Zebra Animal Quotes

Empty packets of hot sauce remind me of the love I used to have for her. Now all I’m left with is this yummy taco.

For your birthday, I got you a box. Hooray! It’s empty, so you can fill it with whatever you want.

I love teamwork. I love the idea of everyone rallying together to help me win.

If my love could be represented by a blur, it would be the beating of a hummingbird’s wings. Did you know that my love is the only love that can fly backwards?


How many seconds does it take to win second? As many as it takes to win first—if you don’t use them properly.

My trash can got stolen five times. Finally the owner just let me have it.


A cake for all is not a celebration of one. Cupcakes are the ultimate birthday cake.

When I’m feeling down, I make myself a big bowl of Up Soup. The bowl only looks empty, but in reality it’s full of hope. Grab a spoon, there’s plenty for both of us.

I’ll wipe a booger on your wall, not only to say I was here, but also to say thanks for having me over.

I can give or take elephants; I never can find the cheetah-but the zebras captivate me. They'd be one of the few things that would fit if we were lucky enough to live in a world that's black or white.

The beautiful part about killing someone with an icicle is the murder weapon melts and then evaporates. And your assassination can be fruit flavored!

Day or night, I can’t see the wind. But at night, it feels like I can see it even less. What’s less visible than invisible?


My mom and dad died, but in their place I got a house of fog that’s easy to hide my feelings in. (No smoking, please.)


One of the side effects of Viagra is blurred vision. Sounds great! When I’m taking a pill to pop a stiffy, how great is it that any woman I look at has blurred features and therefore is as beautiful as an impressionistic painting?


You should shoot. I should shoo.

Some men eat dinner with silverware. Some use chopsticks. I prefer zippers.

I can throw an orange like a baseball, but I can’t eat a baseball like an orange. Let that be a life lesson for you.

I tried telling him without telling him, through body language, and I observed he was unobservant.

I hid Mrs. Frozenwater’s body in the ice cube trays in my freezer. Better to keep her there than let her memory thaw out and evaporate. Scotch on the rocks, anyone?


Things aren’t often what they appear to be at first blush. But embarrassment is.

I hired a chauffeur and I became a motivational speaker, because I don’t drive—I’m driven.

I bought you a box of karate chops, but it could be dangerous to open it with a knife. And cats are masters at getting into boxes, so here, try opening it with my portable meow maker.


Lead is to lead as follow is to follow. And lead is to lead as a type of metal is to a type of metal. Which brings me to my point: To love is to lead with your heart, while allowing your ego to sink like lead.


Life seems so am/pm. But really it’s not as balanced as all that.

I want a trophy wife. I’ll keep her on the shelf next to my future Nobel peace prize. (I plan on inventing a gun that shoots love, not bullets.)


I’m more than just a pretty face. I’m also delusional.

New eyes awaken. I send Love's name into the world with wings And songs grow up around me like a jungle. Choirs of all creatures sing the tunes Your Spirit played in Eden. Zebras and antelopes and birds of paradise Shine on the face of the abyss And I am drunk with the great wilderness Of the sixth day in Genesis. But sound is never half so fair As when that music turns to air And the universe dies of excellence. Sun, moon and stars Fall from their heavenly towers. Joys walk no longer down the blue world's shore. Though fires loiter, lights still fly on the air of the gulf, All fear another wind, another thunder: Then one more voice Snuffs all their flares in one gust. And I go forth with no more wine and no more stars And no more buds and no more Eden And no more animals and no more sea: While God sings by himself in acres of night And walls fall down, that guarded Paradise.

I am the man of your dreams. Go back to sleep.

I’m a lion in my environment. But take me out of my cage, and I’m a lamb.

I make believe like asexuals make love—alone, with cardboard tubes.

Back in high school, I started a gang called “The Illiterates.” To easily identify fellow gang members, we all wore letterman jackets.

I put the “sing” in single. But only when I’m in the shower.

I’m a poor worker. The quality of work I do is excellent, but I make no money.

Don’t bother calling the cops, because nobody can find me here. I know, because after all these years, I’m still trying to find myself.

Just because I flap my arms, that doesn’t make me a bird. No, I’m a bird because I believe myself to be. That’s the power of faith.

I wish I could sculpt my shadow into my night clone, and it could be out earning me money while I slept, instead of being folded up neatly in my underwear drawer like it is now.


Laws are chains to the many, and whips to the few.

To live a sinless life is good, but if you live in a cave and positively influence nobody, you may not have harmed anyone, but since you added no value to life, are you really worthy?

A moth will never know what a zebra finch hears in its song, a zebra finch will never feel the electric buzz of a black ghost knifefish, a knifefish will never see through the eyes of a mantis shrimp, a mantis shrimp will never smell the way a dog can, and a dog will never understand what it is to be a bat. We will never fully do any of these things either, but we are the only animal that can try.

My love is like an empty bottle of wine. If you’re wondering, my ex wife drank it all.

Sometimes it feels like I’m walking around with bricks for shoes, not going anywhere.

She told me to draw the curtains shut, so I grabbed my pencil and began to sketch.

Did you know you can drink food? It’s true! It’s called soup, and I eat it with a fork. I’m as efficient as the government.


My future, it almost looks like Christmas—red and green—stop and go.

There’s cat feces in my Batman costume, and all the lines in my screenplay were snorted by the neighborhood cokehead. Ah, but that’s life, no?

The window of life is mirrored. And tinted. And shattered. And borrowed.

The best part about teamwork, is me collecting all the prize money. Hey, that’s what captains are for, right?

I’ll never rest on my laurels. If I’ve got more than one Laurel in my bed, rest is not how I plan on utilizing my mattress.

Teamwork: I love the idea of all for one—especially if that one is me.

My favorite tree is the Joshua tree, which is named after me. Well, it will be, once I change my name to Joshua.

I’m more terrified of failure than rejection—so I’ll no my way to YES!

I’m thirsting for fame. I’m so fucking thirsty. Somebody bring me a tall glass of saltwater with a side order of desert.

I’m as constant as Constantinople. Now that’s some Istanbul shit.

For example, the main reason zebras never got domesticated is that they’re ultra-high-fear. Zebras may bite people and not let go. They injure more people in zoos than the tigers do.15

I want to open a broken marriage repair shop. I’m not a counselor or psychologist, but I am a fan of the magical bonding that occurs between two people when duct tape binds them together for a long period of time in a dark basement. Refer a friend, and you get a two for one abuse session.

I plugged the hole up with my thumb, so at least I wouldn’t sink. But it was really uncomfortable floating on that lake with my thumb up my ass.

I watch silent movies on mute. But only for the dialogue.

I come bearing gifts in the form of junk food. You’re welcome. I would have brought some drugs, but I’m not a doctor.

I’d use my shadow as a blanket, but it’s too cold. It’s a shame, because it’d fit snuggly over my body.

Should I masturbate before we meet up? I don’t want to be horny and thinking with my dick the whole time. I mean, it’s not like it’s a date. For Pete’s sake, it’s a job interview.

Would you rather have sight, or insight? I’d rather have a double cheeseburger.

You may not have said anything, but you’re right—silence is the best response.

When you’re a cartographer, having to make maps sort of comes with the territory.

When someone insults me, I simply shut down. Then I open back up at 9 am the next morning.

Sword and words—same letters, and same ability to cut down.

While getting a haircut, I thought about my failed marriage. Instead of feeling bad, I thought I’d grow a beard, move to the mountains, and start over.

I’m not Hispanic, I’m His panic. Who is He? He is the startled.

Boxes of toilet paper make the best birthday presents. They really show I give a shit.

She had two blueberries for eyes, and hair the color of strawberries. Too bad our love never made it past the kitchen and into the bedroom (or garage).

A kiss involves two people, so I not only have to think about me for me, I have to think about me for her, her for her, and her for me.

I crumpled up a piece of paper and threw it in the garbage. Then I quickly snatched it out, because hell, I’d just tossed out a Frank Gehry knockoff. What you call trash, I call architecture.

Call me paranoid, but the shape the human hand makes when extending out for a handshake looks suspiciously like a karate chop. Maybe diplomacy, especially in DC, could use a little kung fu mixed in.

Elephants, it turns out, are surprisingly stealthy. As the sunlight fades, other species declare their presence. Throngs of zebras and wildebeests thunder by in the distance, trailing dust clouds. Cape buffalo snort and raise their horns and position themselves in front of their young. Giraffes stare over treetops, their huge brown eyes blinking, then lope away in seeming slow motion. But no elephants.

Animals are complete all on their own, living by voices we don’t get to hear, having a knowing far beyond our paltry ken. And giraffes, they seem to know something more. Elephants, tigers, monkeys, zebras . . . whatever you feel around the rest, you feel different around giraffes.

I wired my gas pedal to my stereo, so now when I crank up the volume the car accelerates.

Two hearts that beat as one, and they’re both mine. I’ve got them hooked up to a synchometer.

Be prepared, but look unprepared. That way, your opponent thinks he doesn’t have to prepare to defeat you.

On the card I wrote, “Thinking of you,” and the picture was of my erect penis. I hope my local congressman got it OK.

I tried being 29, and it worked for about a year, but finally I just had to get rid of it.

You may be dying, but I’m going to have a picnic and enjoy this glorious day. I won’t let your impending death spoil my afternoon.

I am my own tornado. Instead of panicking, I run in circles and scream.

I’m in great shape. I’m 30 years old, and I feel like I’m 29.

I want an ocean job, but they’re hard to land.

The morning came pouring down on my night, but luckily I was able to convert my erection into an umbrella.

The locked door in my house is just a diversion. The real valuable items are out in the open, where they are hidden from the unimaginative.

If zombies eat brains, then they’d love me, because who doesn’t like a buffet?

I didn’t form my lips into the shape of a kiss. I was merely about to whistle.

This morning I ate a hamburger for breakfast, and then wept like a baby into an open jar of mayonnaise. I guess that’s just the champion in me.

The hardest part about finishing is starting.

I love body language, because I can speak it without talking, without listening, and while my back is turned.

I don’t sleep naked, because that’s not proper beach etiquette.

When you pay for security, it seems like you’re paying for nothing—and that’s the point. You’re paying so nothing happens. Safety is the absence of something.

My writing, it’s all I have. Well, aside from my health. And shelter, food, and clothing. Oh, and my cat.

Instead of putting a Band Aid on your cut finger, why not just amputate at the elbow? See, I’m a problem solver. I should go into politics.

I don’t want a home, but I do want to buy a lot that I like a lot.

Instead of breaking people down, try building them up. Every person is a brick, and if you are a successful builder, you’ll have a formidable wall, and few people willing to oppose you.

When I think about my clone, random songs pop into my head. Songs like, “Happy Birthday.” Will he celebrate the same birthday as me? He’d better, because without me, there’d be nothing for him to celebrate.

If instead of a handshake you hold out a fist for a fist bump, I’ll wrap my hand around your fist like it was a circular shower handle, and toggle between hot and cold a few times. But I won’t get naked for you.

Zebras are the lions of the animal world. I mean they would be, if lions weren’t already the lions of the animal world. So, is this a book about zebras or pianos? Well, I haven’t played a zebra or ridden a piano in a few years, but that doesn’t mean I’m not an expert on both. In fact, the Bantu bestowed upon me the name “Pundamilia Mozart kupanda kinanda ng’ombe dume”, which roughly translated means, “Zebra Mozart who rides piano benches like they’re bulls.” That’s right, my friends. I’m an international man of mystery. Here’s some advice: If you want to be seen as more mysterious, remember to turn on the fog machine before you make your entrance.


Girls, I was dead and down in the Underworld, a shade, a shadow of my former self, nowhen. It was a place where language stopped, a black full stop, a black hole Where the words had to come to an end. And end they did there, last words, famous or not. It suited me down to the ground. So imagine me there, unavailable, out of this world, then picture my face in that place of Eternal Repose, in the one place you’d think a girl would be safe from the kind of a man who follows her round writing poems, hovers about while she reads them, calls her His Muse, and once sulked for a night and a day because she remarked on his weakness for abstract nouns. Just picture my face when I heard - Ye Gods - a familiar knock-knock at Death’s door. Him. Big O. Larger than life. With his lyre and a poem to pitch, with me as the prize. Things were different back then. For the men, verse-wise, Big O was the boy. Legendary. The blurb on the back of his books claimed that animals, aardvark to zebra, flocked to his side when he sang, fish leapt in their shoals at the sound of his voice, even the mute, sullen stones at his feet wept wee, silver tears. Bollocks. (I’d done all the typing myself, I should know.) And given my time all over again, rest assured that I’d rather speak for myself than be Dearest, Beloved, Dark Lady, White Goddess etc., etc. In fact girls, I’d rather be dead. But the Gods are like publishers, usually male, and what you doubtless know of my tale is the deal. Orpheus strutted his stuff. The bloodless ghosts were in tears. Sisyphus sat on his rock for the first time in years. Tantalus was permitted a couple of beers. The woman in question could scarcely believe her ears. Like it or not, I must follow him back to our life - Eurydice, Orpheus’ wife - to be trapped in his images, metaphors, similes, octaves and sextets, quatrains and couplets, elegies, limericks, villanelles, histories, myths… He’d been told that he mustn’t look back or turn round, but walk steadily upwards, myself right behind him, out of the Underworld into the upper air that for me was the past. He’d been warned that one look would lose me for ever and ever. So we walked, we walked. Nobody talked. Girls, forget what you’ve read. It happened like this - I did everything in my power to make him look back. What did I have to do, I said, to make him see we were through? I was dead. Deceased. I was Resting in Peace. Passé. Late. Past my sell-by date… I stretched out my hand to touch him once on the back of the neck. Please let me stay. But already the light had saddened from purple to grey. It was an uphill schlep from death to life and with every step I willed him to turn. I was thinking of filching the poem out of his cloak, when inspiration finally struck. I stopped, thrilled. He was a yard in front. My voice shook when I spoke - Orpheus, your poem’s a masterpiece. I’d love to hear it again… He was smiling modestly, when he turned, when he turned and he looked at me. What else? I noticed he hadn’t shaved. I waved once and was gone. The dead are so talented. The living walk by the edge of a vast lake near, the wise, drowned silence of the dead.