Humorous Quotes from Woody Allen's
I was carefully filing the new postal arrivals alphabetically in the paper shredder.
“How did you get my number?” I inquired. “It’s unlisted.”
“From the Internet. It’s there alongside the X-rays of your colonoscopy.”
Biggs was fubsy pudding of a character with a hairpiece that could only have been ordered by dialing 1-800 Toupees.
A farrago of tics animated his face in unpredictable dots and dashes like Morse code.
The woman – may she rest in peace but later, after she dies.
To suggest in any way that the staff you have assembled is anything higher on the evolutionary scale than a band of dingoes is hyperbole of the wildest sort.
I never once in forty years looked at another woman except for Elsie, which candidly was not so easy as I’m the first to admit she’s not a dish like those zaftig courvers who pose in God knows what positions for magazines you probably wait drooling on the docks for as the boats arrive from Copenhagen.
This is what I call bright, not your blond Midwich cuckoo who’s had every advantage in every private school with the expensive tutors and still he can’t remember who he is without checking the name tape in his T-shirt.
I read your last letter with a mixture of pity and fear, the Aristotelian recipe for tragedy.
Meanwhile, the minute you put on the dotted line your Sam Hancock – and before a notary – you’ll not only get the negative but Elsie makes a wonderful stuffed cabbage which we’ll include gratis a few portions but return the jars please.
As a private eye I’m willing to take a bullet for my clients, but it’ll cost you five hundred Benjamins per hour plus expenses.
When the ratings came out and The Dancing Ombudsman got a minus thirty-four, there was some talk at Nielsen that people who accidentally tuned in the show then put their eye out like Oedipus.
Skeptic that I was as an adolescent, I had recently come to believe in a Supreme Being after thumbing through a Victoria’s Secret catalogue.
Umlaut snaps around and we cut to a blond apparition in her early twenties, clearly descended from Olympus by way of Hugh Hefner’s mansion.
SHEIGITZ : You crass philistine! This was supposed to be my picture! I was to have total artistic control.
UMLAUT : What’s a few line changes?
SHEIGITZ : Line Changes? The blind concert violinist is now a Navy SEAL?
I turned a blind eye when she went off to make a film on location in Paris with the number one box-office attraction in America. The film wrapped two years ago, and they’re still on location.
“I must have transgressed against God’s will to bring this on,” she wailed. “I must have sinned beyond measure – too many shoes from Prada.”
When Armani canceled her charge account for no apparent reason, she took to her bedroom and began having an affair. This was hard to conceal from Boris Ivanovich, since he shared the same bedroom and asked repeatedly who the man next to them was.
It finishes and who enters but Alma Mahler herself, in a frock Jennifer Lopez would wave off as skimpy.
Mahler triumphs over his lifelong fear of death.
“How does Mahler triumph over his fear of death?” I asked.
“By dying. I figured it out – it’s really the only way.”
Selecting an appropriate contractor came next, and as the bids drifted in I couldn’t help noticing that most of the prices quoted seemed more appropriate for a renovation of the Taj Mahal.
I was face-to-face with someone who would indeed blow up the silver mine while coolies toiled innocently within rather than stand them their wages.
Thrusting a pen into my hand, he guided it across the dotted lines of a document with large blank sections, whose import, he assured me, would become manifest later by simply holding it over a low flame.
With that, he scribbled in an additional ninety thousand dollars on the estimate, which had waxed to the girth of the Talmud while rivaling it in possible interpretations.
In the end, we sold the house for a song. I can't recall if it was “Am I Blue” or “Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?”
Jogging along fifth avenue last summer as part of a fitness program designed to reduce my life expectancy to that of a nineteenth-century coal miner, I paused at the outdoor café of the Stanhope Hotel to renovate my flagging respiratory system with a chilled screwdriver.
Untermensch (a psychoanalyst) has amassed a prestigious show-business clientele rivaled only by the “Available List” at the William Morris Agency.
I also reviewed my own financial obligations, which have puffed recently like a hammered thumb. There was the apartment on Park Avenue, the beach house in Quogue, the two Ferraris, and Foxy Breitbart, an expensive little habit I picked up one night trolling the singles bars, whose skin tones in a thong put a smile on my face that could only be chipped off with a chisel.
She had been critical of his new torch song, “A Side Order of Heartache, Please,” suggesting it could be used as a good way to break in their new paper shredder.
Convinced that a firm tone was needed, I stepped between the two and cleared my throat dramatically just as Pepkin swung the bat at his wife, cracking my head with the sound of a bases-clearing triple. I staggered forward, smiling unmotivatedly at what I imagined to be Alpha Centauri, and recall being taken to the local hospital emergency ward.
I am greatly relieved that the universe is finally explainable. I was beginning to think it was me.
The big bang, black holes, and the primordial soup turn up every Tuesday in the Science section of the Times, and as a result my grasp of general relativity and quantum mechanics now equals Einstein’s – Einstein Moomjy, that is, the rug seller.
How does gravity work? And if it were to cease suddenly, would certain restaurants still require a jacket?
What I do know about physics is that to a man standing on the shore, time passes quicker than to a man on a boat – especially if the man on the boat is with his wife.
I awoke on Friday, and because the universe is expanding it took me longer than usual to find my robe.
Because the concept of up and down is relative, the elevator I got into went to the roof, where it was very difficult to hail a taxi.
The one good thing about space being the same as time is that if you travel to the outer reaches of the universe and the voyage takes three thousand earth years, your friends will be dead when you come back, but you will not need Botox.
Favorite Extract/ Long Quote...
Our history with nannies had been a roller coaster ride at best. The first one was a Swedish woman who resembled Stanley Ketchel. Her demeanor was succinct, and she achieved discipline amongst the brood, who began showing up for meals well mannered but with inexplicable contusions. When our hidden TV cameras caught her in the act of bouncing my son horizontally across her shoulders in what wrestlers call the Argentine backbreaker, I queried the
woman on her methods.
Obviously, unused to interference, she lifted me out of my loafers an
pinioned me to the wallpaper a good three feet off the floor. “Keep your schnozz out of my rice bowl,” she advised, “unless you’re happy to wind up in reef knot."
It was at this moment that our new secretary, Miss Lola Kelly, walked in. Now, in the debate over whether everything is made up of particles or waves, Miss Kelly is definitely waves.
My advice to anyone has always been to avoid black holes because, once inside, it’s extremely hard to climb out and still retain one’s ear for music.
Once a year, the swirling winds from the Kinna Hurrah rip through the open fields, lifting farmers from their work and depositing them hundreds of miles to the south, where they often resettle and open boutiques.
Before working for the Washburns, Tobias was a horse whisperer at a ranch in Texas, but she suffered a nervous breakdown when a horse whispered back. “What stunned me most,” she recalls, “was that he knew my Social Security number.”
Now her blood froze as she saw a large shadow loom ominously across the wall. Her heart pounded and she wanted to scream. Then she recognized the shadow as her own and, resolving to diet, phoned the police.
The driver had a tattoo on his right forearm that read, “Peace, Love, Decency.” When he rolled up his left sleeve another tattoo appeared: “printing Error – Disregard My Right Forearm.”
Stubbs knocked him unconscious and ran away with his wife but not before substituting a rubber blow-up doll in her place. One evening, after three of the happiest years of Wilbur Nash’s life, he became suspicious when he asked his wife for more chicken and she suddenly popped and flew around the room in ever-diminishing circles, coming to rest on the carpet.
Pugh has been a policeman as far back as he can remember. His father was a notorious bank robber, and the only way Pugh could get to spend time with him was to apprehend him.
We knew the front door was always left open, but we broke in just to keep in practice. Doxy turned all the Washburn family photos to the wall so there wouldn’t be any witnesses.
At the trial Stubbs chose to act as his own lawyer, but a conflict over his fee led to ill feelings.
Whether the death penalty acts as a deterrent remains questionable, although studies show that the odds of criminals committing another crime drops by almost half after their execution.
(In the Middle Ages) Dining out was still frowned upon by the Church, and valet parking was a venal sin.
No philosopher came close to solving the problem of guilt and weight until Descartes divided mind and body in two, so that the body could gorge itself while the mind thought, Who cares? It’s not me.
The great question of philosophy remains: If life is meaningless, what can be done about alphabet soup?
In life one is entitled to a side dish of either coleslaw or potato salad,
and the choice must be made in terror, with the knowledge that not only is our time on earth limited but most kitchens close at ten.
Donald (Duck) always had a problem with anger management. He had been on Prozac for years because he’d become convinced his career had tanked and soon he would wind up on a Cantonese menu.
Mike is a bear of a man who could easily pass for a bear, and has in fact been contacted by zoos to fill in when the real bear was ill.
The tabloids are saying it’s a serial killer. Naturally, the serial killers
are claiming bias and that they’re always the first ones accused when three or more victims are killed the same way. They’d like the number raised to six.
The Astrology Killer was a vicious manic who liked to sneak up and bash people’s heads in while they were yodeling. He was tough to nab because there was so much sympathy for him.
I brought up the possibility of the Amanita mushroom, which can kill without leaving any trace, but Sam shot it down. “There was only one health-food store that sold really deadly mushrooms, but it stopped years ago when it turned out they weren’t organically grown.
Sygmnd was a poor Austrian who’d lost all the vowels in his name in a boating accident.
”Right now, you get some rest,” Mike said, flashing his Mona Lisa smile, which Sotheby’s had claimed was a forgery.
this super book?
Here Palez vous Francais? Pour les blagues et poèmes français, visitez notre
Amazon.com Widgets Have you checked out
this super book?
Back to Humorous Quotes
WorkingHumor.com now has a Facebook Page. It's still a baby, hasn't learnt how to dance yet
but maybe you're the one we're waiting for, to get the party started ;o! Check it out here