Ankle Monitor Quotes

Thank you, I guess. It’s good to see they’ve replaced Silas Briggs with someone who’s a little more reasonable.” He grinned. “Not to mention, someone with a much prettier face.” Agent Pallas snapped the ankle monitor on, and Kyle yelled out in pain. “Son of a bitch, you got some skin there!” he said to Pallas. Cameron threw the FBI agent a look. “Jack.” He shrugged. “It slipped.” He turned back to Kyle with a look that could wilt plants.

How about a little bet?” I had a feeling I wouldn’t like what he was going to suggest, but I motioned for him to keep talking. “If I manage to give you an orgasm today, then we put the ankle monitor back on. If you manage to resist my skills, we throw that thing in the trash.” “Only one?” “Greedy girl,” he said teasingly, his dark eyes sparkling with excitement. “I thought you weren’t attracted to me? Are you worried your body won’t be able to resist me?

This man needs an ankle monitor and a muzzle.

Frankly, nothing said about ghosts ever made sense to me. Why moan? A voice in the dark saying plainly, ‘Hey. Nice to see you,’ would petrify me more. And why are they always stuck in their murder houses like convicted criminals with ankle monitors on house arrest? And

Give me a moment, baby. I just need to roll those words over in my head a couple of times. ‘It’s really hard to climb a stripper pole when you’re wearing an ankle monitor.’ It’s like slutty poetry. I never dared dream that a child of mine would ever utter such a beautiful sentence.

Women are no longer required to be chaste or modest, to restrict their sphere of activity to the home, or even to realize their properly feminine destiny in maternity. Normative femininity [that is, the rules for being a good woman] is coming more and more to be centered on women’s body—not its duties and obligations or even its capacity to bear children, but its sexuality, more precisely, its presumed heterosexuality and its appearance. . . . The woman who checks her makeup half a dozen times a day to see if her foundation has caked or her mascara has run, who worries that the wind or the rain may spoil her hairdo, who looks frequently to see if her stockings have bagged at the ankle, or who, feeling fat, monitors everything she eats, has become, just as surely as the inmate of Panopticon, a self-policing subject, a self committed to a relentless self-surveillance. This self-surveillance is a form of obedience to patriarchy.

Even when the couple disabled “location history” or “location services” in an app, their wishes were ignored. The couple was more closely monitored than a paroled child molester with a tamperproof GPS tracker around his ankle.

The woman who checks her makeup half a dozen times a day to see if her foundation has caked or her mascara has run, who worries that the wind or the rain may spoil her hairdo, who looks frequently to see if her stockings have bagged at the ankle or who, feeling fat, monitors everything she eats, has become, just as surely as the inmate of the Panopticon, a self-policing subject, a self committed to a relentless self-surveillance. This self-surveillance is a form of obedience to patriarchy. It is also the reflection in woman's consciousness of the fact that she is under surveillance in ways that he is not, that whatever else she may become, she is importantly a body designed to please or to excite.

This is electric, right?” Lydia sounded annoyed. She’d always been angry around new things. “Athens is an hour away.” “Really? I’ve never noticed that the eleventy billion times I’ve driven this very same car to Mom’s house and back.” At least she had before the ankle monitor limited her movements. “Can we just go?” Lydia still looked annoyed. “Where does the key go?” “Tap the brake to turn it on.” Lydia tapped the brake. “Is it on? I can’t even hear it.” “Are you three hundred years old?” Claire demanded. “Jesus Christ, it’s still a car. Even Grandma Ginny could figure it out.” “That was really mean.” She put the gear in reverse. The video screen switched to the rear camera view. Lydia huffed in disgust as she inched back the car and turned it around.

with a fifteen-year-old boy from Shreveport, Louisiana, named Marquawn. Marquawn had gotten into some legal trouble because of his sticky fingers, and a judge had put an ankle monitor on him. I took him around New York City while they filmed us for a day.

The way the disease is diagnosed and monitored is with the ankle-brachial index—the ratio of blood pressure at the ankle compared to the arm. If the index falls below 0.9, it indicates a clog in the flow of blood to your lower body.

Anton walked to the bed and saw a tuft of blonde hair poking out from under the covers.  He touched her shoulder and she didn’t move.  He shook her and called her name.  She still didn’t move.  He ripped the covers from her body and pulled her into his arms. “Mel’?  Mel’, wake up baby.  I need to talk to you.” He began to shake her and that’s when he noticed how thin she was.  He put his cheek against her mouth and felt her rapid and shallow breathing. He put her back on the bed and felt for a pulse.  It was there, but it was rapid and faint. “Oh shit Melody!  Wake the fuck up Mel’!  You’re scaring me baby, wake up!” He took her in his arms and stroked her hair away from her face while he cried tears of frustration and searched for his cell phone.  He needed to call for help, but he couldn’t bring himself to let her go. He tapped “911” with one hand and held her close with the other.  He pulled her onto his lap to give her the warmth she was lacking, and that’s when he noticed how loose the ankle monitor had become. His hands started shaking and he tucked her face against his neck. “Baby please wake up and talk to me.  I love you Mel’.  I love you so much, please wake up and tell me that you can hear me.

If I had it my way, you would wear an ankle monitor so I could always know where you are.” My eyes widen. “That is absolutely terrifying.” “Tell me about it. I’ve already looked into GPS chips for our child.

The dark is smothering and complete…except the blinking red light on Kallum’s ankle monitor.

Sonnet 1984 Government IDs are just ankle monitors, issued to tag citizens like dogs, or I should say, apes. There can be governments without constitution, but there is no government without surveillance. When you elect a so-called representative, you're officially signing your life to them. Don't be naive enough to think otherwise, and then yell about human rights violation. Violation of citizen rights is right of the government, it's the unspoken rule of the handbook of democracy. Once in a blue moon you may get a benevolent government, but 9 times out of 10 you'll end up under an autocracy. A freethinking citizen is contradiction in terms, no good to the grand design of democratic dictatorship. Democracy in books is, for the people, by the people, democracy on street is rule of the apes in a land of sheep.

Government IDs are just ankle monitors, issued to tag citizens like dogs, or I should say, apes.

[Martha] Stewart has just come downstairs dressed in an orange polo shirt and orange Capri pants. On her feet are gold clogs . . . and on her right ankle, very much in view, is the black electronie monitoring device she is forced to wear [as a term of home confinement after she was found] guilty of lying to investigators probing the ImClone insider-trading scandal. . . . ‘I hate lock down. It's hideous,’ she announces.” Matt Tyrnauer, “The Prisoner of Bedford,” August 2005