A Quote by Spiro T. Agnew

Mr. Fulbright hasn't said anything new or interesting or clever in five years; his intellectual well dried up the day after Walter Lippmann stopped writing his regular column.
I would not have said anything about Mr. Trump, never - I would never have said anything if he didn't call himself a Christian. It'd be none of my business whatsoever to make any comments about his language, his vulgarities, his slander of people, but I was deeply troubled ... that here's a man who holds up a Bible one day, and calls a lady "bimbo" the next.
Well, it seems that one day Dylan was drivin' up to San Francisco from New Orleans or somewhere, when our record [House of the Rising Sun] came over his radio. When it was announced he said to Joan Baez -- who was with him at the time -- 'This'll be the first time I've heard this version', although it was number one in the States. So he listened to it, stopped the car, ran round the car five times, banged his head on the bumper and began leapin' about shouting 'It's great! It's great!'
Yeah, I mean, I did regular stand-up for a long time. And I did - I stopped doing stand-up when I worked on 'Ellen,' which was for five years. So when I went back to it, I found that, like, regular stand-up didn't really do it for me anymore. It almost felt insincere, like I wasn't saying anything I actually really wanted to say.
It upset me that, five days after the hurricane hit down in New Orleans, the President's plan was for a day of prayer. I would have thought a truck of food. A day of prayer. Now, maybe I'm mistaken here and, again, I'm not a scientific expert, but isn't a hurricane officially an act of God? Isn't a day of prayer kind of redundant? Hasn't God already made up his mind on that sort of thing? So we do a day of prayer. The President has his stupid day of prayer. Three days later, Hurricane Rita hits. Somebody must have said something... something like, is that all you got?
I was actually filming in Atlanta when I got a call from Walter Hill saying, "Well, it could be your turn to play Hickok." I said, "Oh, well, great!" He said, "What's your hair look like?" I said, "Well, it's short, Walter, but... I've still got that wig!" . He said, "Well, bring it!"
I don't know what it is that makes a writer go to his desk in his shut-off room day after day after year after year unless it is the sure knowledge that not to have done the daily stint of writing that day is infinitely more agonizing than to write.
Mr. [Aldous] Huxley has been the alarming young man for a long time, a sort of perpetual clever nephew who can be relied on to flutter the lunch party. Whatever will he say next? How does he think of those things? He has been deplored once or twice, but feeling is in his favor: he is steadily read. He is at once the truly clever person and the stupid person's idea of the clever person; he is expected to be relentless, to administer intellectual shocks.
He [Donald Trump] said in the debate - he said, gosh, I'm being audited for two years. Then he said three years. Then he said maybe five years. Listen, if there's a problem in his taxes, the voters have a right to know, because come September, October, the general election, folks in the media are going to make a heyday about any problems in his taxes.
A famous actor told me once - I don't want to name names, I hate that sort of thing - but I was at his house and he said, 'Are you on Twitter?' I said, 'Yes, I am.' And he said, 'There'll be one day when you'll have, like, five friends. And in the same day it'll go to five thousand.'
A man thirty years old, I said to myself, should have his field of life all ploughed, and his planting well done; for after that it is summer time.
Screw up my life?" He stared at me for a second and then said, deadpan, "I'm a five-foot-three, thirty-seven-year-old, single, Jewish medical examiner who needs to pick up his lederhosen from the dry cleaners so that he can play in a one-man polka band at Oktoberfest tomorrow." He pushed up his glasses with his forefinger, folded his arms, and said, "Do your worst.
Mr. Crossley suddenly wondered why he was why he was worrying about the note. It was only a joke, after all. He cleared his throat. Everyone looked up hopefully. 'Somebody,' said Mr. Crossley, 'seems to have sent me a Halloween message.' And he read out the note: 'SOMEONE IN THIS CLASS IS A WITCH.' 6B thought this was splendid news. Hands shot up all over the room like a bed of beansprouts. 'It's me, Mr. Crossley!' 'Mr. Crossley, I'm the witch!' 'Can I be the witch, Mr. Crossley?' 'Me, Mr. Crossley, me, me, me!
Thomas Jefferson once said. He said , "We should never judge a President by his age, only by his works." And ever since he told me that, I've stopped worrying. There are those who say I've stopped working.
I ran into Stephen King once in New York a few years ago and outside the Carlyle and he said, "You're in the pink." Which sounded so Stephen King. He's doing well I think after his accident and all of that, years and years ago.
You don't want to be like the motion picture exec who had so many people at his funeral, but they were there just make sure he was dead. Or how about the guy who, at his funeral, the priest said, "Won't anyone stand up and say anything nice for the deceased?" and finally someone said, "Well, his brother was worse."
I played with [Dwight Eisenhower] on the day after I won the Masters at his request. We became everlasting friends. I was with him the day before he died at Walter Reed.
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