Erma Bombeck Quotes about Funny - Page 2

If I raised my hand to wipe the hair out of my children's eyes, they'd flinch and call their attorney.

Grandma told me Mama was once caught by the Principal for writing in the front of her book, "In Case of Fire, Throw This in First." I have never had so much respect for Mama as the day I heard this.

It would have been a wonderful wedding - had it not been mine.

I've always been intrigued with the variety of answers this generation will give their children who ask, "Where did I come from, Mommy?" They will range from "Number 176 vial in Buffalo, New York," to "You were defrosted."

The more I think about it, the more there is to be said for the sloth. He sleeps fifteen to eighteen hours a day and is known to have taken forty-eight days to travel four miles. He hangs in the trees after he's dead. But he lives longer than the cheetah.

People are always asking couples whose marriage has endured at least a quarter of a century for their secret for success. Actually, it is no secret at all. I am a forgiving woman. Long ago, I forgave my husband for not being Paul Newman.

My son did not show signs of a money deficiency until he opened his small fist in the nursery and found it was empty.

If anyone knew where they were, I'd send the ISDBB (Incredibly Stupid and Dumb Beyond Belief) award to the two guys who tried to break in to the Ohio penitentiary.

Family life got better and we got our car back - as soon as we put 'I love Mom' on the license plate.

Not everyone is comfortable with the kissing ritual. My husband is one of them. Her refuses to press lips with anyone except his wife, mother, and dog. If someone wanted to give him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, he would refuse until he had been formally introduced.

Crocodiles have a smile I've seen on the face of every lawyer I've ever met.

I convinced him his luggage had gone to that big Bermuda Triangle in the sky.

Before we sent kids to computer camps and told them they were having a good time, there was imagination among the human species.

Sex in the nineties is boring. The problem is that it has gone from an active act to a spectator sport. We watch people make love on television and in films. We call 900 numbers to hear what someone would do to us if they weren't sitting in a boiler room of other dirty talkers reading from a prepared script.

Some of the best fiction writers got their start writing airline menus.

We even switched to a newly-formed church across the town that gave one hundred and twenty trading stamps each time we attended. (We now worship a brown and white chicken with a sunburst on its chest.)

One meal a day is enough for a lion and would be for all of us if all we did all day was swat flies.

Humorists can never start to take themselves seriously. It's literary suicide.

With all the precautions and risks that accompany sex today, it sounds about as much fun as walking through a minefield.

I got so much food spit back in my face when my kids were small, I put windshield wipers on my glasses.

Remember, you can lead a fifty-seven-year-old body to motherhood, but you can't make it stay awake.

Limousines used to be reserved for the ruling class, or, on special occasions, for the working class. Today, limousines are like taxicabs with the door handles still intact.

The mole rat is the only rodent born without a fur coat. With a good lawyer, someone would pay for that little oversight.

A friend will tell you she saw your old boyfriend - and he's a priest.