Wacky Funny Quotes

You're never too old, too wacky, too wild, to pick up a book and read to a child.

The wacky thing about those bad guys is that you can't count on them to be obvious. They forget to wax their mustaches and goatees, leave their horns at home, send their black hats to the dry cleaner's. They're funny like that.

I cried, sitting by her bed, and I told her the story of us. “It’s about the feed,” I said. “It’s about this meg normal guy, who doesn’t think about anything until one wacky day, when he meets a dissident with a heart of gold.” I said, “Set against the backdrop of America in its final days, it’s the high-spirited story of their love together, it’s laugh-out-loud funny, really heartwarming, and a visual feast.” I picked up her hand and held it to my lips. I whispered to her fingers. “Together, the two crazy kids grow, have madcap escapades, and learn an important lesson about love. They learn to resist the feed. Rated PG-13. For language,” I whispered, “and mild sexual situations.

Stop teasing you two,” Suzy jumped in, “not all of Kathy’s ideas are wacky.” “Gee thanks. Was that supposed to be a compliment?

I like the idea of cats. They're cute and funny in those wacky YouTube videos when they scoot across the floor on their bellies like furry ninjas or pop out of boxes.

I thumped her on the back, picked her up and dropped her on top of her dungarees. “Put them pants on,” I said, “and be a man.” She did, but she cried quietly until I shook her and said gently, “Stop it now. I didn’t carry on like that when I was a little girl.” I got into my clothes and dumped her into the bow of the canoe and shoved off. All the way back to the cabin I forced her to play one of our pet games. I would say something—anything—and she would try to say something that rhymed with it. Then it would be her turn. She had an extraordinary rhythmic sense, and an excellent ear. I started off with “We’ll go home and eat our dinners.” “An’ Lord have mercy on us sinners,” she cried. Then, “Let’s see you find a rhyme for ‘month’!” “I bet I’ll do it … jutht thith onthe,” I replied. “I guess I did it then, by cracky.” “Course you did, but then you’re wacky. Top that, mister funny-lookin’!” I pretended I couldn’t, mainly because I couldn’t, and she soundly kicked my shin as a penance. By the time we reached the cabin she was her usual self, and I found myself envying the resilience of youth. And she earned my undying respect by saying nothing to Anjy about the afternoon’s events, even when Anjy looked us over and said, “Just look at you two filthy kids! What have you been doing—swimming in the bayou?” “Daddy splashed me,” said Patty promptly. “And you had to splash him back. Why did he splash you?” “ ’Cause I spit mud through my teeth at him to make him mad,” said my outrageous child. “Patty!” “Mea culpa,” I said, hanging my head. “ ’Twas I who spit the mud.” Anjy threw up her hands. “Heaven knows what sort of a woman Patty’s going to grow up to be,” she said, half angrily. “A broad-minded and forgiving one like her lovely mother,” I said quickly. “Nice work, bud,” said Patty. Anjy laughed. “Outnumbered again. Come in and feed the face.

WOULD YOU RATHER… Your toys came to life or that your pets could speak?

or

15- Why can’t Elsa have a balloon? Because she will let it go.

Friday was the name of his horse.

For my tomorrow is a concrete jungle in a number-driven world, and hers remains a ministry to a lush little village. Thus time will pass and letters will be sent, and letters will arrive and letters will be sent, and one day I'll be seated at a noisy Manhatten trading desk, oblivious to markets in motion and will wonder once again how God got me into a Presbyterian church, to a particular beach with a particular girl on a certain weekend in May, and gave me wacky new friends and a new fresh perspective, the living words and the eternal words and the words of a black man who give rhythm to the gospel, and once again it will occur to me that all this just cannot be happenstance...no, surely not happenstance, nothing Presbyterian is ever happenstance. But what you didn't tell me, Asbury, is how much of life derives simply from choice.

………………………………………………………… Excellent! A: Knock, knock B: Who’s there? A: Olive B: Olive Who? A: Olive ……………………………………………………… Really Funny! A: Knock, knock B: Who’s there? A: Mustache B: Mustache Who? A: Mustache ……………………………………………….. A: Knock, knock B: Who’s there? A: Boo

TOM CLARE From a child, I was gripped by the amazing imagination on display in Alice in Wonderland. In my teens, the wild and wacky Goon Show came into being on the radio. Later, I became a huge fan of Tom Sharpe and his wickedly funny books. The more Gothic writing of Daphne du Maurier, especially in Rebecca and Don't Look Now, and the time manipulation novels of William Boyd, linger in my memory. Absurdity, in all its forms, is my type of humour. In retirement, all these sources, together with the stranger events from my life, inspired me to take up writing.

In a way, Trump’s mistreatment of the media had done Hillary a favor by freeing her of the decorum of a traditional campaign. But it also meant the reporters who spent their days trying to cover and explain Hillary to the American public never got to bridge, as one reporter who traveled with the first lady in the 1990s put it, the “disconnect between the kind of person you could convey or are in private and amongst us on these trips, so much sense of humor, very warm and engaging in what we see on television or in the news.” How could we communicate Hillary’s “funny, wicked, and wacky” side to voters if we never saw it for ourselves?

You drive,” he said. “I’ll ride in the back with the possum.” It was a line we would use from that night on. “You drive; I’ll ride in the back with the possum,” one of us would say, and the other one would spurt a mouthful of coffee or beer across the room. It was funny, yet it also seemed to encapsulate our situation in some essential way, to reduce it to its necessary parts. How crazy was this life we led, how weird and wacky and totally unexpected?

In New Mexico, women may walk in public topless, provided they have their nipples covered.

In Thailand, it is illegal to leave your house if you are not wearing underwear.

Lang, Kansas, it is against the law to ride a mule down Main Street in August, unless, of course, the said mule is wearing a straw hat.

Babs fidgets. “Um, wanna hear something funny?” “Sure,” I say. Anything to deflect from me and Graham. “Someone just came in and asked for a book on how to turn himself invisible.” Jane squints. “No way. Was he an adult?” Babs smirks. “Oh yeah, and totally stoned. He smells like wacky weed. I told him we have a book called The Invisible Man, and I may have told him that we have an invisible section, but he’d have to find it on his own. Last I saw, he was feeling along all the walls on the second floor.