Bananas Movie Quotes

The very idea of higher states of consciousness is absurd. Comparing one state of consciousness to another and saying one is "higher" and the other is "mundane" is like eating a banana and complaining it's not a very good apple.

I never saw anything like it. He was like the bit in the movie where Tom Cruise is a lawyer and he's decided he's really going to win this case, for the sake of justice and the American way, and that? And it's suddenly like bang-bang-bang—grabbing files off shelves and slamming them down on the desk and punching numbers in the telephone and shaking out the phone cord dramatically , and you know, snapping out instructions to all the assistants around the desk, like: "Get me all the phone records of the President of the United States for the last fifty years," and "Get me the names of every client who ever ate a banana," and "Let's get some Chinese take-out up here, on the double!

Do we even discuss your beloved banana bread?" "It's worthy of felonious thievery, maybe, but not death.

love is sharing a banana split. and letting you have the last spring roll. it’s reminding me that i need to wake up early tomorrow. and staying up until i fall asleep. love is driving me to the airport. bringing takeout when you pick me up. love is grabbing your hand on a roller coaster. or during a scary movie. love is asking if you need a jacket. it’s feeling sad for me when i’m sad. love is knowing your favorite pizza toppings. love is surprise notes. love is being honest. love is showing up. love is all of it.

Any chance you might sit on my face?' 'Carnal Knowledge' 'That's the stuff.' 'No, I mean 'Carnal Knowledge, the movie. Jack Nicholson says that to Ann Margret when they first meet. She's a skater.' 'Well, is there?' 'Are you always this direct?

Shopping at the Dandelion Co-op made me feel European. Very Audrey Hepburn as Sabrina in Paris (that movie played a few weeks ago in the park). River picked out goat cheese to spread on crispy-crusted French bread for the picnic, and olives, and a jar of roasted red peppers, and a bar of seventy percent dark chocolate, and a bottle of sparkling water. He bought some things for himself too: organic whole-fat milk, another crunchy baguette, glossy espresso beans (which were roasted by Gianni's family and sold all over town), bananas, Parmigiano-Reggiano, fat brown eggs, extra-virgin olive oil, and some bulk spices. I watched River as he shopped. Closely. I watched him breathe in deep the gorgeous roasted smell of the espresso beans before he ground them. I watched him open the egg carton and stroke the brown shells before closing it again. I watched him slip his slim fingers into the barrel of bright purple-and-white cranberry beans, unable to resist the urge, just like me. I always had to put my hands in the pretty, speckled beans. Always.

I tracked down a vegan baker and had this cake special ordered for tonight. It’s a vanilla cake made with almond milk and maple syrup, glazed with cocoa icing. The damn thing smells delicious, yet my mouth is as dry as the Sahara Desert. That’s probably because of the message. Or, I should say, question iced on top of the cake. Walking up to the kitchen, I see her shaking her booty as she sings to the loud music blasting through the apartment. In her hand, she has a knife and is cutting up a banana. On the stove, I can see a small pot of melted dark chocolate and what looks like toasted and chopped walnuts on a plate. “Hey, babe! You’re home too early.” She gives me a fake pout. “I wanted to surprise you.” Setting my chin on her shoulder, I place my hands on her hips and watch as she starts cutting up another banana. “Surprise me with what, Pixie?” “Something sweet for us to eat while we watch the movie tonight.” Kissing the side of her neck, I murmur into her skin, “I’ve got your sweet covered.” She looks at the box with curious eyes. “Oh? And what do you have there, Trevor Blake?” Lifting the lid, I push the now visible cake with its question closer to her, and she gasps. Her hands start to tremble, and I watch the hand holding the knife with a wary eye. Perhaps I should have asked her to put that down first. I watch her face as her eyes tear up at the question in red icing. Will You Marry Me? The ring is the dot at the bottom of the question mark, shiny and blinking at her. Standing here, I wait for an answer. And I wait more. Thing is, it’s too quiet. There are silent tears running down her face, but she’s not said a single word. Fuck. What if she isn’t ready for this? I open my mouth to try to fix this, but suddenly my little sprite is squealing loudly, jumping up and down. I should be fucking thrilled that she’s happy, but all I can see is that knife bouncing up and down with her little body. She’s talking so fast I can barely understand what she’s saying. “Oh-my-gosh-Trevor-are-you-serious-right-now!” “Babe, happy as hell that you’re excited, but can you do me a favor really quick?” Paisley stops jumping up and down and nods her head repeatedly like a bobble head doll. I have to stop myself from laughing at her. She smiles brightly at me. “If you wanna know my answer, it’s yes!” “Well, that, too. But, Pixie, can you please put down the knife? Would really fucking hate it if one of us got accidentally stabbed on the night that I’m asking you to become my wife.

Of course you don't get it," he said. "You and Yaya, you've always felt trapped here. But I don't want to graduate." He rolled a banana against the table with his palm. "I've spent my whole life reading beautiful books and watching beautiful movies, dreaming that there was some real place out there where I would fit in and be beautiful, too. And now I'm here. And I don't to leave. I don't want to get an ugly job in an ugly office full of shit like staplers and fax machines. I don't want to write memos. I don't want us all to move far away from each other and grow up and forget to call. I don't to get fat. I don't want to be tired. I don't know. I just...sometimes I can't imagine anything good happening to me. After Catherine.

Tomo-chan didn't have a lot of friends, but she did treasure many things: her coworkers, her parents, her pet parakeet, her pothos plants, romantic movies...the list was endless. Life, for Tomo-chan, was about making sure she was neatly surrounded by all the things that were important to her.

Dr. Emily and her vet tech Kate show up to my house at seven p.m. and we decide to do the euthanasia outside on my back patio. I don’t want Petunia’s soul getting stuck in the house. I want it to float up and out into the sky. Dr. Emily walks me through exactly how it will go. First Petunia will get a medication that will make her sleep. Once she’s asleep she won’t feel anything. Then she will receive medication to slowly and peacefully stop her heart. The whole thing should take around twenty minutes. “Do you want a few minutes alone with her before we start?” Dr. Emily’s voice is soft. She places her hand on my back. Both she and Kate have known Petunia for years, and like everyone who knows Petunia, they love her. Petunia will die surrounded by love. I pick my beloved dog up into my arms and walk with her from room to room of our house, recounting all the things we did together in those sacred spaces. In the kitchen, I say “This is where you watched me bake banana bread and licked spilled flour dustings from the floor.” In the dining room: “This is where we ate dinner. Remember how beautiful it looked the first night I lit all the candles?” In the living room: “This is where we watched movies.” And in my office, my favorite room, the room where my new career and life have flourished, I say “This is where we pulled tarot cards every morning. This is where you helped me sew lampshades. This is where you kept me company while I edited all the photographs.

In 1917, Milton Hershey began work on a sugar mill town outside the city of Santa Cruz, Cuba, which he named Hershey and which, when finished, included American-style bungalows, luxurious houses for staff, schools, a hospital, a baseball diamond, and a number of movie theaters. At the height of the banana boom of the 1920s, one could tour Guatemala, Costa Rica, Panama, Honduras, Cuba, and Colombia and not for a moment leave United Fruit Company property, traveling on its trains and ships, passing through its ports, staying in its many towns, with their tree-lined streets and modern amenities, in a company hotel or guest house, playing golf on its links, taking in a Hollywood movie in one of its theaters, and being tended to in its hospital if sick.

An interesting question: what was I thinking, as I watched his eyes widen with startled incredulity (“come on, fellas, you’re joking right?”) for what would be the very last time? Not of the fact that I was helping to save my friends, certainly not; nor of fear; nor guilt. But little things. Insults, innuendos, petty cruelties. The hundreds of small, unavenged humiliations which had been rising in me for months. It was of them I thought, and nothing more. It was because of them that I was able to watch him at all, without the slightest tinge of pity or regret, as he teetered on the cliff's edge for one long moment – arms flailing, eyes rolling, a silent-movie comedian slipping on a banana peel – before he toppled backwards, and fell to his death.