Bad Juju Quotes

I've sucked way too much cement for this year. Bad juju rising off them city sidewalks. I need to babble with a brook or two, inhale starlight, make friends with some trees.

I have bad car juju." -Stephanie Plum

I have been around long enough to discount most superstitions for what they are: I was around when many of them began to take root, after all. But one superstition to which I happen to subscribe is that bad juju comes in threes. The saying in my time was, "Storm clouds are thrice cursed," but I can't talk like that and expect people to believe I'm a twenty-one year-old American. I have to say things like, "Shit happens, man.

Mother Mary of Anabolic Grace, we got Teras incoming?” He levels angry blue eyes on me. “You’re a hex, lady, dark luck, powerful bad juju, ken?” “Only to people who try to kidnap me,” I tell him sweetly, and March snorts, so I feel obliged to add, “Or rescue me…” And then Dina makes a pfft sound. “Or who travel with me…” My gaze sweeps around the darkened interior, trying to find an ally, but nobody will hold my eyes more than two seconds, it seems. “Fine, frag you all, I’m dark juju, bad luck, and you’re all doomed.

The left one's the hospital, the right one's death. The right one steals your life while the left steals your breath. These hands are bad juju and the bad boogaloo, they're the teeth of the demon as he slides down the flue.

I think he had no notion how little an effect the word sin had on me. He might as well have said, "Homosexuality is bad juju

Not committing the so-called deadly sins is not enough to avoid bad juju in this life, or the next. Those everyday little wrongdoings, like ingratitude, unkindness, and entitlement, are hefty cornerstones of karmic debt.

Canned shtick—Pete gleeful: ‘The left one's the hospital, the right one's death. The right one steals your life while the left steals your breath. These hands are bad juju and the bad boogaloo, they're the teeth of the demon as he slides down the flue.

I could hear the cicadas like a vortex of hundreds of tiny violins. I’d always hated them, too. Anytime cicadas showed up, bad juju lurked nearby.

Bad Ju-ju or not, just because Phil accused me of fucking him. I was going too. No need to make a liar out of him.

Deceiving grandmothers makes for bad juju.

The system worked because felons and misdemeanants plead guilty most of the time and did not file nuisance appeals routinely. The system worked because pre-breakdown jail time was doable. Criminals were pre-psychologized. They accepted authority. They knew they were lowlife scum because they saw it on TV and read it in the papers. They were locked into a rigged game. Authority usually won. They took pleasure in picayune triumphs and reveled in the game’s machinations. The game was insiderism. Insiderism and fatalism were hip. If you stayed shy of the gas chamber, the worst you’d get was penitentiary time. Pre-breakdown joint time was doable. You could drink pruno and fuck sissies in the ass. The system worked because America was yet to buck race riots and assassinations and environmental bullshit and gender confusion and drug proliferation and gun mania and religious psychoses linked to a media implosion and an emerging cult of victimhood—a 25-year transit of divisive bad juju that resulted in a stultifying mass skepticism.

Now, when I say “exiled” I'm not referring to the old superstition about Adam and Eve getting kicked out of the Garden of Eden, and now we're all under some kind of bad ju-ju from an abusive creator. And I'm certainly not talking about that obscene and perverted doctrine known as original sin. Whoever the ignorant, woman-hating, insecure, irrational, terrified, guilt-ridden, diabolical, self-despising horse's ass was who came up with that diseased and malevolent concept should have been thrown into the Nebuchadnezzar

A double whammy of bad juju.

The system worked because America was yet to buck race riots and assassinations and environmental bullshit and gender confusion and drug proliferation and gun mania and religious psychoses linked to a media implosion and an emerging cult of victimhood—a 25-year transit of divisive bad juju that resulted in a stultifying mass skepticism.

There was enough bad juju going around, and now that I’d found him—or rather, he had hunted me down—I wasn’t ready to let him go.

Deceased plants are good luck. When a houseplant dies, it’s because it’s absorbed bad energy and juju. Bad juju meant for you. They’re protection.

And I know, there’s such a thing as bad juju. But there’s also good juju. You’re the good kind. Definitely.

There is much to be learned about the strength of Two when we examine the symbol of twins. Throughout the world since ancient times, twins have been thought to be endowed with supernatural powers. In some cultures, there is an entire discipline devoted to the balancing of the nature of twins, for they are thought to be two entities which share one soul. Even after their deaths, twins are fed, spoken to, given gifts, and sacrifices. In various African and Carib communities the symbol of twin sisters is said to possess juju—the mystical energy of the soul. Therefore it is required that twins be impeccably taken care of lest a bad fate befall the entire community. One precaution from the hoodoo religion of Haiti requires that twins always be fed exactly the same measured portions in order to summarily allay all jealousy between them, but more so, to prevent the wasting away of one of them, for if one dies, so shall the other, and the special soulfulness they bring to the community will be lost. Likewise, a woman has tremendous powers when the dual aspects of psyche are consciously recognized and beheld as a unit; held together rather than held apart. The power of Two is very strong and neither side of the duality should be neglected. They need be fed equally, for together they bring an uncanny power to the individual. I once heard a story from an old African-American man in the mid-South. He came out of an alley as I was sitting amidst the graffiti of an inner-city “park.” Some people would call him crazy, for he spoke to anyone and no one. He shuffled along with one finger held out as though to test the wind’s direction. Cuentistas recognize such persons as having been touched by the gods. In our tradition, we’d call such a man El bulto, The Bundle, for souls such as he carry a certain kind of ware and show it to any