Ugly Sweater Quotes

I had an interview once with some German journalist—some horrible, ugly woman. It was in the early days after the communists—maybe a week after—and she wore a yellow sweater that was kind of see-through. She had huge tits and a huge black bra, and she said to me, ‘It’s impolite; remove your glasses.’ I said, ‘Do I ask you to remove your bra?

Ugly sweater party. 6:30 p.m. (And yes - you have to wear an ugly sweater)

Dearest Penelope, I am a giant jerk. I don't mean to imply that I am abnormally sized human who happens to also be a jerk, but, instead, that I am a normal-sized human who happens to sometimes be an extra-large jerk. When you buy me an ugly holiday sweater next Christmas, it needn't be an extra-large man's sweater, but it should probably feature some much-despised...figure that will serve to indicate to the world the immense degree of my jerkiness. What I'm really saying is...I've thought more about it, and I'd like to be of help to you in your quest so that come Christmas you can just find me a basic ugly holiday sweater that has no other object but to be a basic ugly holiday sweater, and I can wear it the next time we beat God and the devil alike at trash can bowling. Yours, Flynt

And by the way, did anyone ever tell you that you look exactly like Garfield but run over and skinned and then someone threw an ugly Ferragamo sweater over you before they rushed you to the vet? Fusilli? Olive oil on Brie?

Moths and butterflies are not the same thing. Moths sneak around in the dark munching your sweater and are ugly. Butterflies hand out with flowers in the daytime and are pretty. Never mind any facts or what silkworm moths are responsible for, or what poisonous butterflies do.

Don’t come crying to me when she makes you wear an ugly sweater at Christmas.” “I won’t cry because I’ll make sure you and I have matching ones, given to you publicly, so you can’t refuse. I’ll have Hayder take a picture, and I’ll post it on every social media site I find.” “You’re an evil king, Arik.

Don’t come crying to me when she makes you wear an ugly sweater at Christmas.” “I won’t cry because I’ll make sure you and I have matching ones, given to you publicly, so you can’t refuse. I’ll have Hayder take a picture, and I’ll post it on every social media site I find.” “You’re an evil king, Arik.” “Thank you.

She wanted to give that terrified man in the uncool sweater the confidence to share his own bare ugly truth. She wanted to let him know that at least one person here today understood all the mistakes he’d made along the way: the times he’d hit back, the times he’d stayed when he should have left, the times he’d given her another chance, the times he’d deliberately antagonized her, the times he’d let his children see things they shouldn’t see. She wanted to tell him that she knew all the perfect little lies he’d told himself for all those years, because she’d told herself the same lies. She wanted to enfold his trembling hands between her own and say, “I understand.

Death is the Santa Claus of the adult world. Except Santa Claus in reverse. The guy who takes all the presents away. Big bag over the shoulder, climbing up the chimney carrying everything in a person's life, and taking off, eight-reindeered, from the roof. Sleigh loaded down with memories and wineglassesand pots and pans and sweaters and grilled cheese sandwiches and Kleenexes and text messages and ugly houseplants and calico cat fur and half-used lipstick and laundry that never got done and letters you went to the trouble of handwriting but never sent and birth certificates and broken necklaces and disposable socks with scuffs on the bottom from hospital visits.

If there is one thing I despise, it is the perverse affectation of rich people who go around dressing as if they were poor, in second-hand clothes, ill-fitting gray wool bonnets, socks full of holes, and flowered shirts under threadbare sweaters. Not only is it ugly, it is also insulting: nothing is more despicable than a rich man's scorn for a poor man's longing.

Once I sat down in the bathtub, a blanket of bubbles covered me and I allowed myself to fully relax. My aching body from days of pedaling all over the place thanked me. The water was a little too hot, but I didn’t care. As I slunk down, resting my head against the blue bath pillow, cloud-like tufts of bubbles rose upward and attached themselves to my shoulders and hair.

Daniel stood up and loomed over Sadie. "Sing?" "Sorry?" "Do.You.Want.To.Sing.With.Me?" For a count of five, nothing happened. Then,a thousand sad wallflowers at a thousand loud dances were redeemed in that moment. Sadie positively lit up. "Yes," she said, sitting up straight. "I do." "Okay." He started for the stage. "Lose the jacket." She paused halfway out of her seat. "What?" "The jacket," he said over his shoudler. "It's freaking ugly." I watched as Sadie froze. "C'mon, Sadie. I'm aging here." Sadie slid the jacket off her shoulders. It caught at her elbows for a second, then she let it drop to the chair. Underneath, she was wearing jeans and a red cashmere sweater. She looked terrified, mortified, and really good. "Excellent," Daniel said. "Let's go.

Honest to God, I hadn’t meant to start a bar fight. “So. You’re the famous Jordan Amador.” The demon sitting in front of me looked like someone filled a pig bladder with rotten cottage cheese. He overflowed the bar stool with his gelatinous stomach, just barely contained by a white dress shirt and an oversized leather jacket. Acid-washed jeans clung to his stumpy legs and his boots were at least twice the size of mine. His beady black eyes started at my ankles and dragged upward, past my dark jeans, across my black turtleneck sweater, and over the grey duster around me that was two sizes too big. He finally met my gaze and snorted before continuing. “I was expecting something different. Certainly not a black girl. What’s with the name, girlie?” I shrugged. “My mother was a religious woman.” “Clearly,” the demon said, tucking a fat cigar in one corner of his mouth. He stood up and walked over to the pool table beside him where he and five of his lackeys had gathered. Each of them was over six feet tall and were all muscle where he was all fat. “I could start to examine the literary significance of your name, or I could ask what the hell you’re doing in my bar,” he said after knocking one of the balls into the left corner pocket. “Just here to ask a question, that’s all. I don’t want trouble.” Again, he snorted, but this time smoke shot from his nostrils, which made him look like an albino dragon. “My ass you don’t. This place is for fallen angels only, sweetheart. And we know your reputation.” I held up my hands in supplication. “Honest Abe. Just one question and I’m out of your hair forever.” My gaze lifted to the bald spot at the top of his head surrounded by peroxide blonde locks. “What’s left of it, anyway.” He glared at me. I smiled, batting my eyelashes. He tapped his fingers against the pool cue and then shrugged one shoulder. “Fine. What’s your question?” “Know anybody by the name of Matthias Gruber?” He didn’t even blink. “No.” “Ah. I see. Sorry to have wasted your time.” I turned around, walking back through the bar. I kept a quick, confident stride as I went, ignoring the whispers of the fallen angels in my wake. A couple called out to me, asking if I’d let them have a taste, but I didn’t spare them a glance. Instead, I headed to the ladies’ room. Thankfully, it was empty, so I whipped out my phone and dialed the first number in my Recent Call list. “Hey. He’s here. Yeah, I’m sure it’s him. They’re lousy liars when they’re drunk. Uh-huh. Okay, see you in five.” I hung up and let out a slow breath. Only a couple things left to do. I gathered my shoulder-length black hair into a high ponytail. I looped the loose curls around into a messy bun and made sure they wouldn’t tumble free if I shook my head too hard. I took the leather gloves in the pocket of my duster out and pulled them on. Then, I walked out of the bathroom and back to the front entrance. The coat-check girl gave me a second unfriendly look as I returned with my ticket stub to retrieve my things—three vials of holy water, a black rosary with the beads made of onyx and the cross made of wood, a Smith & Wesson .9mm Glock complete with a full magazine of blessed bullets and a silencer, and a worn out page of the Bible. I held out my hands for the items and she dropped them on the counter with an unapologetic, “Oops.” “Thanks,” I said with a roll of my eyes. I put the Glock back in the hip holster at my side and tucked the rest of the items in the pockets of my duster. The brunette demon crossed her arms under her hilariously oversized fake breasts and sent me a vicious sneer. “The door is that way, Seer. Don’t let it hit you on the way out.” I smiled back. “God bless you.” She let out an ugly hiss between her pearly white teeth. I blew her a kiss and walked out the door. The parking lot was packed outside now that it was half-past midnight. Demons thrived in darkness, so I wasn’t surprised. In fact, I’d been counting on it.

I did not come here to tell you about Sphinx. Yes, I am looking for a way to your heart, I freely admit that. I am looking for it day and night, here and yon… Can I kiss you? Just as I thought. No one is ever allowed to do what they want most in the world. In heaven, maybe. Or is it that in heaven you stop wanting for anything? “I am not a maniac. I simply love you. I want to be with you, always and forever, I want to feel you next to me when I sleep, I want to kiss your mouth and your forehead and your fingers, and the patches on your jeans, and that silly print on your shirt. I want to always carry you in my arms and make love to you everywhere I could, I want a dozen kids with you, all of them gingers, wild and free, with scraped knees and snubbed noses, with the souls that no one would ever be allowed to drive spikes through. Except none of this will happen, so why are you so mad at me for saying it? “Did you know that your ears are almost transparently red when you stand in front of a window? No, I told you, I am serious, I’ve never been more serious in my life. What do you mean, ugly? You’re ugly? You’ve got to be kidding. You have the blackest eyes in the world, your eyelashes could burn, your hair shines like a small sun. You are a flaming flower on a slender stalk, you… “Sorry. Sorry. I’m not shouting, I’m whispering, I’m barely audible. And I’m not leaning, I am simply drawn forward. It is unbearably hot in here. It’s not? Well, it definitely is warm. I’m fine, I’m not ill, it’s just this place is hot. Or warm, whatever. And the sweater is scratchy. Does this mean I can’t come anymore? Yes, I’ve ruined everything myself, I understand. I’m sorry. So when can I come again?

I shrugged and kept petting him. He sighed and took my hands in one of his and lifted them over my head. OH! Maybe he is into some of that fifty shades kink. He smiled. "I'm not entirely against it, but let's get to know each other before I show you my red room." Huh? Oh, crap I must have said that out loud. "Yes, you did." He nodded with a panty-melting grin. Crap!

Tilly was soft in all ways that word can be used. Kind-hearted, even-tempered, patient, and the owner of this reassuringly squishy midsection that made the hugs all the more satisfying.

northern New Jersey, April can either be awash with daffodils or buried under a foot of snow, and waiting to see which way it will go kills me. I hate the April version of winter—some days, that nip of spring teases the air and gets you thinking about warm sunshine, but mostly it’s just cold enough to be miserable. The snow turns black and ugly in about six minutes, and the salt used on the roads gets in between the pads of my dog’s feet. Ever try washing the feet of a sixty-pound lump of wet fur? Whimpering, quivering wet fur? No fun at all. On the flip side, what if it does get warm and sunny right away? That whole process of morphing out of winter woolies and sweaters and scarves

He motioned at the front of his sweater with his spoon. "We do this ugly-Christmas-sweater thing now". Reagen nodded. "My family does that, too." He looked down at her chest, confused. She was wearing a snug black V-neck. "Not me", she said. "Fuck that.

Colombe is the elder Josse daughter. Colombe Josse is also a sort of tall blonde leek who dresses like a penniless bohemian. If there is one thing I despise, it's the perverse affectation of rich people who go around dressing as if they were poor, in second-hand clothes that hang on them all crookedly and grey wooly hats, socks full of holes and flowery shirts under threadbare sweaters. Not only is it ugly, it is also insulting: nothing is more despicable than a rich man's scorn for a poor man's longing.

The next morning I woke up feeling like I had a strong sense of purpose. It was a welcome change from the past week’s stress of trying to find a missing item that seemed to keep wanting to perform vanishing acts, which I was sure was just to drive me nuts. It was as if because I threw the sweater away, it was retaliating by disappearing all the time.

While Mom talked to Dad, I went into the kitchen and made myself a peanut butter and jam sandwich. I could hear her talking to him about the things she had been doing lately and what Jared was up to, but when I heard her say, “You really do have to hear about all the things that have happened to Jodie this past week. It’s quite interesting I must say.” At that moment I felt like I was the star of the family. I felt like a million bucks. But I would have more to tell him than just the whole sweater fiasco. Tomorrow would probably prove to be a very interesting day.

You seem awfully concerned about this guy,” Jeoff stated. “More than a disobedient lone wolf merits. Has he hurt someone in the pride?” “In a sense. He threatens my mate.” That was one way to stun an opponent. “You? Mated? You have my condolences.” Arik frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “It’s always sad when a man gets shackled to a ball and chain. Next thing you know, you’ll be taking ballroom fucking dancing, calling everything ‘ours’, losing your closet to shoes, and having to watch romantic comedies instead of going to the bar with the boys.” “I’ll also be having incredible sex multiple times a day.” “You could have had that without having her shackle you.” “I’m the one who claimed her.” “Why? Why would you do that?” Jeoff shook his head. “Don’t come crying to me when she makes you wear an ugly sweater at Christmas.” “I won’t cry because I’ll make sure you and I have matching ones, given to you publicly, so you can’t refuse. I’ll have Hayder take a picture, and I’ll post it on every social media site I find.” “You’re an evil king, Arik.” “Thank you.” He couldn’t help a smug smile.

the only way to kill death is to eat it the only way to get good medicine is to be it the only way out of the fever is through it the only way out of this world is wet and carrying an armful of its poison out with you like holy black healing water ok lean back in this like a dream or bath or best friend back into the world like an ugly sweater and yes it is dark but you will glow yes it is old but you will be new

The lobby coffee shop looked like the bastard love child of a Hallmark movie and an ugly Christmas sweater.

I can’t wait. I thought I could, but I can’t. Sorry.” I reach across her and unsnap her seat belt, then pull her out so we’re standing face to face in this flat, ugly parking lot next to a dark library, a Chick-fil-A right next door. I can hear the drivethrough cashier on the speaker asking if they want to add fries and a drink. “Finch?” I brush a loose strand of hair off her cheek. Then I hold her face in my hands and kiss her. I kiss her harder than I mean to, so I ease off a little, but then she’s kissing me back. Her arms are around my neck, and I’m up against her, and she’s against the car, and then I pick her up, and her legs are around me, and I somehow get the back door open, and then I’m laying her down on the blanket that’s there, and I close the doors and yank off my sweater, and she pulls off her shirt, and I say, “You are driving me crazy. You have been driving me crazy for weeks.

She was maybe fifty, mouse-brown hair, pretty once was my first thought, then I realized she was still pretty. I had just seen such ugly things that this cold loft with its naked brick and bare lightbulbs and a mattress on the floor with a pile of books for a nightstand was beautiful, and she was beautiful for making it that way and keeping it as nice as she could and for not having the heart to throw away the Gerber daisy wilting, already dropping petals from its place in the Coke bottle on the counter by the stove. And she was beautiful for wearing a raincoat with a sweater under it because that was all she had.

a soft cashmere sweater that Tobias said matched the ugly mark on my cheek. I looked away when he said that, standing in front of the display with the soft fabric pressed against my cheek.

is not Rodeo Day. It is not Ugly Sweater