Quotes About Irony

Well, said Curie, with deadpan irony, how proud your sponsoring scythe must be to have the first perfect pupil in history.

Beauty, you walk on corpses, mocking them;

In all climes, under every sun, Death admires you At your antics, ridiculous Humanity, And frequently, like you, scenting herself with myrrh, Mingles her irony with your insanity!

Te-admir? veÅŸnic Moartea,o,lume caraghioas?,în zvârcolirea-Å£i tâmp?,sub orice soare-ai sta,ÅŸi-ades,asemeni Å£ie,în smirn? se-mb?iaz?,mijindu-ÅŸi ironia în nebunia ta.

Great art is horseshit, buy tacos.

You are thirty minutes late. Yes. Would you be thirty minutes late to a wedding or a funeral? No. Why not, pray tell? Well, if the funeral was mine I'd have to be on time. If the wedding was mine it would be my funeral.

as she drove me through the hills everything screamed inside of me, and I kept saying as we drove along (to myself, of course) fucker, it will pass, everything passes, it's all a joke a joke on you

Everything is so sweetly awful, so continuously sweetly awful: the art of consummation: life eating life.

I am a joke told again.

Banion wondered which was worse - being sodomized by aliens, or having to sit through two hours of Charles Ives.

Gathered around me were the weak instead of the strong, the ugly instead of the beautiful, the losers instead of the winners. It looked like it was my destiny to travel in their company through life. That didn't bother me so much as the fact that I seemed irresistible to these dull idiot fellows.

their lives full of canned, mutilated laughter.

I dislike cute cat poems but I've written one anyhow.

fun and danger hardly put margarine on the toast or fed the cat. You give up toast and end up eating the cat.

Your best men die in alleys under a sheet of paper while your worst men get statues in parks for pigeons to shit upon for centuries.

Dripping faucets, farts of passion, flat tires - are all sadder than death.

I have nothing against 2 men sleeping together so long as I am not one of those 2 men.

He stabs at the mouse mat with one finger and I wince, but instead of fat purple sparks and a hideous soul-sucking manifestation, it simply wakes up his Windows box. (Not that there's much difference.)

This is a woman who models herself on Margaret Thatcher, only without the warmth and compassion.

either they're trying to upsell you a fifty-quid-a-head artisanal pork pie (serving this week: Peppa Pig's Uncle Bertie's left haunch, marinaded in a drizzle of preschoolers' tears) or

There's enough irony in my situation that a skilled blacksmith could turn it into a katana.

I can't get out of here soon enough, he thinks, and glances at his smartwatch—a birthday present from his wife—only to see that it has crashed and frozen on reboot, mocking him with an image of the apple from the tree of knowledge, one bite down.

Fucking netbooks; you can't even use one to beat an alien brain parasite to death without it breaking.)

The irony is that more data can often present less clarity.