Unusual Funny Quotes

You are going to love the sports here. Snow skiing and water-skiing and rock climbing and all kinds of extreme sports. I give you full permission to hurl yourself off stuff.

And who are you supposed to be? the King of snot-nosed delinquents?

Poison." he said, deadpan. "That's an unusual name to give your child. You must love her very much." She's a treasure." Bram agreed, blithely ignoing the sarcasm. .... Then went a few dozen feet in silence, until they were out of eaarshor of the gaurd. She's a treasure." Poison mimicked, and Bram burst out laughing.

..when the first rubber ball smacked her in the head and made her brains rattle in her skull, she knew that something about this dodgeball game was different

What's amazing is that she was possessed by Satan for almost a year and nobody noticed anything unusual!

Graham Chapman, co-author of the "Parrot Sketch", is no more. He has ceased to be. Bereft of life, he rests in peace. He's kicked the bucket, hopped the twig, bit the dust, snuffed it, breathed his last, and gone to meet the great Head of Light Entertainment in the sky. And I guess that we're all thinking how sad it is that a man of such talent, of such capability for kindness, of such unusual intelligence, should now so suddenly be spirited away at the age of only forty-eight, before he'd achieved many of the things of which he was capable, and before he'd had enough fun. Well, I feel that I should say: nonsense. Good riddance to him, the freeloading bastard, I hope he fries. And the reason I feel I should say this is he would never forgive me if I didn't, if I threw away this glorious opportunity to shock you all on his behalf. Anything for him but mindless good taste. (He paused, then claimed that Chapman had whipered in his ear while he was writing the speech): All right, Cleese. You say you're very proud of being the very first person ever to say 'shit' on British television. If this service is really for me, just for starters, I want you to become the first person ever at a British memorial service to say 'fuck'.

I was only off by one percent,' I grumble. 'You talk to you, question?' 'Yes! I'm talking to me.' 'Humans are unusual.' 'Yes,' I say.

Best Recipes from Eastern Europe” is not only a guide about how to cook, but also about how to decorate dishes in beautiful and unique ways. Let’s make our breakfasts or dinners look classy, lovely, unusual or funny; it will add bright feelings of joy and amazement to our being. Big happiness consists of small pleasant things—like these!

Since Sienna was in an unusually cooperative mood, the session went well. He was returning from it midmorning - after a short detour - when a small naked body barreled into him in one of the main corridors. Steadying the boy with Tk, he looked down. The child lifted a finger to his lips. "Shh. I'm hiding." With that, he went behind Judd and scrambled into a small alcove. "Quickly! Not sure why he obeyed the order, Judd backed up to stand in front of the alcove, arms crossed. A flustered Lara came running around the corner a few seconds later. "Have you seen Ben? Four-year-old. Naked as a jaybird?" "How tall is he?" Judd asked in his most overbearing Psy manner. Lara stared. "He's four. How tall do you think he is? Have you seen him or not?" "Let me think...did you say he was naked?" "He was about to be bathed. Slippery little monkey." A giggle from behind Judd. Lara's eyes widened and then her lips twitched. "So you haven't seen him?" "Without a proper description, I can't be sure." The healer was obviously trying not to laugh. "You shouldn't encourage him - he's incorrigible as it is." Judd felt childish hands on his left calf and then Ben poked his head out. "I'm incorwigeable, did ya hear?" Judd nodded. "I do believe you've been found. Why don't you go have your bath?" "Come on, munchkin." Lara held out a hand. Surprisingly strong baby arms and legs wrapped around Judd's leg. "No. I wanna stay with Uncle Judd." Lara anticipated his question. "Ben spends a lot of time with Marlee." "I spend a lot of time with Marlee," a small voice piped up.

Personally, I didn't take a single photograph while I was there, but that's not all that unusual for me. I suppose my aversion to snapping pictures may have something to do with shaky hands and blurry results, but there's another reason: The act of lifting up the camera and positioning it between me and the object of my interest separates me from the experience.

For the most part, each day listed a different rendition of "Justin ate well" and "Justin took a great nap". Every now and then they noted Justin doing unusual things, like biting. I was embarrassed to read "Justin is biting his friends again" or "Justin did better with biting and only bit one boy". Other than that, though, my son was a pretty happy-go-lucky kid.

Fackelmann claimed to have started a Log just to keep track of Kite's attempted pickup lines -- surefire lines like e.g. 'You're the second most beautiful woman I've ever seen, the first most beautiful woman I've ever seem being former Bristish Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher,' and 'If you came home with me I'm unusually confident that I could achieve an erection,' and said that if Kite wasn't still cherry at twenty-three and a half it was proof of some kind of divine-type grace.

The funny thin is, you say it like it's so unusual that you've only done it once. But I bet a whole lot of people go through their lives without ever telling the truth, not really. And they wake up in the same body and the same life every singe morning.

She now represents the Western United States, thus proving politics is even more accepting of the strange, unusual, and mostly useless than the music industry.

The things you remember about a person when they're gone are funny. No two people will feel the same way, though usually it has to do with scent, or expression, the sound of a voice, an unusual gesture. For me, I can still see the colors of Keiko; the black of her hair against creamy pale skin, her dark blue kimono with white circles, the deep orange persimmons falling from the brown basket she carried. The ache in my heart grows larger every time I think of these colors, and how as each day passes they continue to fade from my eyes.

May knew John had a very bad tendency, when things got unusually difficult, to sink with an almost sensuous pleasure into a warm bath of despair. Once you’ve handed the reins over to despair, to mix a metaphor just a teeny bit, your job is done. You don’t have to sweat it any more, you’ve taken yourself out of the game. Despair is the bench, and you are warming it.

Our sages say burying someone is considered the truest form of kindness and respect, as the deceased will not be able to thank you for it." That’s kind of funny, actually, since Dad was not exactly prone to expressing gratitude to his children when he was still alive. You were either screwing up, or you were invisible. He was quiet and stern in a way that led you to expect an Eastern European accent. He had soft blue eyes and unusually thick forearms, and when he made a fist it looked like he could punch through anything. He mowed his own lawn, washed his own car, and painted his own house. He did all these things capably, painstakingly, and in a way that silently passed judgment on anyone who paid for someone else to do it. He rarely laughed at jokes, just nodded his understanding, as if it was all pretty much what he’d expected. Of course, there was a lot more to him that that, it’s just that none of it is coming to me right now. At some point you lose sight of your actual parents; you just see a basketful of history and unresolved issues.

No need to be embarassed. After seeing you in my cousin's nightgown, you've got nothing to hide. But why were you crying in the shower?" he murmured into her hair. She could feel his lips moving against her scalp, and feel the press of his hips through the covers, but his arms were an unyielding cage. She tried to turn over to face him, to welcome him under the covers with her, but he wouldn't let her. "I was crying because I'm frustrated! Why are you doing this?" she whispered into her pillow. "We can't, Helen," was all he said. He kissed her neck and said he was sorry over and over, but try as she might, he wouldn't let her face him. She began to feel like she was being used. "Please be patient," he begged as he stopped her hand from reaching back to touch him. She tried to sit up, to push him out of her bed, anything but suffer lying next to someone who would play with her so terribly. They wrestled a bit, but he was much better at it than she was and felt even heavier than he looked. He easily blocked every attempt she made to wrap her arms or legs or lips around him. "Do you want me at all, or do you just think it's fun to tease me like this?" she asked, feeling rejected and humiliated. "Won't you even kiss me?" She finally struggled onto her back where she could at least see his face. "If I kiss you, I won't stop," he said in a desperate whisper as he propped himself up on his elbows to look her in the eye. She looked back at him, really seeing him for the first time that night. His expression was vulnerable and uncertain. His mouth was swollen with want. His body was shaking and there was a fine layer of anxious sweat wilting his clothes. Helen relaxed back into the bed with a sigh. For some reason that obviously had nothing to do with desire, he wouldn't allow himself to be with her. "You're not laughing at me, are you?" she asked warily, just as a precaution. "No. There's nothing funny about this," he answered. He shifted himself off her and lay back down alongside her, still breathing hard. "But for some reason, you and I will never happen," she said, feeling calm. "Never say never," he said urgently, rolling back on top of her and using all of his unusually heavy mass to press her deep into the cocoon of her little-girl bed. "The gods love to toy with people who use absolutes." Lucas ran his lips around her throat and let her put her arms around him, but that was all.

It was 10:30 in the morning and I was already running behind. This is hardly unusual, but it pisses me off every single time.

Antidepression medication is temperamental. Somewhere around fifty-nine or sixty I noticed the drug I’d been taking seemed to have stopped working. This is not unusual. The drugs interact with your body chemistry in different ways over time and often need to be tweaked. After the death of Dr. Myers, my therapist of twenty-five years, I’d been seeing a new doctor whom I’d been having great success with. Together we decided to stop the medication I’d been on for five years and see what would happen... DEATH TO MY HOMETOWN!! I nose-dived like the diving horse at the old Atlantic City steel pier into a sloshing tub of grief and tears the likes of which I’d never experienced before. Even when this happens to me, not wanting to look too needy, I can be pretty good at hiding the severity of my feelings from most of the folks around me, even my doctor. I was succeeding well with this for a while except for one strange thing: TEARS! Buckets of ’em, oceans of ’em, cold, black tears pouring down my face like tidewater rushing over Niagara during any and all hours of the day. What was this about? It was like somebody opened the floodgates and ran off with the key. There was NO stopping it. 'Bambi' tears... 'Old Yeller' tears... 'Fried Green Tomatoes' tears... rain... tears... sun... tears... I can’t find my keys... tears. Every mundane daily event, any bump in the sentimental road, became a cause to let it all hang out. It would’ve been funny except it wasn’t. Every meaningless thing became the subject of a world-shattering existential crisis filling me with an awful profound foreboding and sadness. All was lost. All... everything... the future was grim... and the only thing that would lift the burden was one-hundred-plus on two wheels or other distressing things. I would be reckless with myself. Extreme physical exertion was the order of the day and one of the few things that helped. I hit the weights harder than ever and paddleboarded the equivalent of the Atlantic, all for a few moments of respite. I would do anything to get Churchill’s black dog’s teeth out of my ass. Through much of this I wasn’t touring. I’d taken off the last year and a half of my youngest son’s high school years to stay close to family and home. It worked and we became closer than ever. But that meant my trustiest form of self-medication, touring, was not at hand. I remember one September day paddleboarding from Sea Bright to Long Branch and back in choppy Atlantic seas. I called Jon and said, “Mr. Landau, book me anywhere, please.” I then of course broke down in tears. Whaaaaaaaaaa. I’m surprised they didn’t hear me in lower Manhattan. A kindly elderly woman walking her dog along the beach on this beautiful fall day saw my distress and came up to see if there was anything she could do. Whaaaaaaaaaa. How kind. I offered her tickets to the show. I’d seen this symptom before in my father after he had a stroke. He’d often mist up. The old man was usually as cool as Robert Mitchum his whole life, so his crying was something I loved and welcomed. He’d cry when I’d arrive. He’d cry when I left. He’d cry when I mentioned our old dog. I thought, “Now it’s me.” I told my doc I could not live like this. I earned my living doing shows, giving interviews and being closely observed. And as soon as someone said “Clarence,” it was going to be all over. So, wisely, off to the psychopharmacologist he sent me. Patti and I walked in and met a vibrant, white-haired, welcoming but professional gentleman in his sixties or so. I sat down and of course, I broke into tears. I motioned to him with my hand; this is it. This is why I’m here. I can’t stop crying! He looked at me and said, “We can fix this.” Three days and a pill later the waterworks stopped, on a dime. Unbelievable. I returned to myself. I no longer needed to paddle, pump, play or challenge fate. I didn’t need to tour. I felt normal.

What I remember most clearly is how it felt. I’d just finished painting a red fire engine-like the one I often walked past near my grandparents’ house. Suddenly the teachers, whose names I've long forgotten, closed in on my desk. They seemed unusually impressed, and my still dripping fire engine was immediately and ceremoniously pinned up. I don’t know what they might have said, but their unexpected attention and having something I’d made given a place of honor on the wall created an overwhelming and totally unfamiliar sense of pride inside me. I loved that feeling, and I wanted to feel it again and again. That desire, I suppose, was the beginning of my career. I have no idea where my fire engine painting ended up, but I never forgot the basic layout. Several decades later, it served as the inspiration for this sketch for an illustration in a book called Why the chicken crossed the Road.

I heard you grew fangs in the forest and killed some Hybern beasts. Good for you, girl.' 'She saved his sorry ass is more like it,' Mor said, filling her glass of wine. 'Poor little Rhys got himself in a bind.' I held out my own glass for Mor to fill. 'He does need unusual amounts of coddling.' Azriel choked on his wine, and I met his gaze warm for once. Soft, even. I felt Rhys tense beside me and quickly looked away from the spymaster. A glance at the guilt in Rhys's eyes told me he was sorry. And fighting it. So strange, the High Fae with their mating and primal instincts. So at odds with their ancient traditions and learning.

I heard you grew fangs in the forest and killed some Hybern beasts. Good for you, girl.' 'She saved his sorry ass is more like it,' Mor said, filling her glass of wine. 'Poor little Rhys got himself in a bind.' I held out my own glass for Mor to fill. 'He does need unusual amounts of coddling.' Azriel choked on his wine, and I met his gaze0 warm for once. Soft, even. I felt Rhys tense beside me and quickly looked away from the spymaster. A glance at the guilt in Rhys's eyes told me he was sorry. And fighting it. So strange, the High Fae with their mating and primal instincts. So at odds with their ancient traditions and learning.

Falstaff is the most unusual figure in fiction. He is almost entirely a good man, a glorious, life-affirming good man, and there is hardly a good man in dramatic literature. There has always been an England, an older England, which was sweeter, purer, where the hay smelled better and the weather was always springtime and the daffodils blew in the gentle warm breezes. You feel a nostalgia for it in Chaucer, and you feel it all throughout Shakespeare. Falstaff is a refugee from that world. He has to live by his wits, he has to be funny, he has no place to sleep if he doesn’t get a laugh out of his patron. It’s a rough modern world that he’s living in. You’ve got to be able to see that look in his eyes that comes out of the age that never existed, the one that exists in the heart of all English poetry.

Jase and I asked Mia what she wanted to do before her surgery. “How about a family party?” she suggested. So the invitation went out. It’s interesting when you mention to family members that they are going to be on TV--schwoom, they are there. As Willie said, “I didn’t know we had this much family.” Mia had always heard the funny stories about Jase wrestling with his brothers and cousins growing up, particularly how cousin Amy beat up Willie, so that’s what she requested for the special entertainment. As Jase said, “It’s the ultimate redneck dinner theater.” A wrestling ring was delivered, and the warmup act was the Robertson boys clowning around, performing their best wrestling moves. Willie surprised everyone with guest professional wrestlers, including Jase’s favorite, “Hacksaw” Jim Duggan. I felt kind of bad for them, wearing only their little wrestling pants, while the rest of us were bundled up in winter coats. Yes, it was January, but it was unusually cold in Louisiana--about twenty degrees. The wrestlers had to keep moving fast; otherwise, they would have frozen to death! At the end of the party, Mia took the stage between Jase and Willie, thanking everyone for coming and then sharing from her heart: “My favorite verse is Psalm 46:10: ‘Be still, and know that I am God!’ God is bigger than all of us, and He is bigger than any of your struggles, too.” I think I can say that there was hardly a dry eye in the crowd. Going into her surgery, Mia was being brave for all of us. In the end, seeing the final version of the episode, I thought the network did a great job of including enough humor to make people laugh but also providing a tender glimpse into the love our family shares with one another and the love we all have for Mia. When Duck Dynasty fans saw it on March 26, 2014, they agreed completely!

Where do the biggest movie star of his generation and a revered director (and great actor in his own right) stay when they are visiting someone? Would you believe the local Holiday Inn? Hoping to forge a better connection to Chris, Clint Eastwood and Bradley Cooper came to see me and the rest of the family in early spring of 2014, before they started filming American Sniper. The unpretentiousness of their visit and their genuine goodwill floored me. It was a great omen for the movie. Bubba and I picked them up at the local airport and brought them home; within minutes Bubba had Bradley out in the back playing soccer. Meanwhile, Clint and I talked inside. He reminded me of my grandfather with his courtly manners and gracious ways. He was very funny, with a quiet, quick wit and dry sense of humor. After dinner--it was an oryx Chris had killed shortly before he died--Bradley took Bubba to the Dairy Queen for dessert. Even in small-town Texas, he couldn’t quite get away without being recognized, and when someone asked for his photo, he stepped aside to pose. Bubba folded his arms across his chest and scanned the area much as his dad would have: on overwatch. I guess I didn’t really understand how unusual the situation was until later, when I dropped them off at the Holiday Inn. I watched them walk into the lobby and disappear. That’s Clint Eastwood and Bradley Cooper! Awesome!

Violet’s not getting out of our sight,” Arion adds. There’s a moment of just staring…like everyone is trying to silently argue. “No one naked in my car,” Mom states when I just stand in my spot, waiting on them to hurry through the push and pull. You really can tell how thick the air is when too many alphas are in the room at one time, but weirdly it never feels this way when it’s just the four of them. Unless punches are thrown. Then it gets a little heavier than normal. Arion pulls on his clothes, and threads whir in the air as I quickly fashion Emit a lopsided toga that lands on his body. Everyone’s gaze swings to him like it’s weird for him and normal for me to be in a toga. Awesome. Damien muffles a sound, Emit arches an eyebrow at me, and Arion remains rigid, staying close to me but never touching me. All of us squeezing into a car together while most of them hate each other…should be fun. The storm finally stops before we board the elevator, and it’s one of those super awkward elevator moments where no one is looking at anyone or saying anything, and everyone is trying to stay in-the-moment serious. We stop on the floor just under us, after the longest thirty-five seconds ever. The doors open, and two men glance around at Emit and I in our matching togas, even though his is the fitted sheet and riding up in some funny places. He looks like a caveman who accidentally bleached and shrank his wardrobe. I palm my face, embarrassed for him. The next couple of floors are super awkward with the addition of the two new, notably uncomfortable men. Worst seventy-nine seconds ever. Math doesn’t add up? Yeah. I’m upset about those extra nine seconds as well. Poor Emit has to duck out of the unusually small elevator, and the bottom of his ass cheek plays peek-a-boo on one side. Damien finally snorts, and even Mom struggles to keep a straight face. That really pisses her off. “You’re seeing him on an off day,” I tell the two guys, who stare at my red boots for a second. I feel the need to defend Emit a little, especially since I now know he overheard all that gibberish Tiara was saying… I can’t remember all I said, and it’s worrying me now that my mind has gone off on this stupid tangent. I trip over the hem of my toga, and Arion snags me before I hit the floor, righting me and showing his hands to my mother with a quick grin. “Can’t just let her fall,” he says unapologetically. “You’re going to have to learn to deal with that,” she bites out. She has a very good point. I don’t trip very often, but things and people usually knock me around a good bit of my life. The two guys look like they want to run, so I hurry to fix this. “Really, it’s a long story, but I swear Emit—the tallest one in the fitted-sheet-toga—generally wears pants…er…I guess you guys call them trousers over here. Anyway, we had some plane problems,” I carry on, and then realize I have to account for the fact we’re both missing clothing. “Then there was a fire that miraculously only burned our clothes, because Emit put all my flames out by smothering me with his body,” I state like that’s exactly what happened. Why do they look so scared? I’m not telling a scary lie. At this point, I’ve just made it worse, and fortunately Damien takes mercy, clamping his hand over my mouth as he starts steering me toward the door before I can make it…whatever comes after worse but before the worst. “Thank you,” sounds more like “Mmdi ooooo,” against his hand, but he gets the gist, as he grins. Mom makes a frustrated sound. “Another minute, and she’d be bragging about his penis size in quest to save his dignity. Did you really want to hear that?” Damien asks her, forcing me to groan against his hand.

In all your travels around Alagaësia, with Angela and without, you’ve never found anything that might explain this mystery? Or even just something that might be of use against Galbatorix.” I found you, didn’t I? “That’s not funny,” growled Eragon. “Blast it, you have to know something more.” I do not. “Think, then! If I can’t find some sort of help against Galbatorix, we’ll lose, Solembum. We’ll lose, and most of the Varden, including the werecats, will die.” Solembum hissed again. What do you expect of me, Eragon? I cannot invent help where none exists. Read the book. “We’ll be at Urû’baen before I can finish it. The book might as well not exist.” Solembum’s ears flattened again. That is not my fault. “I don’t care if it is. I just want a way to keep us from ending up dead or enslaved. Think! You have to know something else!” Solembum uttered a low, warbling growl. I do not. And-- “You have to, or we’re doomed!” Even as Eragon uttered the words, he saw a change come over the werecat. Solembum’s ears swiveled until they were upright, his whiskers relaxed, and his gaze softened, losing its hard-edged brilliance. At the same time, the werecat’s mind grew unusually empty, as if his consciousness had been stilled or removed. Eragon froze, uncertain. Then he felt Solembum say, with thoughts that were as flat and colorless as a pool of water beneath a wintry, cloud-ridden sky: Chapter forty-seven. Page three. Start with the second passage thereon. Solembum’s gaze sharpened, and his ears returned to their previous position. What? he said with obvious irritation. Why are you gaping at me like that? “What did you just say?” I said that I do not know anything else. And that-- “No, no, the other thing, about the chapter and page.” Do not toy with me. I said no such thing. “You did.” Solembum studied him for several seconds. Then, with thoughts that were overly calm, he said, Tell me exactly what you heard, Dragon Rider. So, Eragon repeated the words as closely as he could. When he finished, the werecat was silent for a while. I have no memory of that, he said. “What do you think it means?” It means that we should look and see what’s on page three of chapter forty-seven.

is a quote from Jorge Luis Borges, but don’t be fooled by that erudition. Yasmina Reza’s Happy are the Happy is universal and accessible to anyone who has ever wanted to be, or has been, in a relationship – as long as she wants to admit her ambivalences. It’s dark in places, and funny, and unusual; but these 20 short chapters, each

a relationship – as long as she wants to admit her ambivalences. It’s dark in places, and funny, and unusual; but these 20 short chapters, each told by a character who may or may not reappear in another piece, are the tragicomic portrait of love. Here, a portion of one of our favorite chapters:   Odile Toscano   Everything gets on his nerves. Opinions, things, people. Everything. We can’t go out anymore without the evening ending badly. I find myself persuading him to go out, yet on the whole I almost always regret it.

ambivalences. It’s dark in places, and funny, and unusual; but these 20 short chapters, each told by a character who may or may not reappear in another piece, are the tragicomic portrait of love. Here, a portion of one of our favorite chapters:   Odile Toscano   Everything gets on his nerves. Opinions, things, people. Everything. We can’t go out anymore without the evening ending badly. I find myself persuading

still remember how bravely we learned to read the new daily newspaper "Radianska Bukovina" (Red Bukovina), just trying to make out the headlines and slowly braving to comprehend the articles. By the beginning of September, barely two months from the occupation, we delved into the study of the History of the Party, meaning the communist party, according to the direction of the Stalin line, the official party line. The teacher was faced with an unusual task, namely, teaching a class, at a university, where practically nobody understood him or the textbook. After every few sentences he stopped to ask: Sie verstehen, Genossen? (Do you understand, comrades?) This was the extent of his knowledge of German. Most of us just picked up single words and wrote them down in the improvised dictionary. It was unusual, but not funny at all.

Many experiments show that when people are put into a good mood (e.g., by giving them candy or showing them a funny movie), they are more creative. For example, they are better at inventing diverse and unusual ways for getting a candle to burn without dripping, or at finding more obscure and remote associations between words and ideas.22 People in good moods are “more cognitively flexible —more able to make associations, to see dimensions, and to see potential relationships among stimuli—than are persons in a neutral state.”23 In other words, they generate more varied ideas and combinations of those ideas, which are crucial aspects of creative work.

At first Sarah Walker had been amused, for she was interested in people and had a sharp eye for anything funny or unusual, but after a bit her sense of humor had become blunted by exhaustion. If Sarah had known the journey was going to be so awful she would have hesitated before accepting the invitation to lecture at this meeting, but she had not known (from Silverstream to Wandlebury did not look far on the map). It was only when John came home and she asked him to look out her trains that she discovered what she had let herself in for.

Bet you never thought I’d save your skin.” “What?” “Just makin’ small talk. Got to distract myself from the pain, y’know? Life has a funny way of workin’ out, don’t it? Take your friend, for example. The sword-lady.” “Tanith?” “First time we met, we were tryin’ to kill each other, remember that? But every time subsequent to that there’s been a kind of a frisson between us.” “A what?” “Frisson. It’s French for … To be honest I don’t really know what it’s French for, but I know what it means in American. A sort of electrical undercurrent of emotion.” “I know what frisson means, but I really don’t think Tanith would share your view.” “You’re a kid. You don’t know the ways of menfolk and womenkind. All those threats she fires my way? That there is the mark of flirtation.” “Oh, dear God,” Valkyrie said, the colour draining from her face. “You fancy Tanith.” “I don’t fancy her, I—” “You have a crush on Tanith. That is disgusting.” “What? Why would it be disgustin’?” “Because you’re a hired killer.” “That don’t make it disgustin’, just makes it … unusual. Does she talk about me? “Somebody shoot me.” “What does she say? I’m a formidable foe, right? Does she say anythin’ in a kind of a more … wistful voice?” “I don’t want to talk about this.” “Does she ever say, ‘If only he were good …’?” “Stop your talking. Stop it right now. Stop it. She has a boyfriend.” His face fell. “Someone I know?” he asked morosely. “He may have punched you a few times, yes.” “She’s not … She’s not datin’ the skeleton, is she? How would that be even possible, let alone … nice? He’s got no skin, or lips, or … or nothin’. And he talks. Good God, he talks and he never shuts up.” “It’s not Skulduggery.” “Well then, who else could it …? It’s not the ugly fella, is it? It couldn’t be the ugly fella.” “Don’t call him ugly.” “It is him! But he’s all scars! I mean, I know I ain’t got no eyes, but once you get past that, you got my face. And my face is all right. Better’n his. His is a mess, like he was dropped head first into a blender as a kid. Seriously? She’s with him?” “Seriously, and you’re not going to break them up. Not because you won’t try, but because you won’t be able to. Look, are you ready yet? Can we move now?” “I’m ready,” he snapped. “But this conversation stays between us, understand? My romancin’ ain’t gonna work if she knows it’s comin’.” “Believe me, I never want to speak to anyone about this ever again.

Morning,” he said, headed for the coffeepot. When he got back to the table and sat, he was met by her glare. “What?” he asked, perplexed. “I cannot believe you did that,” she said. “Did what?” he asked. “My best friend. You know she’s been through a hard time.” He looked around a little frantically. “Vanni, what? Where’s Nikki?” “Gone,” she said flatly. “Gone?” he asked, rising out of his chair. “Gone?” “Yes,” she affirmed. “What were you thinking?” He gave a huff of unhappy laughter. “I was thinking I’d just found the woman of my dreams,” he said. “She left?” “In tears,” Vanni said, her mouth set in a grim line. “Tears? Vanni, I did not make her cry!” “Didn’t you have sex with her all night long in that little fifth wheel?” she asked, anger in her tone. Hoo-boy. You don’t talk about that, especially when it’s meaningful. “Vanni, I swear to you, I didn’t do anything to hurt her.” “Didn’t you find her on the deck, crying, and kiss her and seduce her and take her to that little trailer?” “Well… Yeah… I did that part….” And he was thinking, was there a felony in there somewhere? Because all through the night the only thing he had tried to do was show her how much she could be loved. And it was wonderful; she was wonderful. Spontaneous and aroused and ultimately quite satisfied. And happy. He’d heard her sigh, he’d heard her laugh. There was absolutely no crying. “Didn’t it occur to you that after her heart had been broken, that was probably not a great idea?” He got a little angry himself. He leaned his hands on the table, got a little bit in her face and said, “No. I thought it was a terrific idea, and so did she. I wanted to be good to her and I was. I treated her with absolute respect, and she consented one hundred percent. Now, give me her number. I need to talk to her as soon as possible.” “She said absolutely no.” “What? No, I have to get in touch with her. Vanni, this isn’t funny.” “No, it’s not. I just don’t know what went through your mind.” “Wait a minute here, I didn’t talk her into anything! I was a perfect gentleman, I swear to God!” “Don’t you know anything about women?” she asked him. “Apparently not!” he answered hotly. “She’s just spent five years with a guy who wouldn’t come through. What do you suppose she thinks you’re going to do after one night?” “She could give me a frickin’ chance!” Vanni’s mouth was set in a firm line. “She said absolutely no.” “Oh, for God’s sake. Vanni, this is cruel and unusual. Listen, I have feelings for her. Really.” “After one night?” she asked, a definite superior tone to her voice. “Before the night,” he said. “Will you ask her to call me? Please?” “You knew her for what? Ten minutes?” “Shit,” he said. “Okay, it was fast. Okay? I admit it. But by the time we’d spent a night together it seemed…” It seemed as if he’d been with her for years! Jesus, his voice was quivering. He was losing his mind. He should be saying, fine—if that’s the way she wants it, fine. But in his head, his heart, his gut, he was feeling desperate. Driven. He was not letting this woman get away. His

Eliza woke with a start at an unusual noise. Her eyes widened, her heart refused to beat, and she tried to muffle a scream. She stayed motionless, too afraid to move, to breathe. Eliza’s blood drained from her face and she tried to rouse her companions without frightening the horrid creature, afraid at any moment it would attack. “Kitty! Thomas!” she squeaked, staying still. Neither of them moved. She called for them again, louder this time. Thomas jerked and grabbed at the pistol underneath his side. He stalled for a moment, looking back and forth before his body shook with a bellowing laugh. Awake and giggling, Kitty rested on her elbow next to Eliza. “Liza, how do you always attract those creatures?” “This isn’t funny! Why isn’t it moving? Get it off of me!” Eliza squealed. Her plea only made Thomas laugh harder. How could they possibly find humor in this? “Please! Get it off of me, one of you. Why doesn’t it just leave?” Eliza covered her mouth and breathed through her fingers while the large gray squirrel stared at her from tiny black eyes. “Allow me to rescue you from this dangerous attacker, fair maiden.” Thomas reached over and shooed the animal from its perch on Eliza’s lower leg. It scampered away as Thomas continued chuckling and wiping tears from his eyes. He winked and his smile softened, but not enough to soothe the waves of Eliza’s embarrassment that crashed against her. She sat up straight and pressed her hand to her chest as she tried to calm the rapid thumping of her heart. Thomas pointed out the cave with a tilt to his voice that announced his teasing. “You could have been killed.” His winsome smile almost took away the shame. Almost. “I’m glad you were both so entertained.

Adolf Hitler and J.R.R. Tolkien fought on opposing sides in the Battle of the Somme in World War 1

Listening to music is one of the few activities that engages the entire brain

Pizza Hut was the first company to ever deliver to outer space; they delivered pizza to the International Space Station in 2001

We've been through this, Orm. Orks have no... reproductive anatomy, and consequently no understanding of sex or gender.' 'Some of us understand sexangender', interrupted Biter, keen as ever to demonstrate their unusual expertise in humans. 'I find it all... quite funny.

It is estimated that on average, the British drink 165 million cups of tea every day 511 John Quincy Adams was gifted a pet alligator by a French general, which he kept in a bathtub in the White House 512 Cows have been proven to produce more milk when they are listening to music 513 If you were to play the world’s longest musical piece, it would take around 630 years

The Wolf of Wall Street

Those who knew him will be sorry to hear that he was killed last week, on the Western Front." He was a little pale when he sat down afterward, aware that he had done something unusual. He had consulted nobody about it, anyhow; no one else could be blamed. Later, outside the Chapel, he heard an argument:— "On the Western Front, Chips said. Does that mean he was fighting for the Germans?" "I suppose it does." "Seems funny, then, to read his name out with all the others. After all, he was an ENEMY." "Oh, just one of Chips's ideas, I expect. The old boy still has 'em.

As for my father, we never did talk about the things my sister told him. But several years later, when I was at the peak of my media fame, my father, who had been living alone since my mother left him, caught me on one of the many TV talk shows I had appeared on. We spoke a bit about my work, which was unusual because my father and I never discussed anything to do with sex, and that included the work I did. Feeling a bit awkward, I told him, "I feel a little funny talking about this with you, Dad." To which he replied, "You have nothing to feel bad about. With all the things people do in this world —politicians lying to everyone, corporations cheating people, people hurting and killing each other—all you're doing is bringing pleasure to people's lives." I can't tell you how much this meant to me, but I'm sure you can imagine.

SPY Magazine once sent some of the world’s richest people checks of just 13 cents to see who if any would cash them. Only two people ever did – one was an arms dealer, the other was Donald Trump

333 Texas has the highest speed limit of any US state – you can drive down the Texas State Highway 130 at 85mph

Almost every Catholic boy had a go at being an altar boy at some point during their life sentence at school. Some boys were really committed to it and did it for years. I gave it a go when I was around nine years old, mainly because I liked the idea of dressing up in something unusual and performing in front of an audience.

Florida

Mrs Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all about Mrs Next Door’s problems with her daughter and how Dudley had learnt a new word (‘Shan’t!’). Mr Dursley tried to act normally. When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the living-room in time to catch the last report on the evening news: ‘And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation’s owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern.’ The news reader allowed himself a grin. ‘Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?’ ‘Well, Ted,’ said the weatherman, ‘I don’t know about that, but it’s not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they’ve had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early – it’s not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight.’ Mr Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters … Mrs Dursley came into the living-room carrying two cups of tea. It was no good. He’d have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. ‘Er – Petunia, dear – you haven’t heard from your sister lately, have you?’ As he had expected, Mrs Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn’t have a sister. ‘No,’ she said sharply. ‘Why?’ ‘Funny stuff on the news,’ Mr Dursley mumbled. ‘Owls … shooting stars … and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today …’ ‘So?’ snapped Mrs Dursley.

Vending machines kill more people each year than sharks. Statistically, you are twice as likely to be killed by a vending machine than a shark

So I have to get started now. It's time to get started now. And why not? I wonder. I have a job. I am in love. We have an extra bedroom that we are currently using for shoes, boxes, and occasional guests. I am told my dog is unusually good with children. I already look fucking pregnant. Why the hell not.

It’s funny how really smart people have the most unusual holes in their worldview and perception.

Things have been really interesting in your little bar,” Mel said. “A little tense and steamy.” He laughed. “Think someone should take Luke aside and warn him about this place?” “I thought you’d finally learned your lesson,” she teased him. “You’ve been in the business of almost every romantic relationship in this town….” “Yeah, but this one’s different. The second Shelby saw him, it was a target lock on. She wants him. Can you see the struggle on his face? He’s getting lines.” “Yeah, what’s that about?” Mel asked. “She’s adorable. You’d think he’d be thrilled.” “Well, the first night he met her he said he took one look at her and thought he was going to be arrested. He might be having a little trouble with her age.” “Phooey,” Mel said. “There’s quite a nice difference in our ages.” She grabbed his thigh. “I’m catching up with you, however.” “Then there’s the general,” Jack said. “Kind of intimidating…” “Oh, Walt’s a pussycat,” she said. “And I think he likes Luke. They have the army in common.” “Luke’s either going to give in or explode,” Jack said. “How do you know he hasn’t? Given in.” “Have you taken a good look at him? At his posture, his eyes? Believe me, he’d be a lot looser. He hasn’t unloaded in a long time.” “Jack!” she said. “And the funny thing is, Shelby’s downright serene,” Jack said, completely ignoring his wife’s scold. “She’s a very unusual woman.” “What do you mean?” “Have you looked at yourself in the mirror when it’s been a long time for us?” he asked. “It’s all over your face when you need to be taken care of.” He grinned at her. “It is not!” she said, giving him a whack on the arm. But she laughed at him, and secretly knew he was right. She also knew why Shelby didn’t look that way. Shelby, virginal, hadn’t been satisfied by a man yet; she didn’t ache with longing for her lover. “It’s hardly ever been a long time for us,” she pointed out. “Which is how I like it,” he said. “Then take the general,” he said. “Talk about a satisfied man…” “You can’t possibly know that. Walt neither looks nor acts any differently than he ever did,” she insisted. “The general looks like a beautiful woman moved in next door and he’s doing his best to be a good neighbor. He’s got a twinkle in his eye and a very sly grin.” Mel turned toward him and narrowed her eyes. “Do you really think you know what facial expressions correspond exactly to a man’s getting laid?” “I do,” he said with a smile. “In fact, I consider myself something of an expert.” She

In 1999, authors Joshua Piven and David Borgenicht released The Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook. Providing humorous but real-life instructions for what to do in unusually dire circumstances, the book advertised itself as “the essential companion for a perilous age.” Both frightening and funny, it offered pithy chapters on how to perform a tracheotomy, identify a bomb, land a plane, survive if your parachute fails to open, deal with a charging bull, jump from a building into a dumpster and escape from killer bees, among other things. Someone gave me a copy of The Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook when it came out. I shrugged and said, “Meh.” It sold ten million copies.

The tennis coach slowly moved his fingers towards his friend’s arsehole and shakily circled the rim as instructed. “Anything abnormal there?” “It’s hairy,” Butcher complained. “It is very hairy,” the doctor agreed. “But, although an arsehole that hairy is undoubtedly unusual, it’s not technically an abnormality.

My father's generation grew up with certain beliefs. One of those beliefs is that the amount of money one earns is a rough guide to one's contribution to the welfare and prosperity of our society. I grew up unusually close to my father. Each evening I would plop into a chair near him, sweaty from a game of baseball in the front yard, and listen to him explain why such and such was true and such and such was not. One thing that was almost always true was that people who made a lot of money were neat. Horatio Alger and all that. It took watching his son being paid 225 grand at the age of twenty-seven, after two years on the job, to shake his faith in money. He has only recently recovered from the shock. I haven't. When you sit, as I did, at the center of what has been possibly the most absurd money game ever and benefit out of all proportion to your value to society (as much as I'd like to think I got only what I deserved, I don't), when hundreds of equally undeserving people around you are all raking it in faster than they can count it, what happens to the money belief? Well, that depends. For some, good fortune simply reinforces the belief. They take the funny money seriously, as evidence that they are worthy citizens of the Republic. It becomes their guiding assumption-for it couldn't possibly be clearly thought out-that a talent for making money come out of a telephone is a reflection of merit on a grander scale. It is tempting to believe that people who think this way eventually suffer their comeuppance. They don't. They just get richer. I'm sure most of them die fat and happy. For me, however, the belief in the meaning of making dollars crumbled; the proposition that the more money you earn, the better the life you are leading was refuted by too much hard evidence to the contrary. And without that belief, I lost the need to make huge sums of money. The funny thing is that I was largely unaware how heavily influenced I was by the money belief until it had vanished. It is a small piece of education, but still the most useful thing I picked up at Salomon Brothers. Almost everything else I learned I left behind. I became fairly handy with a few hundred million dollars, but I'm still lost when I have to decide what to do with a few thousand. I learned humility briefly in the training program but forgot it as soon as I was given a chance. And I learned that people can be corrupted by organizations, but since I remain willing to join organizations and even to be corrupted by them (mildly, please), I'm not sure what practical benefit will come from this lesson.

In a survey, it was found that 7% of American adults think chocolate milk comes from brown cows

Eleanor is one of the most unusual protagonists in recent fiction, and some of her opinions and actions are very funny. What were your favorite moments in the novel? “Did men ever look in the mirror, I wondered, and find themselves wanting in deeply fundamental ways? When they opened a newspaper or watched a film, were they presented with nothing but exceptionally handsome young men, and did this make them feel intimidated, inferior, because they were not as young, not as handsome?” (p. 74). Eleanor’s question is rhetorical and slightly tongue-in-cheek, but worth answering. What are your thoughts? If men don’t have this experience, why not? If they do, why is it not more openly discussed? Eleanor is frightened that she may become like her mother. Is this a reasonable fear? What is the balance of nature and nurture? Is it possible to emerge from a traumatic childhood unscathed? Eleanor says, “If someone asks you how you are, you are meant to say FINE. You are not meant to say that you cried yourself to sleep last night because you hadn’t spoken to another person for two consecutive days. FINE is what you say” (p. 226–227). Why is this the case?