"Britney says she realized there was 'a lot of mean things on the Internet.' This is pretty much the reaction my dog would have if she suddenly became sentient."
It seems like the rumor that bust size and math test scores are inversely proportional is true.
You two are lucky you have your looks.
— Crowley to the Winchesters, Supernatural
Some of the most beautiful bodies are seldom endowed with the keenest of minds.
—Huma D'Este, The Ribbajack
Why are the cute ones always tube-heads?
—Blackarachnia, Beast Wars
It was as if some god had said, "Sorry, kid, you're going to be thicker than a yard of lard, but the good news is, it isn't going to matter."
—Sergeant Angua, on Tawneee, Discworld
Stiffy's map, as a rule, tends to be rather grave and dreamy, giving the impression that she is thinking deep, beautiful thoughts. Quite misleading, of course. I don't suppose she would recognize a deep, beautiful thought if you handed it to her on a skewer with tartare sauce.
— Bertie Wooster, The Code of the Woosters
Whenever an occasion arose in which she needed an opinion on something in the wider world, she borrowed her husband's. If this had been all there was to her, she wouldn't have bothered anyone, but as is so often the case with such women, she suffered from an incurable case of of pretentiousness. Lacking any internalized values of her own, such people can arrive at a standpoint only by adopting other people's standards or views. The only principle that governs their minds is the question "How do I look?”
— Haruki Murakami, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle
Liz: He is a doctor who doesn't know the Heimlich maneuver! He can't play tennis, he can't cook, he's as bad at sex as I am, but he has no idea!
Jack: That is the danger of being super-handsome. When you're in the bubble, nobody ever tells you the truth. For years, I thought I spoke excellent French. (gibberish)
— 30 Rock
Harold: Well, I suppose he has an interesting face and body, but it turns me right off because he can't talk intelligently about art.
Emory: Yeah, ain't it a shame?
Harold: I could never love anyone like that.
Emory: Never. Who could?
Harold: I could and you could, that's who could. Mary, she's gorgeous.
Emory: She may be dumb, but she's all yours.
Madame Zeroni: Myra's head is as empty as a flowerpot.
Elya Yelnats: But she's beautiful.
Madame Zeroni: So is a flowerpot. Can she push a plow? Can she milk a goat? No, she is too delicate. Can she have an intelligent conversation? No, she is silly and foolish. Will she take care of you when you are sick? No, she is spoiled and will only want you to take care of her. So, she is beautiful. So what? Ptuui!
A gift for selecting fine bodies attached to heads filled with the bright confetti of lunacy.
"...men who, considering females rather as women than human creatures, have been more anxious to make them alluring mistresses than affectionate wives and rational mothers; and the understanding of the sex has been so bubbled by this specious homage that the civilized women of the present century, with a few exceptions, are only anxious to inspire love, when they ought to cherish a nobler ambition, and by their abilities and virtues exact respect."
— Mary Wollstonecraft, A Vindication of the Rights of Woman (1792)
A friend of mine has two Daughters, whom I will call Lætitia and Daphne; The Former is one of the Greatest Beauties of the Age in which she lives, the Latter no way remarkable for any Charms in her Person. Upon this one Circumstance of their Outward Form, the Good and Ill of their Life seems to turn. Lætitia has not, from her very Childhood, heard any thing else but Commendations of her Features and Complexion, by which means she is no other than Nature made her, a very beautiful Outside. . . Poor Daphne was seldom submitted to in a Debate wherein she was concerned; her Discourse had nothing to recommend it but the good Sense of it, and she was always under a Necessity to have very well considered what she was to say before she uttered it; while Lætitia was listened to with Partiality, and Approbation sate in the Countenances of those she conversed with, before she communicated what she had to say.
— Joseph Addison
"I should know, but I don't, so I have to ask," said Maggie, "what's the most famous thing you ever wrote?"
"It was about a funeral for a great French chef."
"That sounds interesting."
"All the great chefs in the world are there. It's a beautiful ceremony." Trout was making this up as he went along. "Just before the casket is closed, the mourners sprinkle parsley and paprika on the deceased." So it goes.
"Did that really happen?" said Maggie White. She was a dull person, but a sensational invitation to make babies.