Funny Context Quotes

When I was about 19, I worked as a delivery boy for the mail. Every two weeks or so there was a letter addressed to the same little cabin up out in the woods. Every once in a while, there'd be a package with it too. During my third week on the job, I got that letter in my bundle to deliver.

The drive was kinda long, and pretty out of the way from my other stops but I ended up at the cabin at about lunch time. Once I’d parked my truck out front, I made my way to the door. The big wooden one was propped open with sum’th’n but the screen door sat closed, lettin’ a breeze run through the small house.

I rang the doorbell, waited, then knocked a couple times. I peared in, just a little bit, but couldn't see much through the dirty wire of the screen. Hearing nothing, I started writing my ticket for a return time. Out the corner uh my eye, I saw the man sitting on the front porch, sleeping in a rockin’ chair. Didn't notice ‘im before, he was sitting so still I coulda’ thought he was a patio figure.

“Sir,” I called out to him, “Sir, excuse me.” Nothin’, not even a muscle. I walked up closer to him. He was pretty old, maybe he just couldn’t hear me.

“Excuse me, sir,” Still nothing. I tapped on his shoulder a bit, and boy did he jump. I was afraid he might fall right outta his chair. “Sir, can you sign for this package please?”

Now I was a mighty thin kid, not much bigger round than my own arms could reach. And this old man, with his glasses all crooked, took one look at me and musta decided I was starved.

“Boy, how’d you like some cookies?”

“Sir?” I was a lil’ bit confused, not really the first thing I’d expected him tuh say.

“Yuh look too thin to be eatin’ real regular; yeah, I bet you’d like some cookies, you wait right there, I’ll get you some.” I watched as the man started to push himself up outta chair. He had a bit uh trouble cuz’ the chair kept rockin’ back and forth ev’ry time he made any sorta move.

“No, thank you, I really have to-” I tried to stop him, but he already finished gettin’ himself up. He walked ‘cross the porch, if you could call it walkin’ really, each step seemed to take all the effort he had in him just to move and one leg seemed to drag a little behind each time.

“Nonsense, I’ve got them coolin’ inside, lord knows I don't need all of ‘em to mahself.” He made his way to the screen door. The old metal hinges squeaked as he opened it, complaining at the movement. “How I could let such a lanky young man like you go without feedin’ ‘i'm? What kind uh man would I be then?”

I caught the edge of the door before it could close quite all the way and tried calling into the house. “Sir, I really don't need any cookies. I just need your signature on this package please.”

He made no movement he could hear me though, and I saw his back turn the corner in the house and after a bit of russlin’ he came back round holdin’ a plate.

“Now here, I’ll trade yuh. You take these here cookies off my hands and I’ll take that package off yours. Sound fair?”

“Well, yes, but-”

“Great, where did you want me to sign again?” I pulled my scanner out and held it forward with the pen, maybe I’d actually get out of here. “Right here, sir.”

“Of course then.” He scratched his signature onto the screen and clicked the pen into it’s plastic holder.

“Here’s your package sir.” I slipped the scanner into my pocket and held out the package.

“Yes, thank you very much young man.” With surprising speed compared to everythin’ else, he’d grabbed the package and somehow got his plate of cookies onto my hands.

“Ah’m sure you’ve got plenty more mail to get to, so don't get held up on me. You just take those cookies with ya’, and don't chu worry about bringing the plate back, I’ve got plenty tah spare.” He started turnin’ around and had already made it inside by the time I caught up to what he was sayin’.

“Sir, I don’t think I can take these.” Was there some mail system policy that would exempt me from this. “Sir?” The house was quite once again, and I didn't think I could open ‘is door without some sort of legal problems, so I was left standin’ on his porch ‘oldin’ his plate of cookies.

‘Course at that point I didn't see much else to do but leave, he’d taken the package and the cookies were just- just-.... Oh whatever, I just wouldn’t eat ‘em then.

I walked back to my truck, cookies in hand and got ready to drive off. Spent a good ‘mount of time tryin’ to find a place the plate wouldn’t slide off and break. Still ended up havin’ to hold it a good ways down the dirt road.

Was ‘bout an hour ‘n uh half later that I started gettin’ hungry. Those cookies started to look real good and tasty. Somethin’ tah know ‘bout me is that I don’t have much in the way of resistance. So pretty darn fast, I made that plate empty. Sum of the best cookies I’ve ever had were on that plate.

When I got back to the office that evenin’ I made sure tuh tell my friends about the man I met, ‘bout how he gave me cookies..

“Sounds like ya’ met Mr. Mclain. Out in the woods, yeah?”

“How’d you know?” Maybe I wasn't the only one confused by him.

“Everyone here’s had to deliver to him at least once, he gets a letter like clockwork. Packages less so. Though that’s all that’s ever been delivered to him and he’s got no mailbox either.”

“Didn’t notice.” I hadn’t noticed. I’d been too busy with his package and his infernal cookies to even think about his mailbox.

“I’m always scared I’ll walk up and he won’t just be sleeping in his chair.”

“What’d’yuh mean?”

“I always have to make sure he’s still breathin’. That old man sleeps like the dead!”

“Didn’t even think about that, I’d be scared too.” Thank goodness for the cookies then, if it means he was able to get up for ‘em.

“See ya’ tomorrow!” They called as they finished packing up and left.

“Bye!”

The next few weeks went by pretty smoothly, and I’d just about forgotten old man Mclain. ‘Side from his plate slidin’ ‘round in my truck every now and then. But then I got his letter in my bundle again.

I got there at about noon b’tween my other stops and pulled my truck up front in the same spot. I noticed that sure ‘nuff, he didn’t have a mailbox.

I went to slide his letter in the door when I saw Mr. Mclain sleeping in his rocking chair. Mah friend’s words came back to me, ‘sleeps like the dead’ she said.

I’d almost walked away when I thought to check him. Just in case.

“Excuse me?” Please respond, “Sir?” Nothing, “Mr. Mclain?” I tapped on ‘is shoulder this time, and he startled like a cat in heat.

“Mmm, whatchu need?” He straightened out his glasses on his face and looked me up and down, “Oh, it’s you again. Have you got another package for me?”

“No, just a letter this time, sir.” I handed it to him, much easier to deliver it to him personally.

“Oh, well let me get you somethin’ tah eat. Still too skinny in my book. Don't your mama ever feed you?”

“Sir, I don’t-” Why did this man insist on giving me food every time?

“Just let me get it from inside. Won’t take but a minute.” He’d already gotten out of his chair and made it to the screen door when I thought to get his plate. The door squeaked once more as he opened it and he slipped around the same corner. I nearly ran to my truck to grab that plate, only finding it to have slipped under my seat.

I was right back on the porch as he came back ‘round the corner holdin’ someth’n.

“I’ve got your plate from last time, Mr. Mclain.”

“Oh perfect,” He said as he slipped out the door, “Means I won’t have to give you another one.” I was about to question him when he moved something from his hands onto the plate I was holding. I looked down at the biscuit now sitting on the cookie plate. “Made biscuits and gravy this mornin’, figure the leftovers’d be better spent on a young man like you.”

“I-,” I was about to deny the food again but paused, “I’m sure I’ll love it thank you.” I saw the mischievous sparkle in his eye at the acceptance.

“Thank you for the letter. You ‘best get on now, I’m sure ev’ryone else wants their mail too.”

“Right, Goodbye Mr.Mclain.” I turned around to leave, “And make sure you eat more than just that biscuit ‘fore I see you starve.” He yelled out behind me.

“I will, Mr. Mclain, I will.”

I heard his muttered ‘good’ as I walked back to my truck, one biscuit more than I came with.

From then on I always seemed to be the one gettin’ Mr. Mclain’s mail. And every time, I drove up there with a letter or a package and his empty plate in tow only to come back with it full. He always seemed to have something he could give me. A sandwich he assured me he’d never finish, or a leftover piece of breakfast that ‘would go to waste otherwise.’ And I stopped tryin’ to refuse ‘em as he always seemed to get the food on the plate as I tried to return it.

And I made a habit of tappin’ him on the shoulder when he was sleepin’ in his chair, and if anyone asked I did it so I could get his signature, just in case. Sometimes I’d end up stickin’ around longer than it took to deliver, if only to get to know him and give him some comp’ny.

It was one of those days that heard him complain as I gave him the letter.

“It’d be so much easier if he just came to visit one of these days.”

“If who came to visit, Mister?” I’d never heard him talk about anyone real specific before, much less who sent the letters.

“My son,” I nearly dropped the plate holding my croissant, “He sends me all these letters and postcards from his business trips, but he never comes around to see me.”

“I didn’t know you had a son, Mr. Mclain.”

“I do. He’s about 27 now. Some big business man based in New York as far as I know. He goes places all the time, but never here. Too small a place for some fancy Yankee to visit his father I guess.”

“I’m sorry about-”

“I think it’s probably time you get on your delivery rounds. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than talk to an old man.”

“Well, no not re-”

“Get to it then, can’t have you sittin’ here all day.” He ushered me down the front steps, and this time I nicked the plate on the corner of the cabin.

I turned to look at him from the bottom. He’d turned around as well and was staring sadly at the letter in his hands before he went inside the squeaky screen door.

“Hey, Mr. Mclain!” I shouted out to him, he looked back at me in surprise, “Do you think you might want me to come fix that door for you someday?”

“That’d be mighty nice of you indeed.” And I could see his smile even through that dirty screen door.

As I left, I picked up the small piece that broke off the plate. It would be easy to glue back.

As offered, the next time he got a letter from his son, I stopped by with my tool box in the trunk and some brand new hinges. I used my rag and some spray to wipe down the screen, making it much clearer to see through.

It was about two or three months later that I drove up to his house with another package. I greeted him with a wave, until I realized he was sleepin’ in his chair again. A feeling ran up my spine, I tried to ignore it. So I walked up to him and tapped on his shoulder like I usually did, expecting him to jump awake like usual.

I tapped him again.

Maybe just one more time.

Oh no. Oh no. Not now. I dropped the package I was holding, completely ignoring the sound of breaking glass. I tried to find a pulse on him, nothing.

I wouldn’t ever admit to crying that day. And if the EMT’s saw me, they didn’t say anything.

A week after my twentieth birthday, I was halfway through my daily rounds when I drove by the turn to Mr. Mclain’s driveway by habit. Though I was surprised to see vans coming down the small dirt driveway.

My curiosity got the best of me and I turned it to see what was goin’ on up at ol’ Mr. Mclain’s house. I had to park off the road as my usual spot was taken up by a moving van or two.

I hopped out my truck and went looking for the man in charge of all that chaos. Found him in a man with a suit on and a clipboard in hand, yellin’ out commands for all the movers.

“Get those sheets packed! The blankets and pillows too. We have to be out of here in time to sell on Tuesday! And someone find that missing plate!”

I walked up to the man, slightly shy around all the noise and yelling, “Excuse me, what’s going on here? Who are you? Why are you emptying Mr. Mclain’s house?”

“I’m Mr. Mclain’s son. And I’m emptying it so it’s ready to sell. You interested in buying?” A strong smile grew on his face and a similar mischievous glint to Mr. Mclain’s shown in his eyes, ‘cept this one was tainted by greed.

“No, I’m not,” His smile fell.

“Then get off the property please, we are working here and I wouldn’t want anyone getting hurt.” He turned his back to me and I was about to do the same, when I remembered something else, “What missing plate were you talking about?”

“Hmm.” He looked at me from the side, as if totally disinterested, “There’s a plate missing from one of the sets. Why?”

“I think I’ve got that missing plate in my truck right now, actually.” I frowned slightly.

“Get it for me please, it’s part of the set,” He said, voice almost monotone.

“Sure thing.”

I grabbed the empty plate from where it fell under my seat again, not quite caring as the glued-on shard fell off, taking another small chunk with it. It was his problem now.

I went to hand the plate to him when he motioned for a mover to take it. It was stacked in a box with 11 other identical plates and whisked off towards a van.

Listen closely, listen well, I will say this only once.

In the ancient libraries, in the oldest ones; the ones with ever expanding halls and endless shelves. There lies librarians.

But really, one must hesitate to call them that, and do so if only because there is nothing else to call them. They are the holders of knowledge, the gatherers, the collectors, the catalogers, and if you find them: the Sharers.

They are borrowers, learners, readers, and in short: Librarians. You may speak to them, you may learn from them or spend endless lifetimes wandering their stores of books. After all, knowledge has no end.

Librarians are just as you may imagine them. (Or the opposite, if you believe they are.) They can chase after a noisy chatterer, cornering them with a scornful ‘Shush’, or may also understand the delighted giggles and expectant urging that comes with a truly enticing book.

After all, every Librarian has fallen in love with the library. They have fallen in love with the stories or the facts or the pure possibilities of life that are told and written and shown. And, (as they can often be distracted by the thought of their next book), this is the truest way to hold a Librarian’s attention: to tell them a story. Make it interesting. Fill it with magic and change and life. Or, if they ask, as some just might, try to remember the wind speed on that day, which species of flora and the fauna you saw, how many footsteps you took from this place to that.

It may seem abstract, (or even a little frustrating, when a particularly fervent Librarian interrupts with a question), but you cannot fault them for it. After all, they are Seekers of knowledge. They wish to know everything they can put on their shelves, as they are Seekers. You may regard them as such, and even tell them. Librarians will preen under a well-spoken scholar’s praise.

What is a librarian? What are they not? The answer is simple.

You may regard them as Seekers; but you must never, never, regard them as Keepers of Knowledge.

To be a Keeper is a terrible thing. It is a dark and twisted shadow of a librarian. A Keeper cannot share their knowledge, for they can only keep it. For they can only hide it, where no one else can know it. A keeper takes your knowledge and seals it as their own. They learn these things, so no one else can learn them. They keep their knowledge to themselves and never share a word. And if you’ve ever met a keeper, they will always ask:

“What do you know, that no one else knows?”

“What can you tell me, that no one else can speak of?”

“What knowledge do you bring me, that I have not heard before and could not hear again?”

They’ll pose it as a deal, a trade, an exchange of knowledge between two such scholarly people. But Keepers are not people, and they are not bound by people’s laws.

When you have spoken your piece, or told them your story; when you have given them even just a crumb, they will return it in kind. With a story of their own. No one else knows what story they tell, and no one ever will.

You cannot tell a Keeper from a Seeker, for you cannot tell the difference. It is not something that you learn. In books or tapes or movies, for only Keepers know it. No one can tell a Keeper from a Seeker, for no one knows the difference.

Cookies, always too sweet and with stuff on them or a weird mixture

Cupcakes, too sweet, too much frosting and always some weird fricken flavor

And sometimes artisanal donuts that are just solid fricken condensed dough, no fluff, and with excessive sprinkles and there’s never any just ‘glazed’

They try too hard okay. I bite into them and it is just solid rancid sugar. That’s the only taste.

Hey, I’m moving to Hawaii in a couple months, but my style is very punk/grunge/combat boot-esque and Idk how to translate that. As much as I know I’ll love wearing shorts and t-shirts, I still want to express my style. Any tips?

Keep in mind, makeup is not my thing.