Knock knock.
An art thief is a man who takes pictures.
Tragedy is when I cut my finger. Comedy is when you fall into an open sewer and die.
It was the blurst of times.
Take my wife—please.
You have a better chance of stopping a serial killer than a serial thief in comedy.
I shot an elephant in my pajamas.
I have a scoop for you. I stole his act. I camouflaged it with punchlines, and to really throw people off, I did it before he did
Satire is tragedy plus time. You give it enough time, the public, the reviewers will allow you to satirize it. Which is rather ridiculous, when you think about it.
Ducks will never hug! This devastating thought will consume my evening.
I’m wild about his turnip tops.
Likes the way he warms my chops!
I can’t do without my kitchen man.
Now when I eat his donut
All I leave is just the hole.
And if he really needs it,
He can use my sugar bowl!
I’d like to give my kid an interesting name. Like a name with no vowels … just like 40 Fs, that’s his name.
Just realized ducks can’t hug and now I can’t sleep.
Rice is great when you’re hungry and you want 2,000 of something.
I think I am, therefore I am. I think.
I intend to live forever, or die trying.
We all pay for life with death, so everything in between should be free.
Life is a four-letter word.
#1: Hey, I hear you got a job as a salesman.
#2: Sure did. Pays real good.
#1: What do you sell?
#2: I sell salt.
#1: Is that right? I’ll be. I sell pepper.
#2: Shake!
Let’s face it, some people have a way with words. Other people, uhh . . . oh . . . not have way, I guess.
I’d like to have 19 kids. I think naming them, that’s going to be fun. I already have names picked out. First kid — boy, girl, I don’t care — I’m naming it Rrrrrrrrrrrr.
A burrito is a sleeping bag for ground beef.
The funniest food: ‘kumquats.’ I don’t even bring them home anymore. I sit there laughing and they go to waste.
Inside of a dog it’s too dark to read.
What are three words a woman never wants to hear when she’s making love?
“Honey, I’m home!”
Just realized giraffes can’t hug and now I can’t sleep.
My real name is bdbdbdbdbdbd. My sister’s name was yullyullyull.
You’re watching a guy do your material and people are laughing, but they’re laughing because they think this performer has a brilliant mind and he’s a funny person.
Just realized horses can’t hug and now I can’t sleep.
A drunk was in front of a judge. The judge says, “You’ve been brought here for drinking.”
The drunk says “Okay, let’s get started.”
I think he sort of got some of my jokes in his head and got sloppy.
Who’s there?
Turtles. Zebras.
Little tiny hairs.
It takes forever to cook a baked potato in a conventional oven. Sometimes I just throw one in there, even if I don’t want one. Cause by the time it’s done, who knows?
The Aristocrats!
Kant has written a treatise on The Vital Powers; but I should like to write a dirge on them, since their lavish use in the form of knocking, hammering, and tumbling things about has made the whole of my life a daily torment. Certainly there are people, nay, very many, who will smile at this, because they are not sensitive to noise; it is precisely these people, however, who are not sensitive to argument, thought, poetry or art, in short, to any kind of intellectual impression: a fact to be assigned to the coarse quality and strong texture of their brain tissues. On the other hand, in the biographies or in other records of the personal utterances of almost all great writers, I find complaints of the pain that noise has occasioned to intellectual men. For example, in the case of Kant, Goethe, Lichtenberg, Jean Paul; and indeed when no mention is made of the matter it is merely because the context did not lead up to it. I should explain the subject we are treating in this way: If a big diamond is cut up into pieces, it immediately loses its value as a whole; or if an army is scattered or divided into small bodies, it loses all its power; and in the same way a great intellect has no more power than an ordinary one as soon as it is interrupted, disturbed, distracted, or diverted; for its superiority entails that it concentrates all its strength on one point and object, just as a concave mirror concentrates all the rays of light thrown upon it. Noisy interruption prevents this concentration. This is why the most eminent intellects have always been strongly averse to any kind of disturbance, interruption and distraction, and above everything to that violent interruption which is caused by noise; other people do not take any particular notice of this sort of thing. The most intelligent of all the European nations has called “Never interrupt” the eleventh commandment. But noise is the most impertinent of all interruptions, for it not only interrupts our own thoughts but disperses them. Where, however, there is nothing to interrupt, noise naturally will not be felt particularly. Sometimes a trifling but incessant noise torments and disturbs me for a time, and before I become distinctly conscious of it I feel it merely as the effort of thinking becomes more difficult, just as I should feel a weight on my foot; then I realise what it is. Continue reading ““On Noise” — Arthur Schopenhauer”
For years after, there were tales told in Colorado of the amazing, world-reversing night of Fourth of July Eve 1899. Next day’d be full of rodeos, marching bands, and dynamite explosions—but that night there was man-made lightning, horses gone crazy for miles out into the prairie, electricity flooding up through the iron of their shoes, shoes that when they finally came off and got saved to use for cowboy quoits, including important picnic tourneys from Fruita to Cheyenne Wells, why they would fly directly and stick on to the spike in the ground, or to anything else nearby made of iron or steel, that’s when they weren’t collecting souvenirs on their way through the air—gunmen’s guns came right up out of their holsters and buck knives out from under pants legs, keys to traveling ladies’ hotel rooms and office safes, miners’ tags, fencenails, hairpins, all seeking the magnetic memory of that long-ago visit. Veterans of the Rebellion fixing to march in parades were unable to get to sleep, metallic elements had so got to humming through their bloodmaps. Children who drank the milk from the dairy cows who grazed nearby were found leaning against telegraph poles listening to the traffic speeding by through the wires above their heads, or going off to work in stockbrokers’ offices where, unsymmetrically intimate with the daily flow of prices, they were able to amass fortunes before anyone noticed. .
A passage from Thomas Pynchon’s novel Against the Day.
“The Singing Lesson” — Katherine Mansfield
With despair—cold, sharp despair—buried deep in her heart like a wicked knife, Miss Meadows, in cap and gown and carrying a little baton, trod the cold corridors that led to the music hall. Girls of all ages, rosy from the air, and bubbling over with that gleeful excitement that comes from running to school on a fine autumn morning, hurried, skipped, fluttered by; from the hollow class-rooms came a quick drumming of voices; a bell rang; a voice like a bird cried, “Muriel.” And then there came from the staircase a tremendous knock-knock-knocking. Some one had dropped her dumbbells.
The Science Mistress stopped Miss Meadows.
“Good mor-ning,” she cried, in her sweet, affected drawl. “Isn’t it cold? It might be win-ter.”
Miss Meadows, hugging the knife, stared in hatred at the Science Mistress. Everything about her was sweet, pale, like honey. You wold not have been surprised to see a bee caught in the tangles of that yellow hair.
“It is rather sharp,” said Miss Meadows, grimly.
The other smiled her sugary smile.
“You look fro-zen,” said she. Her blue eyes opened wide; there came a mocking light in them. (Had she noticed anything?)
“Oh, not quite as bad as that,” said Miss Meadows, and she gave the Science Mistress, in exchange for her smile, a quick grimace and passed on…
Forms Four, Five, and Six were assembled in the music hall. The noise was deafening. On the platform, by the piano, stood Mary Beazley, Miss Meadows’ favourite, who played accompaniments. She was turning the music stool. When she saw Miss Meadows she gave a loud, warning “Sh-sh! girls!” and Miss Meadows, her hands thrust in her sleeves, the baton under her arm, strode down the centre aisle, mounted the steps, turned sharply, seized the brass music stand, planted it in front of her, and gave two sharp taps with her baton for silence. Continue reading ““The Singing Lesson” — Katherine Mansfield”
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