#parody

Then I had another one of my well-researched epiphanies. His constant use of Purell, his love of video games, his lack of friends, planet gazing, and flail-run. “You’re a zombie,” I gasped. “No. I’m not,” he said. I went back to the vampire theory. ↗

— Harvard Lampoon

#nightlight #parody #twilight #vampires #zombies

I knew my dad would insist on carrying my twelve bags into the house all by himself, so I ran ahead to my room. It looked familiar. Four walls and a ceiling, just like my old room in Phoenix! Leave it to my dad to find little ways to make me feel at home. ↗

— Harvard Lampoon

#nightlight #parody #twilight #home

We trekked onwards until the road came to an abrupt stop in the middle of a field. A car rambled up, stopped, and made a twelve-point turn. I skipped to the middle of the field and continued skipping around and around. Never had I felt freer. Never had I belted The Sound of Music louder. It was beautiful. There were glorious weeds everywhere, and those yellow flowers that when you blow on them disappear into white flakes. It was magical. And yet, it looked strangely familiar. “Is this my backyard?” I asked. Edwart stood, leaning against a tree in the woods bordering the meadow. “No, Belle. We’re at least five minutes from your house. ↗

— Harvard Lampoon

#nightlight #parody #twilight #beauty

Penelope had read several novels about such governesses in preparation for her interview and found them chock-full of useful information, although she had no intention of developing romantic feelings for the charming, penniless tutor at a neighboring estate. Or - heaven forbid! - for the darkly handsome, brooding, and extravagantly wealthy master of her own household. Lord Frederick Ashton was newly married in any case, and she had no inkling what his complexion might be ↗

— Maryrose Wood

#governess #parody #romantic

Or the Department of Education and another ministry were worried about duplication of effort, so what did they do? They set up two committees to look into duplication and neither knew what the other was up to. It really is a world beyond parody. ↗

— Rory Bremner

#another #beyond #committees #department #did

Parody is homage gone sour. ↗

— Brendan Gill

#homage #parody #sour

CREONTA: Rope! My rope! Hang those two thieves by the neck until they are dead. THE ROPE: Alack, but vile and ill-natured female! Upon wherein did thine affections tarry when I didst but lie here and rot for many a year? Nay, but those fellows tooketh care to remove the wetness that didst plagueth me of late and hath laid me upon the cool ground to revel in a state of dryness. Nay, I wouldst not delay them in their noble course for all thine base and bestial howling. CREONTA: Then, you, dearest donkey, precious beast of burden, tear those two apart and eat their flesh! DONKEY: Nay, but alas for many a season didst you but keep the food of the tummy from me and my mouth when it was that I required it of you. These fine gentlemen of fortune didst but give me carrots of which to partake which I did most verily and forthsoothe with merriment. I havest decided that thou dost suck most verily and no longer will I layth the smackth down in thine name but will rather let such gentlemen as these go free of themselves. TRUFFALDINO: [To the audience.] Well, what do you know? Fakespeare! ↗

— Hillary DePiano

#humor #parody #shakespeare #the-love-of-three-oranges #art

It was Colonel Parkman who upped stakes, crossed the border, and named our town, thus perversely commemorating a battle in which he'd lost. (Though perhaps that's not so unusual: many people take a curatorial interest in their own scars.) He's shown astride his horse, waving a sword and about to gallop into the nearby petunia bed: a craggy man with seasoned eyes and pointed beard, every sculptor's idea of every cavalry leader. No one knows what Colonel Parkman really looked like, since he left no pictorial evidence of himself and the statue wasn't erected until 1885, but he looks like this now. Such is the tyranny of Art. On the left-hand side of the lawn, also with a petunia bed, is an equally mythic figure: the Weary Soldier, his three top shirt buttons undone, his neck bowed as if for the headman's axe, his uniform rumpled, his helmet askew, leaning on his malfunctioning Ross rifle. Forever young, forever exhausted, he tops the War Memorial, his skin burning green in the sun, pigeon droppings running down his face like tears. ↗

— Margaret Atwood

#reality-check #truth #war #wit #art

My inner goddess confirms that staring at a beautiful/rich/powerful face is the basis of True Love. ↗

— Jess C. Scott

#drama #fifty-shades #fifty-shades-of-grey #inner-goddess #love

The truck is beautiful.” I breathed. I exhaled. Then I breathed again. “Beautiful. ↗

— Harvard Lampoon

#nightlight #parody #twilight #beauty