Alpaca Quotes

Escape plan #5: Open an alpaca ranch in Texas, one that requires all blond-haired, brown-eyed, brainy girls to wear sexy cowgirl outfits.

How often since then has she wondered what might have happened if she'd tried to remain with him; if she’d returned Richard's kiss on the corner of Bleeker and McDougal, gone off somewhere (where?) with him, never bought the packet of incense or the alpaca coat with rose-shaped buttons. Couldn’t they have discovered something larger and stranger than what they've got. It is impossible not to imagine that other future, that rejected future, as taking place in Italy or France, among big sunny rooms and gardens; as being full of infidelities and great battles; as a vast and enduring romance laid over friendship so searing and profound it would accompany them to the grave and possibly even beyond. She could, she thinks, have entered another world. She could have had a life as potent and dangerous as literature itself. Or then again maybe not, Clarissa tells herself. That's who I was. This is who I am--a decent woman with a good apartment, with a stable and affectionate marriage, giving a party. Venture too far for love, she tells herself, and you renounce citizenship in the country you've made for yourself. You end up just sailing from port to port. Still, there is this sense of missed opportunity. Maybe there is nothing, ever, that can equal the recollection of having been young together. Maybe it's as simple as that. Richard was the person Clarissa loved at her most optimistic moment. Richard had stood beside her at the pond's edge at dusk, wearing cut-off jeans and rubber sandals. Richard had called her Mrs. Dalloway, and they had kissed. His mouth had opened to hers; (exciting and utterly familiar, she'd never forget it) had worked its way shyly inside until she met its own. They'd kissed and walked around the pond together. It had seemed like the beginning of happiness, and Clarissa is still sometimes shocked, more than thirty years later to realize that it was happiness; that the entire experience lay in a kiss and a walk. The anticipation of dinner and a book. The dinner is by now forgotten; Lessing has been long overshadowed by other writers. What lives undimmed in Clarissa's mind more than three decades later is a kiss at dusk on a patch of dead grass, and a walk around a pond as mosquitoes droned in the darkening air. There is still that singular perfection, and it's perfect in part because it seemed, at the time, so clearly to promise more. Now she knows: That was the moment, right then. There has been no other.

Have you ever seen an alpaca, Cather? They’re like the world’s most adorable llamas. Like, imagine the cutest llama that you can, and then just keep going.

There is nothin like a llama... well mabey an alpaca. But they'er kinda like trademarks of llamas...

He stopped in front of the old fence that kept Harry Styles, his rescue alpaca, safely out of the driveway.

Besides, Big Jim never brought Dennis to the zoo, even though he snuck me in once. My suspicion is that Big Jim had been shielding him from an alpaca exhibit. Inexplicably, Dennis is deathly afraid of alpacas.

There were usually not nearly as many sick people inside the hospital as Yossarian saw outside the hospital, and there were generally fewer people inside the hospital who were seriously sick. There was a much lower death rate inside the hospital than outside the hospital, and a much healthier death rate. Few people died unnecessarily. People knew a lot more about dying inside the hospital and made a much neater job of it. They couldn’t dominate Death inside the hospital, but they certainly made her behave. They had taught her manners. They couldn’t keep Death out, but while she was there she had to act like a lady. People gave up the ghost with delicacy and taste inside the hospital. There was none of that crude, ugly ostentation about dying that was so common outside of the hospital. They did not blow-up in mid-air like Kraft or the dead man in Yossarian’s tent, or freeze to death in the blazing summertime the way Snowden had frozen to death after spilling his secret to Yossarian in the back of the plane. “I’m cold,” Snowden had whimpered. “I’m cold.” “There, there,” Yossarian had tried to comfort him. “There, there.” They didn’t take it on the lam weirdly inside a cloud the way Clevinger had done. They didn’t explode into blood and clotted matter. They didn’t drown or get struck by lightning, mangled by machinery or crushed in landslides. They didn’t get shot to death in hold-ups, strangled to death in rapes, stabbed to death in saloons, blugeoned to death with axes by parents or children, or die summarily by some other act of God. Nobody choked to death. People bled to death like gentlemen in an operating room or expired without comment in an oxygen tent. There was none of that tricky now-you-see-me-now-you-don’t business so much in vogue outside the hospital, none of that now-I-am-and-now-I-ain’t. There were no famines or floods. Children didn’t suffocate in cradles or iceboxes or fall under trucks. No one was beaten to death. People didn’t stick their heads into ovens with the gas on, jump in front of subway trains or come plummeting like dead weights out of hotel windows with a whoosh!, accelerating at the rate of thirty-two feet per second to land with a hideous plop! on the sidewalk and die disgustingly there in public like an alpaca sack full of hairy strawberry ice cream, bleeding, pink toes awry.

And the alpaca?’ she asked, unable to hide the mirth from her voice. Logan grimaced. ‘Harry Styles.’ ‘Harry Styles?’ Jeanie shrieked with glee. ‘Amazing.

THE WILD ANCESTORS of the Ancient Fourteen were spread unevenly over the globe. South America had only one such ancestor, which gave rise to the llama and alpaca. North America, Australia, and sub-Saharan Africa had none at all.

It looks like two alpacas fucking, mostly," he said apologetically. "Of course, sometimes, the boy can't get his boy parts past the girl's furry ass, and he needs a little help, so then it looks like two alpacas fucking while their handler's giving the one on top a handjob.

Most of my yarn is for knitting, but some of it has a more complicated destiny as support staff: It is there to make me want to knit. It’s absolutely possible that I need the green Merino to inform how I’ll use the blue alpaca, and that ball of gorgeous variegated yarn? You bet

Aquella sociedad potosina, enferma de ostentación y despilfarro, sólo dejó a Bolivia la vaga memoria de sus esplendores, las ruinas de sus iglesias y palacios, y ocho millones de cadáveres de indios. Cualquiera de los diamantes incrustados en el escudo de un caballero rico valía más, al fin y al cabo, que lo que un indio podía ganar en toda su vida de mitayo, pero el caballero se fugó con los diamantes. Bolivia, hoy uno de los países más pobres del mundo, podría jactarse -si ello no resultara patéticamente inútil- de haber nutrido la riqueza de los países más ricos. En nuestros días, Potosí es una pobre ciudad de la pobre Bolivia: "La ciudad que más ha dado al mundo y la que menos tiene", como me dijo una vieja señora potosina, evuelta en un kilométrico chal de lana de alpaca, cuando conversamos ante al patio andaluz de su casa de dos siglos. Esta ciudad condenada a la nostalgia, atormentada por la miseria y el frío, es todavía una herida abierta del sistema colonial en América: una acusación. El mundo tendría que empezar por pedirle disculpas.

La vida no es tan cruel como dice Wok. No puede serlo. Tampoco es como lo que venden los gurús de la superación personal. No es cebolla cruda ni pastel de cerezas. Es agridulce como el amor. Dulce como el querer, agria como el dolor

Adán y Eva están solos. Solos y desnudos. Se gustan, no lo pueden evitar. Olvídate de la manzana. En el mundo nunca habrá una fruta cuyo sabor sea capaz de competir con el sabor de las miradas que se cruzaron bajo los árboles del Paraíso.

They [the dying in hospitals] did not blow up in mid-air like Kraft or the dead man in Yossarian's tent, or freeze to death in the blazing summertime the way Snowden had frozen to death after spilling his secret to Yossarian in the back of the plane. […] They didn't take it out on the lam weirdly inside a cloud the way Clevinger had done. They didn't explode into blood and clotted matter. They didn't drown or get struck by lightning, mangled by machinery or crushed in landslides. They didn't get shot to death in hold-ups, strangled to death in rapes, stabbed to death in saloons, bludgeoned to death with axes by parents or children, or die summarily by some other act of God. Nobody choked to death. People bled to death like gentlemen in an operating room or expired without comment in an oxygen tent. There was none of that tricky now-you-see-me-now-you-don't business so much in vogue outside the hospital, none of that now-I-am-and-now-I-ain't. There were no famines or floods. Children didn't suffocate in cradles or iceboxes or fall under trucks. No one was beaten to death. People didn't stick their heads into ovens with the gas on, jump in front of subway trains or come plummeting like dead weights out of hotel windows with a whoosh! accelerating at the rate of thirty-two feet per second to land with hideous plop! on the sidewalk and die disgustingly there in public like an alpaca sack full of hair strawberry ice cream, bleeding, pink toes awry

Perhaps I am here because of last night’s dream, when I stood on the frozen lake before a kayak made of sealskin. I walked on the ice toward the boat and picked up a handful of shredded hide and guts. An old Eskimo man said, “You have much to work with.” Suddenly, the kayak was stripped of its skin. It was a rib cage of willow. It was the skeleton of a fish. I want to see it for myself, wild exposure, in January, when this desert is most severe. The lake is like steel. I wrap my alpaca shawl tight around my face until only my eyes are exposed. I must keep walking to stay warm. Even the land is frozen. There is no give beneath my feet. I want to see the lake as Woman, as myself, in her refusal to be tamed. The State of Utah may try to dike her, divert her waters, build roads across her shores, but ultimately, it won’t matter. She will survive us. I recognize her as a wilderness, raw and self-defined. Great Salt Lake strips me of contrivances and conditioning, saying, “I am not what you see. Question me. Stand by your own impressions.” We are taught not to trust our own experiences. Great Salt Lake teaches me experience is all we have.

Returning to my yarn stash, I select a pair of ebony needles and a lustrous ball of handspun alpaca. Then I quickly cast on to create a light, resilient fabric. We don’t have much time before the students get back, which means the gauge has to be right the first time around. When you’re weaving or knitting enchanted fabrics, gauge is critical. Gauge—the relative density of the fabric—determines the degree to which a magical object can utilize or redirect fields of energy. But magic often requires a mix of skill and sacrifice. It’s not enough to knit a pattern without making a mistake: you also have to give up something of yourself. A heart shroud is a complex spell, filled with twisty cables mimicking the structure of the human heart.

The grass in the meadow is wet and the ground gives a little beneath her feet. The herd of alpacas that have taken up residence in the meadow graze in the far distance. Maggie cuts a path towards the distant stile, watching as a flock of starlings take flight, swooping up from the earth and across the bone-colored sky until they come to settle in the treetops. Stepping into the woods, Maggie senses the shift in atmosphere; here the air is a little cleaner, the light a little softer, glancing off the smooth, silver-grey trunks and dancing in the green canopy. She breathes the trees' exhalation, takes it in and makes it her own, inhales the moist-earth scent rising up beneath her boots and fills her lungs. The leaves rustle in the breeze, dripping the last of the raindrops in a steady beat.

It has struck me as one of the most touching aspects of the part played in life by these idle, painstaking women that they devote all their generosity, all their talent, their transferable dreams of sentimental beauty, and their gold, which counts for little, to the fashioning of a fine and precious setting for the rubbed and scratched and ill-polished lives of men. And just as this one filled the smoking-room where my uncle was entertaining her in his alpaca coat, with her charming person, her dress of pink silk, her pearls, and the refinement suggested by intimacy with a Grand Duke, so, in the same way, she had taken some casual remark by my father, had worked it up delicately, given it a 'turn', a precious title, set it in the gem of a glance from her own eyes, a gem of the first water, blended of humility and gratitude; and so had given it back transformed into a jewel, a work of art, into something altogether charming.

The speaker standing on an upturned barrel at the intersection of 135th Street and Seventh Avenue was shouting monotonously: “BLACK POWER! BLACK POWER! Is you is? Or is you ain’t? We gonna march this night! March! March! March! Oh, when the saints — yeah, baby! We gonna march this night!” Spit flew from his looselipped mouth. His flabby jowls flopped up and down. His rough brown skin was greasy with sweat. His dull red eyes looked tired. “Mistah Charley been scared of BLACK POWER since the day one. That’s why Noah shuffled us off to Africa the time of the flood. And all this time we been laughing to keep from whaling.” He mopped his sweating face with a red bandanna handkerchief. He belched and swallowed. His eyes looked vacant. His mouth hung open as though searching for words. “Can’t keep this up,” he said under his breath. No one heard him. No one noticed his behavior. No one cared. He swallowed loudly and screamed. “TONIGHT’S THE NIGHT! We launch our whale boats. Iss the night of the great white whale. You dig me, baby?” He was a big man and flabby all over like his jowls. Night had fallen but the black night air was as hot as the bright day air, only there was less of it. His white short-sleeved shirt was sopping wet. A ring of sweat had formed about the waist of his black alpaca pants as though the top of his potbelly had begun to melt. “You want a good house? You got to whale! You want a good car? You got to whale! You want a good job? You got to whale! You dig me?” His conked hair was dripping sweat. For a big flabby middle-aged man who would have looked more at home in a stud poker game, he was unbelievably hysterical. He waved his arms like an erratic windmill. He cut a dance step. He shuffled like a prizefighter. He shadowed with clenched fists. He shouted. Spit flew. “Whale! Whale! WHALE, WHITEY! WE GOT THE POWER! WE IS BLACK! WE IS PURE!” A crowd of Harlem citizens dressed in holiday garb had assembled to listen. They crowded across the sidewalks, into the street, blocking traffic. They were clad in the chaotic colors of a South American jungle. They could have been flowers growing on the banks of the Amazon, wild orchids of all colors. Except for their voices. “What’s he talking ’bout?” a high-yellow chick with bright red hair wearing a bright green dress that came down just below her buttocks asked the tall slim black man with smooth carved features and etched hair. “Hush yo’ mouth an’ lissen,” he replied harshly, giving her a furious look from the corners of muddy, almond-shaped eyes. “He tellin’ us what black power mean!

Observei detidamente as suas mãos abertas como asas sobre o regaço, a cintura frágil a insinuar-se sob as pregas de alpaca, o desenho dos ombros, a extrema palidez da garganta e o desenho dos lábios, que teria querido acariciar com as pontas dos dedos. Nunca até aí tinha tido a oportunidade de examinar uma mulher tão de perto e com tanta precisão sem receio de me encontrar com o seu olhar.

In a recent experiment, scientific researchers exposed a group of teenaged boys to an arcade game, and found that all of them had unclean sexual thoughts. Of course, the researchers got the same result when they exposed the boys to coleslaw, an alpaca sweater, and “The MacNeil-Lehrer News Hour.” Dave Barry, Dave Barry’s Bad Habits , 1985

No voy a entrar en detalles; me los ahorro no porque me moleste la cara de asco que ustedes van a poner, sino porque los quiero conservar intactos (los detalles) y de sobra sé que la escritura puede partir en pedazos la memoria a golpes de teclado ansioso

Dejemos las hipocresías aparte. Para qué mierdas buscar estar bien si en el fondo somos autodestructivos y lo que nos gusta es estar mal. Somos unos saboteadores miserables que nos engañamos y nos tendemos trampas. Supuestamente buscamos estar mejor y bajo esa mentira nos lanzamos a vivir una vida que no nos gusta ni merecemos.

Hay una vaga jactancia en el ser humano que le hace imposible aceptar la derrota frente a cualquier artefacto. Perder contra un objeto es perder contra uno mismo y esa es, si se piensa, la derrota más difícil de asimilar para las personas.

Oh Maraca, said Mama, those apples need more time to grow and ripen. I don’t want them to hurt your tummy, so be patient my dear, soon they will be yummy.

retrieve the appropriate data from a broker (such as Alpaca or Interactive Brokers),

Simon masculló una palabrota. Isabelle meneó la cabeza, luego se inclinó y se desabrochó una cadena que llevaba en el fino tobillo. Se la pasó a Emma. —Es hierro bendecido. Veneno para las hadas. Póntelo y podrás lanzar unas patadas de muerte. —Gracias. —Emma cogió la cadena y se la enrolló con dos vueltas a la muñeca. —¿Tengo algo de hierro? —Simon miró alrededor, frenético; luego metió la mano en el bolsillo y sacó una figurita en miniatura de un arquero—. Es mi personaje de Dragones y Mazmorras, lord Montgomery... —Oh, Dios mío —exclamó Isabelle. —La mayoría de las figuritas son de alpaca, pero esta es de hierro. La conseguí en Kickstarter. —Simon se la tendió a Julian—. Llévatela. Puede que te ayude. —No he entendido la mitad de lo que has dicho, pero gracias —repuso Julian, y se metió el juguete en el bolsillo.

There are thirteen known breeds of guinea pigs and they look quite different. The different types are: Abyssinian, American, Crested, Peruvian, Silkie, Coronet, Teddy, Texel, Hairless, English, Merino, Alpaca, and a relatively new breed called Lunkarya.

Is exile a thing? Can we ship him to Peru? His alpaca-loving heart would finally be satisfied.” “Beckett, be serious please.” “You’re right. He’d be too happy there. Let’s ship him someplace miserable. Like Florida.

It was pouring down cats and dogs A calico came in and sat with her drenched coat To the Phantom building at the corner street, I asked Why, you already know where I have to go? I already took a cat there, maybe there's a big fish hiding, you never know She found her way out of my space, and into the unbeknownst tower Whilst I rushed my way to my dear alpaca's cower It was a long day, we chatted, she spoke, I listened I wore my cap yet again, whilst she went her own way to the hospital's convokation Morning coffee brewed up, and the tv was loud and clear Under suspicion of murder and theft, a calico has been tried and arrested, I listened in the utmost queer Why, it was the same black I once drove But it wasn't the shade that was dripping wet before

The Calico and The Odd Taxi It was pouring down cats and dogs A calico came in and sat with her drenched coat To the Phantom building at the corner street, I asked Why, you already know where I have to go? I already took a cat there, maybe there's a big fish hiding, you never know She found her way out of my space, and into the unbeknownst tower Whilst I rushed my way to my dear alpaca's cower It was a long day, we chatted, she spoke, I listened I wore my cap yet again, whilst she went her own way to the hospital's convokation Morning coffee brewed up, and the tv was loud and clear Under suspicion of murder and theft, a calico has been tried and arrested, I listened in the utmost queer Why, it was the same black I once drove But it wasn't the shade that was dripping wet before

To Bagheera, my favourite alpaca. Because after 30 books, I’m running out of people to dedicate my books to. Clearly I need more friends.

keep out of their way. Sometimes, just to be annoying, I like to walk past their fence. Sometimes I just sit there and stare

But alpacas don’t lay eggs!

What is your favorite song? The Silent Song. I could sing it for you, but you wouldn’t be able to hear it. Only alpacas and very rare mice have the ability to hear The Silent Song.   Do you have any children? rufus, joseephus, artie choke, woody bush, pat may wiener, meowy, boopsie and bob.   What’s your favorite movie? It’s a tie between “The Anal girls of tobacco road: vagina slimes” and “sex starved fuck sluts #22: stinky white women.” The well-developed plot and range of emotions portrayed in vagina slimes far outweighs that of stinky white women, but at the same time, the complexity in the cinematic quality of stinky white women should not be overlooked.

I made the mistake of mentioning that there’s a restaurant in Toronto with alpaca burgers on the menu, and everyone gave me dirty looks. So now I’m keeping my mouth shut.

By a quirk of biological history, the pre-Columbian Americas had few domesticated animals; no cattle, horses, sheep, or goats graced its farmlands. Most big animals are tamable, in the sense that they can be trained to lose their fear of people, but only a few species are readily domesticable—that is, willing to breed easily in captivity, thereby letting humans select for useful characteristics. In all of history, humankind has been able to domesticate only twenty-five mammals, a dozen or so birds, and, possibly, a lizard. Just six of these creatures existed in the Americas, and they played comparatively minor roles: the dog, eaten in Central and South America and used for labor in the far north; the guinea pig, llama, and alpaca, which reside in the Andes; the turkey, raised in Mexico and the U.S. Southwest; the Muscovy duck, native to South America despite its name; and, some say, the iguana, farmed in Mexico and Central America.* The lack of domestic animals had momentous consequences. In a country without horses, donkeys, and cattle, the only source of transportation and labor was the human body. Compared to England, Tsenacomoco had slower communications (no galloping horses), a dearth of plowed fields (no straining oxen) and pastures (no grazing cattle), and fewer and smaller roads (no carriages to accommodate). Battles were fought without cavalry; winters endured without wool; logs skidded through the forest without oxen. Distances loomed larger when people had to walk from place to place; indeed, in terms of the time required for Powhatan’s orders to reach his minions, Tsenacomoco may have been the size of England itself (it was much less populous, of course).

Humans did not invent evil, but we are the first species to have mastered it. Aside from a highly racist alpaca and a pigeon that mails letter bombs to crippled orphans, humans are the most evil of Earth’s creatures.

So Craw had his fleece, his original fiber materials—him and Ben. They would be the alpaca and the merino wool, spun together

What’s this contraption?” “It’s for winding yarn.” Three deep creases formed on his forehead as he examined the hank of yarn on the swift. “It doesn’t automatically come in balls already?” I resumed winding as I explained. “Some yarn does. But luxury fibers tend to come in a hank like this, and they need to be wound before they can be used in a project. We offer complimentary winding in the store, but a lot of avid fiber crafters end up purchasing their own swift and winder for use at home.” “Why add the extra step? Why don’t yarn companies just sell them all in balls for convenience?” “To prevent wear and tear prior to sale, mostly. Winding puts strain on the yarn—particularly the finer, more delicate fibers like merino wool, alpaca, or cashmere. If it’s left to sit around in tight skeins for a long time, it can leave kinks and creases in the yarn or create tension problems that cause inconsistent gauge. It’s also easier to ship and store hanks. They take up less space and don’t roll away like skeins do.

You know, I could have made the arduous journey next door to leave your order with the doorman,” I said as I counted out the skeins to make sure they were all there. Nico and Elizabeth lived in one of the condos in the building above the shop. In fact, it was Elizabeth who’d suggested this location to me when the retail space became available. Nico’s grin grew flirtatious. “I know, but then I wouldn’t have gotten to fondle your yarn—and you know how I love to fondle your yarn.” I flicked my hand at him, shaking my head in amusement. “Fondle away.” Nico wandered off to browse the in-stock yarns, and I smiled as I watched him reach out to squish a particularly cuddly alpaca blend.

She’d also bought me a jacket made of alpaca hair because she’d read that ghosts inherently know that the wearer of that material is not a threat. She made me wear it every time I went to the cemetery after dark, because she didn’t want me getting possessed by the devil or one of his lackeys. I was really starting to love my goofy stepmom.

I felt happy like an alpaca—a damn sexy animal.

I promise, the next time you puke you can call me, okay? I’ll clean it up. I deal with all sorts of gross farm emergencies every day. You haven’t seen anything until you’ve had an alpaca spit on you.

As I saunter in with my new extended rattail down to my butt crack, I immediately catch eyes with a new dude across the room who is engaged in a very energetic conversation with one of our classmates. He’s wearing a thick old-school alpaca

Widow’s Islanders liked their hobby farms. They raised everything from chickens to alpacas.

I share my beautiful home in the Andalucían hills with a menagerie of strange creatures. The inquisitive alpacas are a joy to be around, but, to be honest, the dogs can be a nightmare. I do my best to keep out of their way. Sometimes, just to be annoying, I like to walk past their fence. Sometimes I just sit there and stare

Do you know what an alpaca is? ExPlAiN. Isn’t it just a smaller, nicer version of a llama?

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He wasn’t the typical, adventurous, sexy shifter, and he knew it. There wasn’t a trace of wolf or bear or even lion in him. He may prance a bit more than necessary and prefer salads over anything else, but he was proud to be an alpaca, just the same.

He stopped in front of the old fence that kept Harry Styles, his rescue alpaca, safely out of the driveway. Or