Groucho Marx Quotes Novels & Stories

Dimitri's POV I turn to the voice and groan when I see my cousin. "Groucho, what are you doing here?" I whisper as I shut the door behind me. Groucho, named for Groucho Marx, my aunt had a bad sense of humour, which never mixed well with pain relief. His name came when she was high on pain relief after giving birth and had been left to her own devices when they came around with his birth certificate. He was two years older than me, and there was a slight resentment that I was next in line after my father, not him. I didn't trust the man as far as I could throw him, but he was family.

"I'm pissed at you, stop trying to talk like some Marx brothers act!" "Which one am I? Chico, Harpo, Groucho, Gummo, or Zeppo? I think out of all my favorite siblings, I'm the Groucho. 'Cause of the eyebrows, see?" I slipped into a pretty solid Groucho accent while I wiggled my thick brows at her. Her laughter was infectious, a nice breathy giggle that had my joining her. "Works better when I have my cigar, doll." "I'm sure it does." She shook her head, and a whole panel of garnet red waves slipped over her sweater-covered shoulder. My fingers ached to touch it. "How about you answer my question first and then I can start believing that you come in peace?"

It was an everyday thing now, watching Marx slam his head against a brick wall. “How many times are you going to do this?” Garrick asked. Marx rolled his shoulders. “As many times as needed until I get it right.” Garrick shifted his weight from his left foot to his right. “We’re all about to go deaf.” On a deep inhale, Marx roared towards Garrick. He did this several times more until he was almost blue in the face. Garrick stood there, looking at him. “Ava already told you it would not work,” Garrick pointed out.