Best 115 quotes in «santa quotes» category

Children!' Santa said with a smile. 'Children?' William said. 'Children aren't magic. I'm a child and I'm not magic at all!' All the elves giggled and Santa smiled knowingly. 'Oh, but you are! You really, truly are. You just don't know it! You can create impossible worlds in your imagination that don't really exist. That is magic. Because you can only see the best in people, the best in the world, in life. That is magic. Because you understand the importance of silliness, the importance of fun, of laughing and playing, which grown-ups have forgotten. That is magic. But, most of all, because you believe, without question, in the impossible. Without needing proof. Without hesitation. That is magic.' William couldn't believe what he was hearing. He could do all those things and he hadn't even realized that they were magic!

Each government will eventually need to feed on each other when they have sucked their populations dry. And in so doing, will destroy the world one war, one treaty, one negotiation at a time.

Do not lament the suffering we have to endure to fulfill the dream but rejoice in the courage with which we will face it.

Everyone is destined to be an asshole as some point or another.

Eventually we’ll all be living comfortably and provided for, even if caged like a poor zoo animal.

Harper?” Cash murmured after a long moment. “Hmm?” I turned my head. “Do you believe in Santa?” I shifted onto my side to look at him, smiling. “Yeah, I do.” He adjusted his head to look at me. “Even though he’s something our parents say isn’t real?” I nodded. “Yeah, definitely. There’s usually some kind of truth behind stories.” He looked up to the tree then to me. “Think we can see him tonight?” I laughed and sat up. “Who? Santa? Why not? It couldn’t hurt to try.

Historical Santa Clara Santa Clara is the fifth largest city in Cuba with a population of over 210,000 people. It is the capital of the Province of Villa Clara and was founded by 138 people from only two families on July 15, 1689. As with many Cuban cities during the 17th century, it was constantly attacked and plundered by pirates. Santa Clara has had a number of names since it was founded. Its layout is clearly that of Colonial Spanish origin, having a squared design with a plaza and a church in the center. It is conveniently located along the highway connecting Santiago de Cuba with Havana. Santa Clara is known as the site of the last battle of the Cuban Revolution. Two columns of rebels attacked the Batista forces on December 31, 1958. One was led by “Che” Guevara and the other by Camilo Cienfuegos. Guevara’s troops destroyed the Trans-Cuban railroad tracks and overturned a train sent by Batista carrying reinforcements. The victory over the city’s demoralized defenders was decisive, forcing Batista to leave Cuba and fly to the Dominican Republic. Fleeing into exile, Batista opened the way for the rebel troops to take the capital city of Havana. From the award winning book “The Exciting Story of Cuba” by Captain Hank Bracker

I don't think I ever believed in god, but they had me going with the Santa thing for a while.

I loved the [postman]! He always brought me gifts. Granted, I ordered them AND paid for them, but still. It was like the guy was my very own Santa, bringing me whatever I wanted, without a Christmas restriction.

It’s a foolish girl who waits for Santa.

I was afraid of anyone in a costume. A trip to see Santa might as well have been a trip to sit on Hitler's lap for all the trauma it would cause me. Once, when I was four, my mother and I were in a Sears and someone wearing an enormous Easter Bunny costume headed my way to present me with a chocolate Easter egg. I was petrified by this nightmarish six-foot-tall bipedal pink fake-fur monster with human-sized arms and legs and a soulless, impassive face heading toward me. It waved halfheartedly as it held a piece of candy out in an evil attempt to lure me into its clutches. Fearing for my life, I pulled open the bottom drawer of a display case and stuck my head inside, the same way an ostrich buries its head in the sand. This caused much hilarity among the surrounding adults, and the chorus of grown-up laughter I heard echoing from within that drawer only added to the horror of the moment. Over the next several years, I would run away in terror from a guy in a gorilla suit whose job it was to wave customers into a car wash, a giant Uncle Sam on stilts, a midget dressed like a leprechaun, an astronaut, the Detroit Tigers mascot, Ronald McDonald, Big Bird, Bozo the Clown, and every Mickey Mouse, Minnie Mouse, Donald Duck, Pluto, Chip and Dale, Uncle Scrooge, and Goofy who walked the streets at Disneyland. Add to this an irrational fear of small dogs that saw me on more than one occasion fleeing in terror from our neighbor's four-inch-high miniature dachschund as if I were being chased by the Hound of the Baskervilles and a chronic case of germ phobia, and it's pretty apparent that I was--what some of the less politically correct among us might call--a first-class pussy.

Only now have you lived long enough to know the child that you shall always remain.

Reading is one of the best ways to bond with your child. Bond this Christmas with “It’s Not About You, Mr. Santa Claus

Santa is like a queen bee. All the elves are his drones, who exist to feed him royal jelly, which I guess would be milk and cookies. If an elf escapes and eats royal cookies, it will turn into another Santa. That’s what all those mall Santas are. They’re trying to start their own festive colonies.

So they told us all about how other kids were deceived by their parents, how the toys the grown-ups claimed were made by little elves wearing bell caps in their workshop at the North Pole actually had labels on them saying MADE IN JAPAN.

The door opens with a rusted jingle, and an animatronic Santa insults my moral virtue three times. Ho, ho, ho.

The people are just the unwitting slaves of their representative governments, the best of which are like insatiable leeches that suck the lifeblood from their populations. The people then foolishly and euphorically rejoice when the body politic belches up a modest excess of their own blood for them to take back.

The people will act on the environment they perceive, not the one that is their reality.

The problem is not that Santa stops existing but that we do. The children we are no longer exist, a fact we do not help through immersing ourselves in the repeating cycle of wake, work, dinner, internet, sleep.

There are four kinds of people in the world: Those who want to profit off others without changing anything. Those who want to profit off others and would try to improve the world in so doing. Those who want to profit off of others and are willing to destroy the world to do so and finally those who don’t care to profit off others and are the inevitable victims of the other three. The trick is to know which one of these people you are.

The whole concept of some stranger making his way down our chimney - not that we had one - suggested burglary more readily than generosity. Any Santa who tried it would have gotten a bullet in his holly, jolly keister.

They watch through cameras, listen to phone calls, read e-mail, record conversations; they don’t even need a court order to do it and then they do it under the guise of patriotism.

Think of the Christmas present of gashes you opened when, in an attempt to be Superman, you slid in stocking feet on a slippery wood floor and crashed half way through a window. Hopes of heroism dashed on the heels of no clear sighting of Santa.

To aspire to utopia at all cost, especially at the cost of freedom, is to seal your fate either to live bitter and frustrated with the impossible quest.

We can do more for the people if they are not so aware of what we are trying to do.

We may deny the truth of our childhoods while we are living them, but we one day realize the truth of our parents as readily as we do that of Santa. Neither are as perfect as our memories would have them…

We no longer solve problems; we just push technology. Today it’s a matter of code and software. Most of the creativity is gone. You already know you can do it. It’s just a matter of how much code and time it will take.

David Copperfield has no magic in him. I'm talking about Santa flying around the world in one night kind of magic. Pumpkins transformed into coaches kind of magic.

For months I yearned to see Santa again, mooning for him like a lost love. Then, on Christmas Eve, I was awakened by someone shaking me in my bed. “Ho! Ho! Ho!” a voice said out of the darkness. I felt the giggles rising up in my throat. But that's another story...

Having in our childhood felt primal awe for the spectacle of the holiday, we are told to age into feeling sullen and resentful. You are supposed to proclaim Santa dead like preadolescent Nietzsches and decry the whole month as an orgy of crass commercialism.

Her fingertips dug into his shoulders as she pressed closer. Then her lips parted to his, and there was no mistaking the passion in her response. Wild and sweet… His eyes were closed, but in his mind’s eye he saw the lights of the giant tree, and he knew he’d found a Christmas memory worth keeping.

If you lust for power, she will swallow you in an instant and make you her servant.

I pat the brand new twenty-seven inch Macintosh computers Mr. Foley brought us. 'These boxes alone should make both of us scream like it's Christmas morning! Snap out of it. Santa came! Now we get to play with all of our toys!

Isn’t Santa just a stand in for the society that has locked them up for formative years? Something that watches and judges, telling them that they got what they deserved based on their behavior? Surely they have to have noticed that Saint Nick, like the judicial system itself, tends to look more favorably upon rich children. He is fat, white, past middle age, and holds all the cards.

It's like pretending to be Santa and then stabbing someone with a candy cane!

I used to figure that Santa was the zombie. Not like modern zombies, more like the voodoo ones. The elves resurrect this long dead saint to do their festive bidding every year because they were magically restricted to the North Pole. It’s entirely possibly my mom let me watch too many horror movies.

Losing your virginity is a lot like when you find out that Santa doesn’t exist… First you’re slightly disappointed, and then you’re happy because you’re in on the secret

Normalmente eu não tinha muita paciência para estar com uma gaja durante muito tempo. Cada uma delas queria ficar comigo o máximo que pudesse, e para isso usavam de muitas artimanhas, como fazer o meu prato preferido – moamba de galinha –, me massajar nas costas depois do bem – bom, dar-me banho com sais ou fazer cafuné antes de adormecer, tudo bem feito na benquerença do benjamim. Tinha uma, nome dela era Santinha, que conseguiu me prender por um ano. A gaja era bonita e meiga, muito submissa, o que eu muito apreciava nas mulheres. Detestava tipas armadas que quisessem discutir comigo, levantar o nariz, isso eu nunca admitia, por isso gajas que tentassem pisar o risco levavam no focinho, qual não se bate em mulheres, Saiundo?!, eu também não gostava de lhes bater, mas depois verifiquei que era a única forma de lhes meter na linha, claro, não falo de todas, falo apenas daquelas que são razingonas, que querem mandar nos homens, isso nunca! Eu sei que isso é feio, mas às vezes é a única solução. Mas estava a falar da minha Santinha que era mesmo uma santa, e por isso fiquei com ela tanto tempo. Era doçura de criatura, melaçuda em todos os momentos, e na cama então é que ela se revelava completamente, e eu me perguntava como era que uma rapariga assim tão santíssima, ar dela angélico, na cama podia ser assim tão brava e fogosa ao ponto de me fazer gemer toda a noite, poça!, que às mulheres enganam muito, de sai são uma coisa, aquelas finúrias todas, de noite, na hora dos bons prazeres, até parece que têm o diabo no corpo. E assim fiquei com ela muito tempo, eu e a minha Santocas, santinha, santa. Mas um dia chateei-me com ela por causa dos muitos ciúmes que fazia a torto e a direito, não me podia ver com nenhuma rapariga e ficava logo amuada por muito tempo. Certo dia ela me viu a conversar com uma amiga, perto do Jumbo, Santinha veio ter comigo e, sem dizer nada, me puxou com força pelo braço. Perdi o controlo e ali mesmo lhe esbofeteei na presença da moça com quem estava a conversar e que era de facto uma simples só amiga, e assim que terminei aquela santa relação.

Power is an ill-tempered and treacherous mistress. She corrupts even the incorruptible. If you value your freedoms you will have to bind her and keep her from your lands and leaders, because she will seize their minds and seduce their consciences until they give in to her insatiable appetite.

Residents of the squatter community of Christiana, Denmark, for example, have a Christmastide ritual where they dress in Santa suits, take toys from department stores and distribute them to children on the street, partly just so everyone can relish the images of the cops beating down Santa and snatching the toys back from crying children.

Small unexpected acts of kindness are the building blocks of greatness. Start your day with a smile and see where it takes you ...

We are merely a pawn in a chess game played by the nations of the world. Should we not be a bigger, more important piece in the game? Are we not all capable of playing the part of the king or queen?

We half-eat cookies and drink the milk, we leave notes, all so kids will believe in something that isn’t true. Kids try their best to scientifically determine whether Santa's real and our whole culture feeds them false evidence. We dupe them.

What would happen to the dream if its dreamer was no more?

Would people please stop telling me Santa Claus doesn't exist? I met him when I was a kid, surrounded by teenaged elves n stuff, one of them had a camera, and he was fun and smelt of fags n beer, I remember his big red nose too, even the hairs in his nostrils. You see I met him, sat on his lap chatted and he gave me a toy car, n yeah it was in a market, but I know he was the real Santa........

You better watch out. You better not cry. You better not pout, I'm telling you why, Cause Santa Clause might put a cap in your ass.

You ate the cookies and drank all the milk?” Cash asked, looking at the base of the tree. “No. I didn’t. Why would I? I don’t like banana chip, they’re your favorite.” “I didn’t eat them, Harper.” “Sure you didn’t.” “Prove it then.” “How?

You will only be as good, as changing, as imaginative as those who control you and those who would presume that society will benefit only by their dictates at the expense of the freedoms of all the others.

All the world is happy when Santa Claus comes.

Christmas always sucked when I was a kid because I believed in Santa Claus. Unfortunately, so did my parents. So I never got anything.