Vulgar Funny Quotes

SHUT UP. Both of you. You're coming with me." To me he said, "Put some pants on." "Fuck you. This is my house. I make the rules. You take your clothes off. John, get the Twister mat.

She’s like a cross between an onion and donkey,” Farah said. “Why?” Jason and Connor asked simultaneously. “Cause she’s a piece of ass that will bring a tear to your eye.” Farah laughed.

People have sex, even the religious ones. Yet, when sex is transferred into words, suddenly it's dirty, vulgar, immoral, trashy. Funny huh?

The extraordinary mystique of hers made you think she lived on rose petals and listened to nothing but Mozart, but it wasn't true. She was quite funny and ribald. She could tell a dirty joke. She played charades with a great sense of fun and vulgarity, and she could be quite bitchy.

He took in the squeaky music, the vulgar and pining melodies, because passion immobilizes good taste and seriously considers what soberly would be thought of as funny and to be resented.

You’re a prickly, stubborn, spirited woman.” “Don’t forget crude, rude, and vulgar.” “Only when it suits you. You’re sly when occasion calls for it, direct to the point of forgetting tact even exists, sarcastic, fierce, I did mention stubborn, didn’t I?” “Yes,” she said dryly. “You’re also smart, kind, gentle, beautiful, and always cling to your personal integrity, even when it’s in your best interests to abandon it.” A little warm feeling spread through her chest, and even her natural suspicion that he was lying couldn’t quite extinguish it. Where was he going with this? “You’re also quite funny,” he said. “Oh, I amuse you?” He gave her one of his devastating, slightly wicked smiles. “You have no idea.” Arrogant ass. “And all of that means what?” “Just that I mean to have you.” She frowned at him. “I mean to have you, Rose, you and all of your thorns. I’m a disagreeable and stubborn bastard, but I’m not a fool. You didn’t really expect me to pass you up, did you?

We human beings regard ourselves as (or compare ourselves to) animals only when it suits us.

We need the courage to say obesity is not funny and vulgarity is not amusing.

There is nobody as hopelessly vulgar as a British aristocrat...

You know how some people get sun-kissed, well i got sun bitch slapped

... Pfiffikus, whose vulgarity made Rosa Hubermann look like a wordsmith and a saint.

We need to have the courage to say obesity is not funny and vulgarity is not amusing. Insolent children and submissive parents are not the characters we want to admire and emulate. Flippancy and sarcasm are not the qualities which we need to include in our daily conversations.

But I must say, it's a lonely business fucking someone you no longer love. Especially a husband. Tough, funny, vulgar, cynical, it was a classic Ava Gardner line. It rolled off the tongue. I didn't want to lose it. The problem was I couldn't reconcile it with something she had told me earlier--that she was "even more in love with all three of my husbands the day I left them than the day we married." -author Peter Evans

Being vulgar to be funny is a crutch, and I prefer wheelchairs.

Some entertainers have tried to make art of coarseness, but in their public crudeness they have merely revealed their own vast senses of personal inferiority. When they heap mud upon themselves and allow their tongues to wag with vulgarity, they expose their belief that they are not worth loving and in fact are unlovable. When we as an audience indulge then in their profanity, we are like the audience at the Roman Colosseum being thrilled as the raging lions kill the unarmed Christians. We not only participate in the humiliation of the entertainers, but we are brought low by sharing in the obscenity. We need to have the courage to say obesity is not funny and vulgarity is not amusing. Insolent children and submissive parents are not the characters we want to admire and emulate. Flippancy and sarcasm are not qualities which we need to include in our daily conversations.

What Is Art?150 I’m beginning to think that maybe I’m exceedingly vulgar — and the funny thing about it is — I don’t understand — I get the shapes in my head — can never make them exactly like I want to — but there is a fascination about trying — And then too — there is the delicious probability that I don’t know anything about what Art is — So it’s fun to make the stuff —

When they were all up playing in the nursery George caught something again and had monia on account of getting cold on his chest and Yourfather was very solemn and said not to grieve if God called little brother away. But God brought little George back to them only he was delicate after that and had to wear glasses, and when Dearmother let Eveline help bathe him because Miss Mathilda was having the measles too Eveline noticed he had something funny there where she didn't have anything. She asked Dearmother if it was a mump, but Dearmother scolded her and said she was a vulgar little girl to have looked. "Hush, child, don't ask questions. Evaline got red all over and cried and Adelaide and Margaret wouldn't speak to her for days on account of her being a vulgar little girl.

I might be a shameless flirt, but at least I don't have a horrible temper. You should come tend to my wounds from our squabble in the snow. I'm bruised all over thanks to you. Something clicked against the nightstand, and a pen rolled across the polished mahogany. Hissing, I snatched it up and scribbed: Go lick your wounds and leave me be. The paper vanished. It was gone for a while- far longer than it should have taken to write the few words that appeared on the paper when it returned. I'd much rather you licked my wounds for me. My heart pounded, faster and faster, and a strange sort of rush went through my veins as I read the sentence again and again. A challenge. I clamped my lips shut to keep from smiling as I wrote, Lick you where exactly? The paper vanished before I'd even completed the final mark. His reply was a long time coming. Then, Wherever you want to lick me, Feyre. I'd like to start with "Everywhere," but I can choose, if necessary. I wrote back, Let's hope my licking is better than yours. I remember how horrible you were at it Under the Mountain. Lie. He'd licked away my tears when I'd been a moment away from shattering. He'd done it to keep me distracted- keep me angry. Because anger was better than feeling nothing; because anger and hatred were the long-lasting fuel in the endless dark of my despair. The same way that music had kept me from breaking. Lucien had come to patch me up a few times, but no one risked quite so much in keeping me not only alive, but as mentally intact as I could be considering the circumstances. Just as he'd been doing these past few weeks- taunting and teasing me to keep the hollowness at bay. Just as he was doing now. I was under duress, his next note read. If you want, I'd be more than happy to prove you wrong. I've been told I'm very, very good at licking. I clenched my knees together and wrote back, Good night. A heartbeat later, his note said, Try not to moan too loudly when you dream about me. I need my beauty rest. I got up, chucked the letter in the burbling fire, and gave it a vulgar gesture. I could have sworn laughter rumbled down the hall.

O Tell Me The Truth About Love - Poem by WH Auden Some say love's a little boy, And some say it's a bird, Some say it makes the world go round, Some say that's absurd, And when I asked the man next door, Who looked as if he knew, His wife got very cross indeed, And said it wouldn't do. Does it look like a pair of pyjamas, Or the ham in a temperance hotel? Does its odour remind one of llamas, Or has it a comforting smell? Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is, Or soft as eiderdown fluff? Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges? O tell me the truth about love. Our history books refer to it In cryptic little notes, It's quite a common topic on The Transatlantic boats; I've found the subject mentioned in Accounts of suicides, And even seen it scribbled on The backs of railway guides. Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian, Or boom like a military band? Could one give a first-rate imitation On a saw or a Steinway Grand? Is its singing at parties a riot? Does it only like Classical stuff? Will it stop when one wants to be quiet? O tell me the truth about love. I looked inside the summer-house; It wasn't even there; I tried the Thames at Maidenhead, And Brighton's bracing air. I don't know what the blackbird sang, Or what the tulip said; But it wasn't in the chicken-run, Or underneath the bed. Can it pull extraordinary faces? Is it usually sick on a swing? Does it spend all its time at the races, or fiddling with pieces of string? Has it views of its own about money? Does it think Patriotism enough? Are its stories vulgar but funny? O tell me the truth about love. When it comes, will it come without warning Just as I'm picking my nose? Will it knock on my door in the morning, Or tread in the bus on my toes? Will it come like a change in the weather? Will its greeting be courteous or rough? Will it alter my life altogether? O tell me the truth about love.

I told you that the moment we started letting females into our group, they'd be nothing but trouble.' 'As far as I can recall, Cassian,' Rhys countered drily, 'you actually said you needed a reprieve from staring at our ugly faces, and that some ladies would add some much-needed prettiness for you to look at all day.' 'Pig,' Amren said. Cassian gave her a vulgar gesture that made Lucien choke on his green beans. 'I was a young Illyrian and didn't know better,' he said, then pointed his fork at Azriel. 'Don't try to blend into the shadows. You said the same thing.' 'He did not,' Mor said, and the shadows that Azriel had indeed been subtly weaving around himself vanished. 'Azriel had never once said anything that awful. Only you, Cassian. Only you.

Where the hell are you? I scanned around me, and found nothing but shadow and merry flame and books. Two levels below. And why are you two levels below? I shoved out of my chair, back aching in protest as I stormed for the walkway and rail beyond, then peered down into the gloom. Sure enough, in a reading area two levels below, I could spy his dark hair and wings- could spy him leaning back in his chair before an identical desk, an ankle crossed over a knee. Smirking up at me. Because I can't work with you distracting me. I scowled at him. I'm distracting you? If you're sitting next to me, the last thing on my mind is reading dusty old books. Especially when you're in all that tight leather. Pig. His chuckle echoed up through the library amid the fluttering papers and scratching pens of the priestesses working throughout. ... Two hours of work, he promised me, turning back to the table and flaring his wings- a veritable screen to block my view of him. And his view of me. Then we can play. I gave him a vulgar gesture. I saw that. I did it again, and his laugh floated to me as I faced the books stacked before me and began to read.

Jackson?” “Hmm?” “Can I tell you something and will you promise not to get mad or make me feel bad or irresponsible or reckless?” “You’re pregnant?” “What?” She sat up resting on her elbow, giving him a scrunched-face expression. “I’m having my period.” He shrugged. “I wasn’t convinced if that’s what it was for sure since a few days ago you accused me of trying to ‘break your vagina.’” She jabbed him in the side with her fist. He chuckled. “It’s not funny. A few times I wondered if you were going to rip me straight up the middle in two. You’ve been weird … even kind of angry. That’s it … it’s felt like angry sex. Not even sex at times, more like just effing.” “Effing?” “Yes, fucking,” she whispered. He roared a big laugh that only turned her face true crimson. “Why…” he tried to catch his breath through his laughter “…are you whispering? Are you worried about Gunner hearing you or God? Because I’m quite certain that dog has already told me to back the fuck away from you in more than one language, and I know you haven’t been to church in a while, but as far as I know, God can still read minds.” “Well excuse me, Mr. Vulgar, I didn’t grow up using explicit language, and I had a baby before I had a chance to sow any wild oats and making a habit of using the F-word as an adjective and adverb to every single word in the English language. Don’t people realize it starts to lose its effect after a while? It’s like putting an explanation point at the end of every sentence. ‘I’m going to wake the F up tomorrow and roll the F out of my effing bed, and take an effing hot shower before I effing eat an effing bowl of cereal. Then I’m going to get the F going to my first effing job, then meet my effing amazing boyfriend for an effing good lunch, and then if I’m done with my effing period we might F a few times until we’re effing exhausted.’” Jackson’s body vibrated with laughter. “Am I the ‘effing amazing boyfriend’ in your little story?” Ryn kissed along his chest, following the lines of ink. “Maybe.” “Maybe, huh? I can work with that. So before you went off on your effing tangent, what were you going to tell me?

From the **** of his own mother, Came smiling this crazy ****er! His father forgot to use a ****er, But we are the ones who suffer.

Well wrap my nuts around a pole and call me mary, looks like you just popped your cherry!

How many dicks does a man have to suck to get a penguin dab around here?

Helen obligingly presented us with a copy of the new form of marriage service, with all the vulgar bits left out--which was asking for trouble. Peter very funny about it--said he knew all about the "procreation of children," in theory though not in practice, but that the "increase of mankind" by any other method sounded too advanced for him, and that, if he ever did indulge in such dangerous amusements, he would, with his wife's permission, stick to the old-fashioned procedure. He also said that, as for the "gift of continence," he wouldn't have it as a gift, and had no objection to admitting as much. At this point, Helen got up and left the house, leaving P. and Harriet to wrangle over the word "obey." P. said he would consider it a breach of manners to give orders to his wife, but H. said, Oh, no--he'd give orders fast enough if the place was on fire or a tree falling down and he wanted her to stand clear. P. said, in that case they ought both to say "obey," but it would be too much jam for the reporters. Left them to fight it out. When I came back, found Peter had consented to be obeyed on condition he might "endow" and not "share" his worldly goods. Shocking victory of sentiment over principle.

Sorry, I didn’t know that you had a vagina, I’ll refrain from using vulgar words for now on. How about it smells like pee pee and poo poo, with a little bit of spew, is that better?” “You’re a real character, you know that?” “Thanks, I try,” she says. “Now, let’s get the shi-stuff and get out of here.” “Fine,” I say. “But for future reference, I like it better when you curse. It’s pretty funny to see a pissed off Tinkerbell.” I run from the baseball mitt being hurled at my head, laughing all the way .

There are ladies present," Kieran shouted back, "so I can't give you my full array of vulgar hand gestures. Use your imagination to pick the rudest one. That's the one I'm sending your way." "Let me assist you, dearest brother, " Willa said. "I think he means this." she jabbed two fingers into the air.