“Warrrrioooors … we’ll meet you out on the beach!”
“… but they’ll never take our FREEEEDOOOOM! Well, truthfully, they will actually, sooner or later. We’ll even vote to stay in their thrall. But here we all are, with blue paint and claymores, so let’s get to it!”
“They call me Happy Johnny Funtime Wackybob, which is odd because my last name is Tibbs.”
Stop talking and distribute the cards.
This would sharpen you up and make you ready for a bit of the old ultra violet flower arranging.
“Flexible Flyer.”
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You’re bleeding, man. You’re hit.
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I ain’t got time to … holy shit, I am bleeding, aren’t I? Damn, that’s a friggin’ gusher. You got some gauze or something?
The, the other important joke for me is one that’s, uh, usually attributed to Groucho Marx; but I think it appears originally in Freud’s Wit and Its Relation to the Unconscious and it goes like this - I’m paraphrasing - um, “I don’t join clubs.”
You can’t engage in personal physical aggression and violence with another person here. This room is for planning and directing a war.
Lacrimation’s prohibited in this particular sport in which you hit a ball with a stick.
“Putting on the Ritz.”
“Cinderella story. Outta nowhere. A former greenskeeper, now, about to become the Masters champion. It looks like a mirac…Fuck! I missed!”
“Dr. Rumack, you can’t be serious.”
I am famous. It’s the movie that changed.
I was thinking of the immortal words of Socrates, when he said, “A system of morality which is based on relative emotional values is a mere illusion, a thoroughly vulgar conception which has nothing sound in it and nothing true.”
The subway in London is not a revolutionary movement.
We do this every morning; it’s safe and routine. No danger is growing, no fires of hell are glowing, no grisly reaper is mowing. Yes, the rowers keep rowing; they’re not showing any signs that they are slowing, because they know the way.
Given the passing of Sir Christopher Lee this week…
I’m discussing an assassin who – with the exception of James Bond – is second to none: The Man With The Golden Gun. “No one can catch him,” we say, “and no hitman can match him” – but, again, that’s hyperbole, because – well, have you met Bond? He’s the answer to a question no one asked: what if Bruce Wayne got paid to kill people? So when you hear people say “if you want to get rid of someone, the man with the golden gun will get it done,” realize that (a) we don’t really mean it, because (b) Bond will get the drop on the guy and shoot him dead.
Honestly, he’s going to have slightly more trouble with Hervé Villechaize.
You know how to whistle, don’t you, Steve? Just curve each lip in a semicircle and exhale forcibly through your mouth.
One night in Africa, while I was wearing my pajamas, I shot a wild elephant.