year, where the guy turned out to be fifty-nine, not thirty-nine (He claimed it was a typo. Yeah, I’m sure his finger just happened to slip two spaces to the left).

Faithful heart may have froward tongue.

I confess... if I typo a Facebook post I will edit it. I know it's only Facebook but it's an editing sickness.

This was the site of one of my best typos of all time. You haven’t lived til you’ve seen Daveed read: “As long as he can hold a pen, he’s a treat!

I always thought the name of Utah’s major newspaper was some sort of weird misspelling of the word “desert.” But no, Deseret is the “land of the honeybee,” according to the Book of Mormon. I guess I should have figured they would have caught a typo in the masthead after 154 years.

If the world were coming to an end tomorrow, I’d probably call in sick to work.

Life is like a good book; There is bound to be typos and errors in it, but the only ones that noticed them are the critics and haters.

It’s been said that the most successful people are often early risers. So that’s why I started getting up in the afternoon, which is well before any “successful” person even thinks of going to bed.

Typos are worse than facism.

P.S. A typo? No, Winnow. I simply forgot to add a footnote, which should have read as: *outshine: transitive verb a. to shine brighter than b. to excel in splendor or showiness You remember how you said that word to me in the infirmary, post-trenches? You believed I had come to the Bluff to outshine you. And I would speak this word back to you now, but only because I would love to see you burn with splendor. I would love to see your words catch fire with mine.

I wrote this because someone put a gun to my head and said, “Write.” And do you know how long it takes to type with one hand while your other hand is shaking from holding a loaded Sig Sauer? Well, at least twice as long.

Time travel is awesome....And useful. That sentence had a typo when I typed it...The first time.

Elizabeth incorporated the company as Real-Time Cures, which an unfortunate typo turned into “Real-Time Curses” on early employees’ paychecks. She later changed the name to Theranos, a combination of the words “therapy” and “diagnosis.

The fool supply was controlled...

She described to us six lanes' worth of unadulterated fear, populated exclusively by motorists whose driving education had been paid for by the blood of pedestrians.

Although deer season doesn’t start until November in Maine, the fields of October are often alive with gunshots; the locals are shooting as many peasants as they think their families will eat.

Not until people start seeing typos eating out of their garbage cans at night will they regret hunting proofreaders almost to extinction.

His Facebook post is pure Jamie: Hi all. I feel like a heel doing this over Facebook, but I can’t reach everyone by tomorrow. You’re all going to discuss me on Sunday, anyway. And in case you think my account was hacked, it wasn’t. As proof I’ll confess that I’m the one who broke Mom’s Christmas tree angel when I was seven. It was death by baseball, but I swear she didn’t suffer. Anyway, I have to catch you up on a few developments. I’ve taken the coaching job in Toronto, and I’ve declined my spot in Detroit. This feels like the right career move, but there’s something else. I’m living with my boyfriend (that was not a typo.) His name is Wes, and we met at Lake Placid about nine years ago. In case you were lacking something to talk about over dinner, I’ve fixed that problem. Love you all. Jamie

I drink too much. I smoke too much. I eat like a college student, and I don't exercise enough. I do drugs and I give my love to boys who hate me a little bit and I don't always wash my hands after I clean the litterbox. But I'm absolutely certain the thing that will one day stop my heart for good is the inchoate rage I feel when I read over something I've published and discover a typo.

Shit down your computer, and restart.

But death on the page is just a typo, I said: You can’t say for example, She is dead–“she” no longer is. You can’t say for example, She was dead–death itself, a condition coterminous with eternity, renders the past tense inaccurate.

Art is lunging forward without certainty about where you are going or how to get there, being open to and dependent on what luck, the pain, the typo, the dissonance, give you. Without art you're stuck with yourself as you are and life as you think life is.

Art is lunging forward without certainty about where you are going or how to get there, being open to and dependent on what luck, the paint, the typo, the dissonance, give you. Without art, you're stuck with yourself as you are and life as you think life is.

The standard clauses of the American dream only included two weeks of vacation a year.

I’m a book lover. I’ve probably already fucked a whole library.


Sunsets and mirrors are great for looking back, but our love belongs to the sunrise. Let the orange glow over The Ozarks fade into the deep blue mystery that is our romance.

Sunflowers remind me of you. They are the children of light and romance. You exist to fill people's hearts with love.

I have a tongue like a rose petal, and when I say I love you, it has the fragrance of truth. My words are my garden, and I’m planting our future.

I want to meet a guy named Art. I'd take him to a museum, hang him on the wall, criticize him, and leave.

They thought it was typo.

But here’s an ugly truth about typos and other small editing mistakes: They exist in traditional books, too.

Cole updated Beckett: Stay where u r. Not sure how this will go. He’s playing now. Cole glanced at Beckett’s response: Ave Fuckong Mariea? Cole wondered how to put it: No, just noise. Not music. Beckett’s next message had no typos: Shit

He was tlushed with success-

Menikah juga nggak menjamin lo bakal bahagia sampai tutup usia. Itu hanya fantasi yang diciptakan para pendongeng untuk mengakhiri ceritanya.

Sometimes the best pizza is sushi. That’s where I go to get my haircut. Discounts available for fish with fur.

I’m not a very good sleeper. But you know what? I’m willing to put in a few extra hours every day to get better. That’s just the kind of hard worker I am. 


Here’s what I’d love to see: A vending machine that dispenses cats for petting on your lunch break. Instead of money, the machine accepts hugs.

Every sunset is the flirtation between the day and the night. Their romance is the original love story.

I morphed from a fly to a flower to a butterfly, which is like a combination flower and fly. I thought I was in love, but I was merely asleep.

Nostalgia is where the past blurs into the present. That’s where all the best scents are to be found.

I want to lose weight by eating nothing but moon pies, which have significantly less gravity than earthier foods such as fruits and vegetables.

The thing we would articulate, far too late, as it turned out, was that when a building’s burning, no one just whispers, “Fire!” No one sits quietly at their desk, diligently completing their work and checking for typos while the smoke pours in overhead. No one cries for “help” softly, under their breath, so as not to disturb their neighbors. So why did we? Shhh, don’t tell anyone but … Keep this quiet, please, but … We haven’t told anyone else, but … This stays between us, but …

I used the word “genitals” too much in this chapter so I went on Twitter to ask what a gender-neutral word for junk was and I got three hundred responses in ten minutes without a single person’s questioning why I was asking. A few of my favorites that I didn’t get to share earlier: “niblets,” “nethers,” “naughty bits,” “no-no zone,” “squish mittens,” “Area 51,” “the danger zone,” “the south 40,” “the situation” (with a suggested circular hand motion near said area), “the Department of the Interior,” “crotchal region,” “fandanglies,” “groinulars,” “groinacopia,” “my hoopty,” “my bidness,” “my chamber of secrets,” “my charcuterie,” “front butt,” “privy parts,” “private parts,” “pirate parts” (which I suspect was a typo but now I’m embracing it), and my personal favorite, “the good china.” This is exactly why I love the Internet. That and the fact that it’s where those fancy dictionary robots that yell “cockchafer” at each other live. The Internet is a goddamn wonderland, y’all.

The virus is causing something akin to panic throughout corporate America, which has become used to the typos, misspellings, missing words and mangled syntax so acceptable in cyberspace. The CEO of LoseItAll.com, an Internet startup, said the virus had rendered him helpless. “Each time I tried to send one particular e-mail this morning, I got back this error message: ‘Your dependent clause preceding your independent clause must be set off by commas, but one must not precede the conjunction.’ I threw my laptop across the room.”  . . . If Strunkenwhite makes e-mailing impossible, it could mean the end to a communication revolution once hailed as a significant timesaver. A study of 1,254 office workers in Leonia, N.J., found that e-mail increased employees’ productivity by 1.8 hours a day because they took less time to formulate their thoughts. (The same study also found that they lost 2.2 hours of productivity because they were e-mailing so many jokes to their spouses, parents and stockbrokers.)  . . . “This is one of the most complex and invasive examples of computer code we have ever encountered. We just can’t imagine what kind of devious mind would want to tamper with e-mails to create this burden on communications,” said an FBI agent who insisted on speaking via the telephone out of concern that trying to e-mail his comments could leave him tied up for hours.

Ketika Tuhan tak merencanakan laki-laki dan perempuan untuk berjodoh, para orangtua akan turun tangan untuk menyatukan mereka.

Your mind is a hole that can be endlessly expanded into an abyss. The depth of your potential nothingness is truly astounding.

I dance like both my shoes are nailed to the wall. It goes way beyond mere performance and into the realm of art. I am the Rodin of the music world.

Gasoline-scented soap is a great idea that’s a terrible idea. Plus, if I made soap that smelled like petroleum, The US Military would invade my shower and kill me.

It would be great to find a nice tree to sit under and talk, but most trees these days are rude, and their conversations are filled with snarky sarcasm. I blame Meme Culture.

He said he had a stroke reading my absurd writing, so I said, “Thank you for your service.” Then I continued washing my dishes in my lawnmower.

I drank her essence, and it’s like she never existed and now I’m thirsty again. Let this be a lesson in love.

He compiled lists of old words too – words of a precision and suggestiveness that no longer had a meaningful application in today’s world, or toady’s world, as Jimmy sometimes deliberately misspelled it on his term papers. (Typo, the profs would note, which showed how alert they were.) He memorized these hoary locutions, tossed them left-handed into conversation: wheelwright, lodestone, saturnine, adamant. He’d developed a strangely tender feeling towards such words, as if they were children abandoned in the woods and it was his duty to rescue them.

I'm so good at math that you can ask me any question, any equation, and I'll convert it into trumpet sounds with my mouth. If it's tough enough, I may answer with Dizzy Gillespie noises.

you are an exit wound the extra shot of tequila the tangled knot of hair that has to be cut out you are the cell phone ringing in a hushed theatre pebble wedged in the sole of a boot the bloody hangnail you are, just this once you are flip flops in a thunderstorm the boy’s lost erection a pen gone dry you are my father’s nightmare my mother’s mirage you are a manic high which is to say: you are a bad idea you are herpes despite the condom you are, I know better you are pieces of cork floating in the wine glass you are the morning after whose name I can’t remember still in my bed the hole in my rain boots vibrator with no batteries you are, shut up and kiss me you are naked wearing socks mascara bleeding down laughing cheeks you are the wrong guy buying me a drink you are the typo in an otherwise brilliant novel sweetalk into unprotected sex the married coworker my stubbed toe you are not new or uncommon not brilliant or beautiful you are a bad idea rock star in the back seat of a taxi burned popcorn top shelf, at half price you are everything I want you are a poem I cannot write a word I cannot translate you are an exit wound a name I cannot bring myself to say aloud

When my friends and I text we have our own language, a mixture of Cantonese and English and internet lingo and typos and everything else. I am homed, a friend tells me after a night out, to let me know they’ve gotten back safe. Homed. As if home is standing at the door begging you to come back indoors as rain runs down the bridge of your nose. And just like that you’re back again, letting the four walls cage you in, like you’ve returned against your will but you couldn’t quite help yourself.

The world needed changing - that I knew. Global warming threatened to give us all a lethal tan; war and poverty decimated whole nations; crops worldwide were shriveling; even our brethren beasts menaced us with their monkey pox and bird flu and mad cow disease.

He pointed to another number, changing as rapidly as the first, but on a lower trajectory; it rose to a high of 8.79 rem per hour. Several lifetimes of dentists’ X-rays, to be sure; but the radiation outside the storm shelter would have been a lethal dose, so they were getting off lightly. Still, the amount flying through the rest of the ship! Billions of particles were penetrating the ship and colliding with the atoms of water and metal they were huddled behind; hundreds of millions were flying between these atoms and then through the atoms of their bodies, touching nothing, as if they were no more than ghosts. Still, thousands were striking atoms of flesh and bone. Most of those collisions were harmless; but in all those thousands, there were in all probability one or two (or three?) in which a chromosome strand was taking a hit, and kinking in the wrong way: and there it was. Tumor initiation, begun with just that typo in the book of the self. And years later, unless the victim's DNA luckily repaired itself, the tumor promotion that was a more or less unavoidable part of living would have its effect, and there would appear a bloom of Something Else inside: cancer. Leukemia, most likely; and, most likely, death.

After graduating, I'd moved to the Washington D.C. area to see what I could do with the skills I'd picked up from a creative writing degree. The chief export of the nation's capital is, of course, paper work, so I reckoned I could land some kind of writing or editing position at one of the many nonprofits and associations in the area.

On December 7, 2017, a critical milestone was reached, not when a computer defeated a human at chess—that’s old news—but when Google’s AlphaZero program defeated the Stockfish 8 program. Stockfish 8 was the world’s computer chess champion for 2016. It had access to centuries of accumulated human experience in chess, as well as decades of computer experience. It was able to calculate seventy million chess positions per second. In contrast, AlphaZero performed only eighty thousand such calculations per second, and its human creators had not taught it any chess strategies—not even standard openings. Rather, AlphaZero used the latest machine-learning principles to self-learn chess by playing against itself. Nevertheless, out of a hundred games the novice AlphaZero played against Stockfish, AlphaZero won twenty-eight and tied seventy-two. It didn’t lose even once. Since AlphaZero had learned nothing from any human, many of its winning moves and strategies seemed unconventional to the human eye. They may well be considered creative, if not downright genius. Can you guess how long it took AlphaZero to learn chess from scratch, prepare for the match against Stockfish, and develop its genius instincts? Four hours. That’s not a typo. For centuries, chess was considered one of the crowning glories of human intelligence. AlphaZero went from utter ignorance to creative mastery in four hours, without the help of any human guide.18

Every entry, whether revised or reviewed, goes through multiple editing passes. The definer starts the job, then it’s passed to a copy editor who cleans up the definer’s work, then to a bunch of specialty editors: cross-reference editors, who make sure the definer hasn’t used any word in the entry that isn’t entered in that dictionary; etymologists, to review or write the word history; dating editors, who research and add the dates of first written use; pronunciation editors, who handle all the pronunciations in the book. Then eventually it’s back to a copy editor (usually a different one from the first round, just to be safe), who will make any additional changes to the entry that cross-reference turned up, then to the final reader, who is, as the name suggests, the last person who can make editorial changes to the entry, and then off to the proofreader (who ends up, again, being a different editor from the definer and the two previous copy editors). After the proofreaders are done slogging through two thousand pages of four-point type, the production editors send it off to the printer or the data preparation folks, and then we get another set of dictionary pages (called page proofs) to proofread. This process happens continuously as we work through a dictionary, so a definer may be working on batches in C, cross-reference might be in W, etymology in T, dating and pronunciation in the second half of S, copy editors in P (first pass) and Q and R (second pass), while the final reader is closing out batches in N and O, proofreaders are working on M, and production has given the second set of page proofs to another set of proofreaders for the letter L. We all stagger our way through the alphabet until the last batch, which is inevitably somewhere near G, is closed. By the time a word is put in print either on the page or online, it’s generally been seen by a minimum of ten editors. Now consider that when it came to writing the Collegiate Dictionary, Eleventh Edition, we had a staff of about twenty editors working on it: twenty editors to review about 220,000 existing definitions, write about 10,000 new definitions, and make over 100,000 editorial changes (typos, new dates, revisions) for the new edition. Now remember that the 110,000-odd changes made were each reviewed about a dozen times and by a minimum of ten editors. The time given to us to complete the revision of the Tenth Edition into the Eleventh Edition so production could begin on the new book? Eighteen months.