It really seems to me that in the midst of great tragedy, there is always the horrible possibility that something terribly funny will happen.

“I think the neo-burlesque scene is funny. People want to see stuff they won't do themselves.”

“He was so funny, one of those pictures is of my 13th birthday the summer before he was killed.”

Life's funny. Sometimes it's your oyster, and sometimes you're it's bitch-slapped man-whore.

It's funny how you can become something merely by forgetting who you once were.

It's funny. That feeling of home. It's so temporary, like bathwater: the warmth eventually grows cold.

He didn't laugh when he thought something was funny--he laughed when he was happy.

This guy is funny. But is he safe? And how much is that worth when the world itself has ceased to exist?

One matter Englishmen don't think in the least funny is their happy consciousness of possessing a deep sense of humour.

If you could cross a lion and a monkey, that's what I'd be, because monkeys are funny and lions are strong.