Andy Irons Quotes

I admit it’s fatally dangerous,” Watney said. “But consider this: I’d get to fly around like Iron Man.” “We’ll keep working on ideas,” Lewis said. “Iron Man, Commander. Iron Man.

An ironic death for someone with a leaky space suit: too much oxygen.

The planet’s famous red colour is from iron oxide coating everything. So it’s not just a desert. It’s a desert so old it’s literally rusting.

I admit it's fatally dangerous," Watney said. "But consider this: I'd get to fly around like Iron Man.

He nodded. "I think you're good for him, Meghan," he said, smiling in a small, sad way that was completely different from the Puck I knew. "I see the way he looks at you, something I haven't seen in him since the day we lost Ariella. And...I know you love him in a way that you can't love me." He looked away, just for a moment, and took a deep breath. "Jealousy isn't something that we deal with well," he admitted. "But some of us have been around long enough to know when to let go, and what is most important. The happiness of my two best friends should be more important than some ancient feud.

Hey,” Watney said over the radio, “I've got an idea.” “Of course you do,” Lewis said. “What do you got?” “I could find something sharp in here and poke a hole in the glove of my EVA suit. I could use the escaping air as a thruster and fly my way to you. The source of thrust would be on my arm, so I'd be able to direct it pretty easily.” “How does he come up with this shit?” Martinez interjected. “Hmm,” Lewis said. “Could you get 42 meters per second that way?” “No idea,” Watney said. “I can't see you having any control if you did that,” Lewis said. “You'd be eyeballing the intercept and using a thrust vector you can barely control.” “I admit it's fatally dangerous,” Watney said. “But consider this: I'd get to fly around like Iron Man.” “We'll keep working on ideas,” Lewis said. “Iron Man, Commander. Iron Man.

I see the way he looks at you, something I haven't seen in him since the day we lost Ariella. And...I know you love him in a way you can't love me.” He looked away, just for a moment, and took a deep breath. “Jealousy isn't something we deal with well,” he admitted. “But some of us have been around long enough to know when to let go, and what is most important. The happiness of my two best friends should be more important than some ancient feud.” Stepping close, he placed a palm on my cheek, brushing a strand of hair from my face. Glamour flared up around him, casting him in a halo of emerald light. In that moment, he was pure fey, unbound by shallow human fears and embarrassment, a being as natural and ancient as the forest. “I have always loved you, princess,” Robin Goodfellow promised, his green eyes shining in the darkness. “I always will. And I'll take whatever you can give me.

Mars is a barren wasteland and I am completely alone here. I already knew that, of course. But there’s a difference between knowing it and really experiencing it. All around me there was nothing but dust, rocks, and endless empty desert in all directions. The planet’s famous red color is from iron oxide coating everything. So it’s not just a desert. It’s a desert so old it’s literally rusting.

I now risked dying from oxygen toxicity, as the excessively high amount of oxygen threatened to burn up my nervous system, lungs, and eyes. An ironic death for someone with a leaky space suit: too much oxygen.

I can’t see you having any control if you did that,” Lewis said. “You’d be eyeballing the intercept and using a thrust vector you can barely control.” “I admit it’s fatally dangerous,” Watney said. “But consider this: I’d get to fly around like Iron Man.

All around me there was nothing but dust, rocks, and endless empty desert in all directions. The planet’s famous red color is from iron oxide coating everything. So it’s not just a desert. It’s a desert so old it’s literally rusting.

They’re all going to wind up miserable at the end.” Nick appears over the back of the sofa, still holding a cast-iron frying pan and looking like he wants to grab the book from Andy’s hand. “No, they won’t. I read the final chapter.” “You did what?” Nick sounds scandalized. “I’m not wasting my time on things that make me sad.” He learned that lesson with Old Yeller, thank you very much.

All I had left was my oxygen tank. So it did the only thing it could do to keep me alive. It started backfilling with pure oxygen. I now risked dying of oxygen toxicity, as the excessively high amount of oxygen threatened to burn up my nervous system, lungs and eyes. An ironic death for someone with a leaky space suit: too much oxygen.

The information superhighway is littered with so much roadkill.

I admit it’s fatally dangerous,” Watney said. “But consider this: I’d get to fly around like Iron Man.

In the morning while we were eating breakfast, Edward gave a speech to the kids about how you should only ever fry bacon in a cast-iron pan and I rolled my eyes and Andy joked, “Embrace the idiosyncrasies.” Edward snapped at me later that day for changing the afternoon plan too many times and Andy put his hands on the kitchen counter to calm himself and said, “Seriously, guys, embrace the idiosyncrasies.” He hasn’t whitewashed your marriage; he remembers the conflict, the push-pull. He says the struggle is what made your marriage your marriage. He can have his way on everything now but about half the time, he does it your way anyway.

Narnok rolled his shoulders and tilted his head left, then right, with terrifying cracks of released tension. The two men at his feet were groaning at different pitches, and Narnok stepped over them, testing the weight of the bar and muttering, “Not as good as the axe, but it’ll do.” He looked up. And grinned. “What’s it to be, then? Two at a time or all six at once?

We should welcome artists to our shores because this is a haven, isn't it? It's got a big iron lady out there in the sea there saying welcome to the shore and they were trying to kick me out: it's ridiculous when you look back on it, because the most I could have done was gather a big gang of demonstrators together which the police could have shot, so what were they complaining about?

A four-syllable name is impractical in battle, lad, and in most poetry too, if ye care about what the bards say. I’ll give ye only two syllables until ye actually save me bones from the Fae. You can pick. Cory, Ian, Andy, Gobshite, I don’t care. What’ll it be?” “Coriander, sir.” He shoots a pleading glance at Brighid, but she looks amused, and I laugh at him. “How about Fuckstick? Aye, that’ll do.” He doesn’t have a ward against me calling him the wrong name. I know it makes me a fecking arsehole, but he’s a far sight more smug than I can stand.

Watney, how you doing?" Lewis's voice said in his ear. "Fine so far, Commander," Watney replied. "You mentioned a plan?" "Affirmative," she said. "We're going to vent atmosphere to get thrust." "How?" "We're going to blow a hole in the VAL." "What!?" Watney said. "How!?" "Vogel's making a bomb." "I knew that guy was a mad scientist!" Watney said. "I think we should just go with my Iron Man idea." "That's too risky, and you know it," she replied. "Thing is," Watney said, "I'm selfish. I want the memorials back home to be just for me. I don't want the rest of you losers in them. I can't let you guys blow the VAL." "Oh," Lewis said, "well if you won't let us then - Wait... wait a minute... I'm looking at my shoulder patch and it turns out I'm the commander. Sit tight. We're coming to get you." "Smart ass.

Hey," Watney said over the radio, "I've got an idea." "Of course you do," Lewis said. "What do you got?" "I could find something sharp in here and poke a hold in the glove of my EVA suit. I could use the escaping air as a thruster and fly my way to you. The source of the thrust would be on my arm, so I'd be able to direct it pretty easily." "How does he come up with this shit?" Martinez interjected. "Hmm," Lewis said. "Could you get forty-two meters per second that way?" "No idea," Watney said. "I can't see you having any control if you did that," Lewis said. "You'd be eyeballing the intercept and using a thrust vector you can barely control." "I admit it's fatally dangerous," Watney said. "But consider this: I'd get to fly around like Iron Man." "We'll keep working on ideas," Lewis said. "Iron Man, Commander. Iron Man.

More often, I’d meet people like Brett Favre. Not literally like Brett Favre, in the sense that they were forty-year-old football players, but that they were people who loved Wisconsin but couldn’t find a way to make it work there, took off for NewYork, crashed and burned, and then found a home for themselves here in the City of Lakes. Minneapolis is where the drama queens and burnouts and weirdos and misfits of the rural and suburban Upper Midwest wind up. It’s a city full of people who, though they’d never say it, secretly suspect they don’t belong here, that they’re not Minneapolis enough, because they didn’t go to a city high school, or because they didn’t hang out at First Avenue when they were teenagers, or because they came from the suburbs, or from outstate.They came from the Iron Range or Fargo–Moorhead or Bloomington or White Bear Lake or Collegeville, or from Chicago or California or the Pacific Northwest or Mexico or Somalia. Wherever they came from, Minneapolis is their home now, and it belongs to them. It belongs to us.

Result: 325 ccs of water, which weighs 325 grams! Therefore Rocky’s ball also weighs 325 grams. I return to the tunnel to tell Rocky all about how smart I am. He balls a fist at me as I enter. “You left! Bad!” “I measured the mass! I made a very smart experiment.” He holds up a string with beads on it. “Twenty-six.” The beaded string is just like the ones he sent me back when we talked about our atmospheres— “Oh,” I say. It’s an atom. That’s how he talks about atoms. I count the beads. There are twenty-six in all. He’s talking about element 26—one of the most common elements on Earth. “Iron,” I say. I point at the necklace. “Iron.” He points at the necklace and says, “♫♩♪♫♫.” I record the word in my dictionary. “Iron,” he says again, pointing at the necklace. “Iron.” He points to the ball in my hand. “Iron.” It takes a second to sink in. Then I slap my forehead. “You are bad.” It was a fun experiment, but a total waste of time. Rocky was giving me all the information I needed. Or trying to, at least. I know how dense iron is, and I know how to calculate the volume of a sphere. Getting to mass from there is just a little arithmetic.

Within hours, all the Iron Wolves were starting to curse inventively.

Stay tight under the iron. Always stay tight.

Andy returned a few days later with Ubaid in tow, kicking and cursing. Both Ramiz and Andy had to strong arm him to get him to return home. Of course, the Hadrah gave him a good scolding and grounded him for the rest of his time in Dubai. Our friend couldn’t bear living under his father's iron fist. Hakim had round-the-clock bodyguards watching his son, making sure he would not repeat his disappearing trick. Our poor lovesick friend was back to his old tricks, smoking and drinking heavily. Ramiz, Andy and I tried our best to console him and cheer his tortured soul, but depression had him in its grip. The week and a half in the Kosk, before he returned to Trinity College, was hell for him. He was not allowed to communicate with Gianna – his father commanded he cut off all ties with her. The more the Hadrah clamped down, the more Ubaid wanted to escape to see his beloved.

A sixty-hour workweek will not compensate for a poorly delivered sermon. People don’t show up on Sunday morning because I am a good pastor (leader, shepherd, counselor). Ironically, my pastoring skills have almost nothing to do with my success as a pastor! In my world, it is my communication skills that make the difference. So that is where I focus my time.

The club is quiet for a Friday. Which is ironic because it’s spring and I always assumed people were hornier and got it on more in the springtime. Or maybe I’m just remembering that scene in Bambi, where all the boy animals got horny for the girl animals in spring. And…I just compared Bambi to a sex club. That’s just how bored I am.

The technological magic that gives us washing machines, dryers and non-ironed shirts can easily seem like a harmless improvement. But when the art of cooking is replaced by meals warmed up in the microwave - something a five-year-old can do as well as a fifty-five-year-old, then children no longer see their fathers and mothers doing something challenging, fruitful, admirable, and ultimately enjoyable. Instead, the family's life together is reduced to mere consumption, the result of others work or toil. No wonder the children at the peak leisure stage of the 1960's and the 1970's topped admiring their parents, they no longer saw their parents doing anything worth admiring.

The club is quiet for a Friday. Which is ironic because it’s spring and I always assumed people were hornier and got it on more in the springtime. Or maybe I’m just remembering that scene in Bambi, where all the boy animals got horny for the girl animals in spring. And…I just compared Bambi to a sex club.

The "problem" with health is that people want it, but deliberately and ironically avoid pursuing it adequately -- a question for the centuries on what human rationality can get you at times.

COVID-19 outbreak made them a norm of public life. Many also wore helmets and carried melee weapons. Together, the crowd of around four hundred brought traffic to a standstill—by now a regular occurrence in the City of Roses, as Portland is known by. As usual, the police stayed away. They knew whom the streets belonged to. Working as a journalist with a phone and a new GoPro camera, I slowly made my way toward the front of the crowd. Some of the protesters recognized me. They glared and whispered in the ears of their comrades. Luis Enrique Marquez looked right at me. The 48-year-old Rose City Antifa member has been arrested so many times at violent protests in Portland over the past few years that he no longer bothers to wear a mask. Still, I ignored the stares and continued forward. By this point, the crowd’s chants had changed. “No hate! No fear!” they began shouting. Before I made it much farther, someone—or something—hit me hard in the back of the head. I was nearly knocked to the ground from the impact. Never having been in a fight, I naively asked myself in the moment: “Did someone just trip and fall into me?” Before I could turn around to look, a sea of bodies dressed in black surrounded me. In the background, I could still hear the crowd chant, “No hate!” Ironically, all I saw next—and felt—was the pure embodiment of hatred. Staring at an amorphous mob of faceless shadows, I froze. Suddenly, clenched fists repeatedly struck my face and head from all directions. My right knee buckled from the impact. The masked attackers wore tactical gloves—gloves hardened with fiberglass on the knuckles. It’s likely some of them used brass knuckles as well. I put my arms up to surrender, but this only signaled to them to beat me more ferociously. Someone then snatched my camera—my evidence. I desperately tried but failed to hold on to it. The masked thief melted into the crowd, a function of the “black bloc.” Another person ran up and kicked me twice in the groin. Someone bashed me on the head from behind with a stiff placard or sign.

The iron game is a marathon and not a sprint.