Baylor Quotes

You seem to be under the impression that I work for you and you can give me orders. Let me fix that." I hung up.

Oh. "So the best way to fight you is to strip naked and attack?" His eyes flashed with a wicked light. "Yes. You should try it and see what happens.

Speak to me." "I hate you." "Okay." Mad Rogan let go of me. "You're fine.

One school of thought says that the best way to handle an issue like this is exposure therapy," Mad Rogan said. "For example, if you're terrified of snakes, repeated handling of them will cure it." Aha. "I'm not handling your snake.

Can you turn so you’re not pressed against me?” “I could,” he said, his voice amused. “But then you would have to lie on top of me.” My brain said, “NO.” My body went, “Wheee!

What are your qualifications for this job?” she asked. “I’m expendable,” I said.

If you’re really hard up, I can introduce you to my grandmother. She’s a fan.” Adam blinked. “She doesn’t typically sleep with pretty young things, but she would make an exception in your case. You might even learn a trick or two.

I have a family full of quirky people. Someone has to be sensible so all of you can enjoy being reckless weirdos.

If you keep wiggling, things might get uncomfortable,” he said into my ear, his voice like a caress. “I’m doing my best, but thinking about baseball only takes you so far.” I froze.

And let’s be honest, you weren’t exactly harmed. I even took you home.” “You dumped me on my doorstep. According to my mother, I looked half dead.” “Your mother exaggerates. A third dead at most.” I stared at him. Wow. Just wow.

Had I known you were going to pull a pretty ribbon out of your sleeve like some two-bit magician, tie me up with it, and indulge your mental torture fetish in your basement, I would've shot you. Many times." "Two-bit magician?" "Men like you enjoy being flattered.

Maybe I should drive,” Troy said. “She knows what she’s doing,” Mad Rogan said. I sniffed. “What?” “The fragrance of a genuine compliment from Mad Rogan. So rare and sweet.

Do you have a girlfriend?” Grandma Frida asked. I put my hand over my face. “No,” Mad Rogan said. “A boyfriend?” Grandma Frida asked. “No.” “What about . . .” “No,” Mom and I said in unison. “But you don’t even know what I wanted to ask!” “No,” we said again together. “Party poopers.” Grandma shrugged.

And I think how you see yourself makes you who you are. Your soul doesn't have a title or an occupation. It's just you. The rest of the world can go fuck themselves.

I wanted you to stop.” “I was encouraged by you breathlessly moaning my name.” I spun on my foot. “I wasn’t moaning your name. I was shrieking in alarm.” “That was the sexiest throaty shrieking I’ve ever heard.” “You need to get out more.

All men are liars. All women are liars, too.

She who showed weakness to teenagers would be picked on to death. True fact of life.

Call her out,” Arabella said. “Tell her Rogan is yours!” Grandma Frida pumped her fist. “Don’t let her take your man!” Leon declared. We all looked at him. “I was feeling left out,” he said.

They dismissed me as a peasant, I dismissed them as shallow, and we were all happy like that.

He glanced at me, his eyes dark. "Would you rather talk about your dream?" "No." "Considering that I was featured in it, I think I deserve to know the particulars. Were my clothes missing because we were in bed? Was I touching you?" He glanced at me. His voice could've melted the clothes off my body. "Were you touching me?

I opened a writing app and began typing what I knew about Pierce. Vain. Terminal fear of T-shirts or any other garment that would cover his pectorals. Deadly. Doesn't hesitate to kill. Holding him at gunpoint would result in me being barbecued. Whee. Likes burning things. Now here's an understatement. Good information to have, but not useful for finding him. Antigovernment. Neither here nor there. Hmm. So far my best plan would be to build a mountain of gasoline cans and explosives, stick a Property of US Government sign on it, and throw a T-shirt over Pierce's head when he showed up to explode it. Yes, this would totally work.

Mr. Rogan,” I frosted my voice over. “What I put into my body is my business.” Okay, that didn’t sound right.

Now that was a kiss,” Grandma Frida said from the doorway behind me. I jumped. “How long have you been there?” “Long enough. That man means business.” All my words tried to come out at once. “I don’t . . . what . . . asshole! . . . screw himself for all I care!” “Aww, young love, so passionate,” Grandma said. “I’m going to buy you a subscription to Brides magazine. You should start shopping for dresses.

I can buy your contract.” “No, you can’t. Any sale of our mortgage requires my consent, and I won’t consent to it.” He grinned. “You don’t want to work under me?” “I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer.

You don’t have the touching rights.” “How do I get those?” Stop being a self-absorbed spoiled baby. “You get those if I fall in love with you.” He stopped. “In love. You’re serious?” “Yes.” That would shut him up. “What is this, the sixteenth century? Should I write you a sonnet next?” “Is it going to be a good sonnet?

Did you send an escort with my family?” “Yes. They’re a target.” “How did you know they would be leaving?” “My people saw them load up, called me, and I told them to follow.” Duh. “Thank you.” “You’re welcome. I plan to hold them hostage until you sleep with me.” I stumbled. He turned and gave me a brilliant, impossibly handsome smile. “Just kidding.” Damn it.

Maybe you should make me a list of people I can kill and ways in which they’re allowed to die,” he said. “You are not funny.” “I’m very funny. Just ask Peaches.

So, are we still on tonight? For our dinner?” I asked. “Hell, yes. We’re on for tonight. We’re on for tomorrow. We’re on for the foreseeable future.” .

And your skin is like honey. I wonder how you taste." Bitter and tired. "Mhm.

You have to live a little.” Grandma fitted the track bar into the cog on the track. “Go out with a bad boy. Run headfirst into a fight. Get roaring drunk. Something!

I didn’t expect to sit here for hours. But if you’re too hot, feel free to take the bra off.” I gave him the finger. “What are you?” he asked. “I’m the woman you chained in your basement. I’m your captive. Your . . . victim. Yes, that’s the right word. All of that education. How come nobody ever explained to you that you can’t just kidnap people because you feel like it?

One day some other Prime will threaten our House, and when that day comes, I’ll kill him.” What? "I’ll do it quiet and clean, and nobody will ever know.” Leon smiled. “I’m going to be a dark horse, House Baylor’s secret. I’ll be the best assassin. A legend. They’ll never see me coming.” I would kill Kurt. I would strangle him with my bare hands.

How do we get out of this circle?" I asked him. "We kill him," he said. "Good. Let's kill him and go home." "I thought you'd never ask.

How long does it take?” I asked. “I’m sorry?” “How long does it take you to get dressed for work in the morning?” “Two and a half hours,” she said. “Do they pay you overtime for that?

I’m a known fugitive who likes to set people on fire. Come away with me so we can have hot sex while the entire city is trying to shoot me in the head. If I get bored, I’ll barbecue you for my amusement. Sure, let me get my shoes.

A wise man once said, “A human mind is the place where emotion and reason are locked in perpetual combat. Sadly for our species, emotion always wins.” I really liked that quote. It explained why, even though I was reasonably intelligent, I kept finding myself doing something really stupid. And it sounded much better than “Nevada Baylor, Total Idiot.

How much did you hear?" "Everything that mattered." He nodded, his face unreadable. "It is what it is. All cards are on the table." "Not quite." I sat up. "Oh?" "The real Rogan hasn't asked me." He frowned. "I want the dragon to ask me." "Be careful," he warned. "I know what the Head of House Rogan wants. I heard all of his noble warnings about the future of House Baylor. I saw him told himself in check. I want to know what you want, Connor. What do you want of me? Ask me.

He looked like he needed some jungle ruins to explore or some bad people to hit with a chair. Trouble was, he was the bad people.

Should I bring my own chains this time? Or do you have bigger plans, and this is some sort of freaky murder foreplay”—why did the word foreplay just come out of my mouth?—“and I’ll end up cut up into small pieces inside some freezer at the end? I can just spray myself with mace and shoot myself in the head now and save you the trouble.

He hung up and glanced at me. "I'm sorry, I have to take care of business. It can't wait, but I'll keep it short." "Not a problem. I'll busy myself with being seen and tossing my hair. Would you like me to twirl it on my finger while biting my lip?" "Could you?" "No, sorry." I grinned at him

A man had no right to be this fiercely sexual without even trying.

Cornelius opened the car door and cautiously peered out. “Yes?” I asked. “Checking to see if it’s safe to come out.” Everyone was a comedian. I sighed and went into my office.

Do you know what I did? I urrrrrinated on the cake at my ex-wife's wedding. Pissssed all over the icing." Melvin Baylor - Seven Up

The next time I went anywhere with Mad Rogan, I’d bring one of those bandoliers action stars wore when they routed terrorists from jungles.

In experiments at Baylor University where people were given Coke and Pepsi in unmarked cups and then hooked up to a brain scanner, the device clearly showed a certain number of them preferred Pepsi while tasting it. When those people were told they were drinking Pepsi, a fraction of them, the ones who had enjoyed Coke all their lives, did something unexpected. The scanner showed their brains scrambling the pleasure signals, dampening them. They then told the experimenter afterward they had preferred Coke in the taste tests.

Lunch, Ms. Baylor. Concentrate. Pick a place.” “You seem to be under the impression that I work for you and you can give me orders. Let me fix that.” I hung up.

I am no Baylor," Quinlan retorted. "And I never will be." "You're not supposed to be," Taras replied angrily. "You're supposed to be Quinlan.

I've got a Don Baylor," J.T. said. "California sucks this year." Ralph snickered. "I wouldn't use a Baylor card to scrape dog shit off the street.

Say something. Something smart. Our stares connected. His eyes were still the same; calculating, lupine, and heated by amber magic from within. “You’re late,” I told him. Yes! Brilliant. I said a thing and it made sense. It had a subject and a verb and they went together. Catalina Baylor one, Instagram Alessandro a big fat zero. “Beauty takes time.” “Oh, get over yourself.” I stepped aside.

It rolled over you like old oil from a fryer.

Drew Baylor, right?

You, Baylor Irene Moore, are the most gorgeous and driven and smartest woman I’ve ever set eyes on. You’re not even gone yet, and I miss you.

No true fiasco ever began as a quest for mere adequacy.

I`ll kill you and eat your guts while you scream." "Not in that order, you won`t.

How can it not exist? What does that—” A tiny grey body shot in front of the Land Rover. “Squirrel!” Mad Rogan swerved to the side, trying to avoid the suicidal beast. The SUV hit a curb and jumped. For a terrifying second, we almost flew, weightless. My heart leaped into my throat. The heavy vehicle landed back on the pavement with a thud. The squirrel leapt into the grass on the other side. I remembered to breathe. “Thank you for not killing the squirrel.” “You’re welcome, although now I want to go back and strangle it.

My cell phone rang on the table. I never went far without it, even in the house. I picked it up. An unlisted number. Oh goodie. “Nevada Baylor.” “I need to talk to you,” Mad Rogan said into the phone. “Meet me for lunch.” My pulse jumped, my body snapped to attention, and my brain shut down for a second to come to terms with the impact of his voice. I’d slap myself except my mother and grandmother already thought I was nuts, and hurting myself would get me committed for sure. “Sure, let me get right on that.” Hey, my voice still worked. “Should I bring my own chains this time? Or do you have bigger plans, and this is some freaky murder foreplay”—why did the word foreplay just come out of my mouth?—“and I’ll end up cut up into small pieces inside some freezer at the end? I can just spray myself with mace and shoot myself in the head now and save you some trouble?” “Are you done?” he asked. “Just getting started.” I was so brave over the phone. “Lunch, Ms. Baylor. Concentrate. Pick a place.” “You seem to be under the impression that I work for you and you can give me orders. Let me fix that.” I hung up. Grandma looked at my mom. “Did she just hang up on Mad Rogan?” “Yes, she did.

I glance back at Drew, who is still eyeing his phone and being awfully quiet. “Seriously, Baylor, I’m about to confiscate that thing.” He raises a brow at me, and gives me his old, innocent grin—which I am not falling for. “You really are a mom, aren’t you?” “As I recall, you played the role of Mom. I was Dad.” “Doesn’t that mean we’re on a date now? And all I get is this lousy dinner?” Drew leans his arms on the table. “Where are my flowers?” “I’ll make it up to you with sweet talk later. Now answer the question, Battle. What the hell is up with the phone?” As if I’ve activated it, the damn thing lights up, and Drew glances down. He fights to hide his smile. “What can I say? I’m totally pussy whipped by my wife to be. That’s right, I’m replacing you with Anna.

I don’t care,” Nevada said. “I want blue lilacs.” And I want to fly away from here, but that wouldn’t happen anytime soon, would it? “Anyway, I have to get back to the office,” Nevada said. “Text me if anything.” “The queen has dismissed us,” Arabella announced. I dropped into a deep curtsy. “Your Majesty.” “I hate you guys.” “We hate you back,” Arabella told her. “We hated you before the wedding.” “Before it was cool to hate you.” “Get out!” Nevada growled.

What happened?" I asked quietly. "I lost some people," [Rogan] said. There was an awful finality in his voice. I hadn't thought he cared. I'd thought he viewed his people as tools and took care of them because tools had to be kept in good repair, but this sounded like genuine grief — that complicated cocktail of guilt, regret, and overwhelming sadness you felt when someone close to you died. It broke you and made you feel helpess. Helpless wasn't even in Rogan's vocabulary.

He took the risk and his people had died. He blamed himself. It didn't reflect in his face, but I saw it in his eyes for a brief moment, before they went back to their icy blue. The last time we talked, I was almost completely convinced that he was a sociopath. He seemed invulnerable, as if nothing could bother him. This did.

I don’t believe she sees him as family,” Cornelius said. “She can see him however she wants. I only care how Rogan sees me.

So, are we still on tonight? For our dinner?” I asked. “Hell, yes. We’re on for tonight. We’re on for tomorrow. We’re on for the foreseeable future.

You're next Claire." She laughed. "Nope, not ready. See, we know about this thing called birth control, and we use it," she teased, and everyone laughed. "Hey, I was on it!" Baylor called to her as Claire grinned back at her. "That's what they all say." "Not me. I wasn't, and we had faulty condoms," Avery said with a snort, which sent everyone into fits of laughter. "But I wouldn't change a thing.

Shit" Bug said, his face sour. "It's that thing again. We've been dealing with it since Pierce. You think you have a lead and then poof" - he made a puffing motion with his fingers - "it melts into nothing and all you have is frustration and the far noise your face makes when you hit you desk with it." Fart.... what?

this architect who everyone misunderstands. I completely forget to ask what she and Charlene are going to laugh about. One evening Mama takes Baylor and Little Shep and Lulu and me to Fred’s Hamburger Drive-In where we eat at least

He chuckled into my hair. My body decided this would be a fine moment to remember that his body was wrapped around mine and his body was muscular, hard, and hot, and my butt was pressed against his groin. Cuddled up by a dragon. No, thank you. Let me off this train. “If you keep wiggling, things might get uncomfortable,” he said into my ear, his voice like a caress. “I’m doing my best, but thinking about baseball only takes you so far.

I like that you’re jealous.” “Rogan, put the car back.” “Come to dinner with me tonight and I’ll consider it.” Yes! “No. I don’t negotiate with terrorists.” “If you don’t go to dinner with me, I’ll have to do something drastic like stand by your window with a boom box blasting some idiotically sappy song.

Sometimes bad shit happens, and you have to protect the people you love,” Leon said. “It would be nice if you can do that and keep your hands clean but life doesn’t work that way. Life is messy, and sometimes you must do what needs to be done to keep your family safe. It doesn’t make you a bad person.” I’d have to thank Kurt. “One day some other Prime will threaten our House, and when that day comes, I’ll hill him.” What? “I’ll do it quiet and clean, and nobody will ever know.” Leon smiled. “I’m going to be a dark horse, House Baylor’s secret. I’ll be the best assassin. A legend. They’ll never see me coming.” I would kill Kurt. I would strangle him with my bare hands.

Troubles run. Fast and far . . . Past the mountains Behind a star.

One-third of teens and young adults reported worsening mental health during the pandemic. According to an Ohio State University study,32 suicide rates among children rose 50 percent.33 An August 11, 2021 study by Brown University found that infants born during the quarantine were short, on average, 22 IQ points as measured by Baylor scale tests.34 Some 93,000 Americans died of overdoses in 2020—a 30 percent rise over 2019.

You’ll get to watch her die. The last thing you’ll see before all that magic you spent puts you under will be my hands on her throat.” He was doing to Rogan exactly what he’d tried to do to Cornelius. No. You don’t. “I’ll break her. You’ll hear her bones snapping.” My teeth clicked from the cold. “Hurry up. We don’t have all day.” David’s eyes gleamed. “Ready to die?” “Matilda got your email,” I told him. “You sent a death threat to a little girl. You’re a piece of shit. Look at me. Look at my eyes. Do I look scared?” David blinked. “You’re a wart,” I told him. “You need to be removed. I’ll do it and three months from now nobody will remember your name.

Now Rogan had to show up. The word of his previous failure to appear must’ve spread, because the entire family found their way to the kitchen one by one. Bern was reading a textbook in the corner. Grandma Frida sat next to me and attempted to knit something that was probably a scarf but looked like a brilliant attempt at a Gordian knot. My mother rearranged the tea drawer, which she’s never done since we’ve had one. Arabella sat across from me, her gaze glued to her cell phone. Catalina sat on my left, texting furiously. Zeus lounged under the table by my feet, and Cornelius was drinking tea across the table. Even Leon wandered in and leaned against the wall, waiting. Nobody was talking. “Just out of curiosity,” Cornelius said, “if Rogan doesn’t arrive, will all of you skin him alive?” “Yes,” everyone except me said at the same time. I sighed.

When I talk on the phone with my brother Ivo, who is a theology instructor at Baylor, he invariably wants to talk politics, and I hear clicking in the background, and I say, Why talk politics, just remember where we are! I used to have that experience with my older brother Vlado in Yugoslavia: I would want to expound my political views, but he would point to the phone, and say, Why talk politics, remember where we are. This is not America. How things have changed! Now I tell my brother Ivo, Remember where we are. This is not Croatia! Now I am tempted to say, Remember where we are. This is not America. We as Americans are being exiled from our country of liberty through the general paranoia being injected into our asses. The total spying which we suspected in Yugoslavia, Hungary, and East Germany, is only now possible, in the States, through credit cards, computers, EZ passes, surveillance cameras, and well-meaning neighbors.

Drake: "I know it;s love because I think of you night and day. I miss you when you are sitting right next to me. When I look at you my heart races and my stomach turns in the best and worst way possible. When I'm with you I feel complete, I feel whole. When I'm away from you it;s hard to breathe. When I think of my life without you I panic and tears fill my eyes. Before I met you, I didn't think I had much of a future besides being CEO at Baylor. I look at you, Morgan, and am filled with beautiful optimism at all of the things my future could have, and that is because i see you right there with me. I want to marry you, Morgan, I want to have children with you. You are my best friend, my confidant, my everything. To me that's love. You say you love me, Morgan, is that how you feel?" I ask hopefully. "Yes," Morgan says, as a confident smile crosses her face and tears fill her eyes. "Yes, that is exactly how I feel. I love you, Drake, you are my everything,

By doing something small to honor the commencement of the various episodes of the day, our whole being has a chance to refocus, and the ensuing experience is received in a much different way. This simple yet profound practice can thus infuse us with a greater sense of ease and vitality as we advance through the dance of life. As Byrd Baylor writes:    Some people say there is a new sun every day, that it begins its life at dawn and lives for one day only. They say you have to welcome it. You have to make the sun happy. You have to make a good day for it. You have to make a good world for it to live its one-day life in. And the way to start, they say, is just by looking east at dawn. When they look east tomorrow, you can too. Your song will be an offering—and you’ll be one more person in one more place at one more time in the world saying hello to the sun, letting it know you are there. If the sky turns a color sky it never was before, just watch it. That’s part of the magic. That’s the way to start a day1.

[Rynda] fell silent, then glanced at Bug. “Could you get me some coffee?” “No,” Bug said. She blinked. “I’m a surveillance specialist, not a waiter,” Bug said, his diction perfect, his voice flat. “The coffee is on the kitchen counter over there. Help yourself.” She opened her mouth and closed it. “Nevada?” Bug said. Don’t do it, don’t do it . . . “Would you like some coffee?” “No, thanks.” Ass. “Because I’ll totally get it for you.” Rynda got up and walked to the kitchen counter, glancing in Rogan’s direction for a moment. “You’re being cruel,” I murmured. “Sue me,” Bug whispered back.

You’re wasting my time,” I said. “Just say everyone I know and love is dead. It’s more efficient.” He laughed quietly. “You’re mouthy.” “And you’re a psychopath.” “You say it like it’s a bad thing. It’s practically a requirement for people in our position.” “Yes, well, David Howling did it better.” “Rogan won’t always be there to do your dirty work.” “Rogan didn’t kill David. I did. He fought me for his life and lost. The next time we meet I’ll pull every dirty secret out of your mind and lay them out in the open. When I’m done, you’ll curl into a ball and weep, just like all the others. That’s how you threaten, Vincent.

Chip asked me about New York and what I wanted to do, and how long my dad had owned the shop, and what it was I loved about Waco. He asked about my sisters and my family in general, and what I’d done at Baylor, and if I’d known a few communications majors he’d run around with at school. (I told y’all he was chatty!) Somehow none of these questions seemed intrusive or strange to me at the time, which is funny, because thinking back I find them particularly telling. At the time, it was just like talking with an old friend. John finally stood up, and this baseball-cap-wearing customer that John had introduced as Chip followed. “Well, nice talking to you,” he said. “Nice talking to you too,” I replied, and that was it. I went back inside. The guys in the shop wanted to know what I thought about Hot John, and I just laughed. “Sorry, guys, I don’t think it’s gonna work out.” The next day I came back from my lunch break to find a note on my desk: “Chip Gaines called. Call him back.” I thought, Oh, that must be the guy I met yesterday. So I called him. I honestly thought he was going to ask me about getting a better price on his brakes or something, but instead he said, “Hey, I really enjoyed our conversation yesterday. I was wondering…you want to go out sometime?” And for some reason I said okay--just like that, without any hesitation. It wasn’t like me at all. When I hung up the phone, I went, “What in the world just happened!” So you said okay immediately? I don’t even remember that. That’s fun! No reservations? Man, I must’ve been good-lookin’. What Chip didn’t know was I didn’t even give myself time to have reservations. Something told me to just go for it. Cute, Joey. This story makes me love you all over again.

To this day, I am still not sure what it was about Chip Gaines that made me give him a second chance--because, basically, our first date was over before it even started. I was working at my father’s Firestone automotive shop the day we first met. I’d worked as my dad’s office manager through my years at Baylor University and was perfectly happy working there afterward while I tried to figure out what I really wanted to do with my life. The smell of tires, metal, and grease--that place was like a second home to me, and the guys in the shop were all like my big brothers. On this particular afternoon, they all started teasing me. “You should go out to the lobby, Jo. There’s a hot guy out there. Go talk to him!” they said. “No,” I said. “Stop it! I’m not doing that.” I was all of twenty-three, and I wasn’t exactly outgoing. She was a bit awkward--no doubt about that. I hadn’t dated all that much, and I’d never had a serious relationship--nothing that lasted longer than a month or two. I’d always been an introvert and still am (believe it or not). I was also very picky, and I just wasn’t the type of girl who struck up conversations with guys I didn’t know. I was honestly comfortable being single; I didn’t think that much of it. “Who is this guy, anyway?” I asked, since they all seemed to know him for some reason. “Oh, they call him Hot John,” someone said, laughing. Hot John? There was no way I was going out in that lobby to strike up a conversation with some guy called Hot John. But the guys wouldn’t let up, so I finally said, “Fine.” I gathered up a few things from my desk (in case I needed a backup plan) and rounded the corner into the lobby. I quickly realized that Hot John was pretty good-looking. He’d obviously just finished a workout--he was dressed head-to-toe in cycling gear and was just standing there, innocently waiting on someone from the back. I tried to think about what I might say to strike up a conversation when I got close enough and quickly settled on the obvious topic: cycling. But just as that thought raced through my head, he looked up from his magazine and smiled right at me. Crap, I thought. I completely lost my nerve. I kept on walking right past him and out the lobby’s front door. When I reached the safety of my dad’s outdoor waiting area, I realized just how bad I’d needed the fresh air. I sat on a chair a few down from another customer and immediately started laughing at myself. Did I really just do that?

As Dr. Fauci’s policies took hold globally, 300 million humans fell into dire poverty, food insecurity, and starvation. “Globally, the impact of lockdowns on health programs, food production, and supply chains plunged millions of people into severe hunger and malnutrition,” said Alex Gutentag in Tablet Magazine.27 According to the Associated Press (AP), during 2020, 10,000 children died each month due to virus-linked hunger from global lockdowns. In addition, 500,000 children per month experienced wasting and stunting from malnutrition—up 6.7 million from last year’s total of 47 million—which can “permanently damage children physically and mentally, transforming individual tragedies into a generational catastrophe.”28 In 2020, disruptions to health and nutrition services killed 228,000 children in South Asia.29 Deferred medical treatments for cancers, kidney failure, and diabetes killed hundreds of thousands of people and created epidemics of cardiovascular disease and undiagnosed cancer. Unemployment shock is expected to cause 890,000 additional deaths over the next 15 years.30,31 The lockdown disintegrated vital food chains, dramatically increased rates of child abuse, suicide, addiction, alcoholism, obesity, mental illness, as well as debilitating developmental delays, isolation, depression, and severe educational deficits in young children. One-third of teens and young adults reported worsening mental health during the pandemic. According to an Ohio State University study,32 suicide rates among children rose 50 percent.33 An August 11, 2021 study by Brown University found that infants born during the quarantine were short, on average, 22 IQ points as measured by Baylor scale tests.34 Some 93,000 Americans died of overdoses in 2020—a 30 percent rise over 2019.35 “Overdoses from synthetic opioids increased by 38.4 percent,36 and 11 percent of US adults considered suicide in June 2020.37 Three million children disappeared from public school systems, and ERs saw a 31 percent increase in adolescent mental health visits,”38,39 according to Gutentag. Record numbers of young children failed to reach crucial developmental milestones.40,41 Millions of hospital and nursing home patients died alone without comfort or a final goodbye from their families. Dr. Fauci admitted that he never assessed the costs of desolation, poverty, unhealthy isolation, and depression fostered by his countermeasures. “I don’t give advice about economic things,”42 Dr. Fauci explained. “I don’t give advice about anything other than public health,” he continued, even though he was so clearly among those responsible for the economic and social costs.

Of course, not everyone agreed with Professor Glaude’s assessment. Joel C. Gregory, a white professor of preaching at Baylor University’s George W. Truett Theological Seminary and coauthor of What We Love about the Black Church,8 took issue with Glaude’s pronouncement of the Black Church’s death. Gregory, a self-described veteran of preaching in “more than two hundred African-American congregations, conferences, and conventions in more than twenty states each year,” found himself at a loss for an explanation of Glaude’s statements. Gregory offered six signs of vitality in the African-American church, including: thriving preaching, vitality in worship, continuing concern for social justice, active community service, high regard for education, and efforts at empowerment. Gregory contends that these signs of life can be found in African-American congregations in every historically black denomination and in varying regions across the country. He writes: Where is the obituary? I do not know any organization in America today that has the vitality of the black church. Lodges are dying, civic clubs are filled with octogenarians, volunteer organizations are languishing, and even the academy has to prove the worth of a degree. The government is divided, the schoolroom has become a war zone, mainline denominations are staggering, and evangelical megachurch juggernauts show signs of lagging. Above all this entropy stands one institution that is more vital than ever: the praising, preaching, and empowering black church.9 The back-and-forth between those pronouncing death and those highlighting life reveals the difficulty of defining “the Black Church.” In fact, we must admit that speaking of “the Black Church” remains a quixotic quest. “The Black Church” really exists as multiple black churches across denominational, theological, and regional lines. To some extent, we can define the Black Church by referring to the historically black denominations—National Baptist, Progressive Baptist, African Methodist Episcopal (AME), African Methodist Episcopal Zion (AMEZ), Church of God in Christ (COGIC), and so on. But increasingly we must recognize that one part of “the Black Church” exists as predominantly black congregations belonging to majority white denominations like the Southern Baptist Convention or even African-American members of predominantly white churches. Still, other quarters of “the Black Church” belong to nondenominational affinity groups like the many congregations involved in Word of Faith and “prosperity gospel” networks sponsored by leaders like Creflo A. Dollar Jr. and T. D. Jakes. Clearly “the Black Church” is not one thing. Black churches come in as many flavors as any other ethnic communion. Indeed, many African-Americans have experiences with many parts of the varied Black Church world.

Robert Askins Brings ‘Hand to God’ to Broadway Chad Batka for The New York Times Robert Askins at the Booth Theater, where his play “Hand to God” opens on Tuesday. By MICHAEL PAULSON The conceit is zany: In a church basement, a group of adolescents gathers (mostly at the insistence of their parents) to make puppets that will spread the Christian message, but one of the puppets turns out to be more demonic than divine. The result — a dark comedy with the can-puppets-really-do-that raunchiness of “Avenue Q” and can-people-really-say-that outrageousness of “The Book of Mormon” — is “Hand to God,” a new play that is among the more improbable entrants in the packed competition for Broadway audiences over the next few weeks. Given the irreverence of some of the material — at one point stuffed animals are mutilated in ways that replicate the torments of Catholic martyrs — it is perhaps not a surprise to discover that the play’s author, Robert Askins, was nicknamed “Dirty Rob” as an undergraduate at Baylor, a Baptist-affiliated university where the sexual explicitness and violence of his early scripts raised eyebrows. But Mr. Askins had also been a lone male soloist in the children’s choir at St. John Lutheran of Cypress, Tex. — a child who discovered early that singing was a way to make the stern church ladies smile. His earliest performances were in a deeply religious world, and his writings since then have been a complex reaction to that upbringing. “It’s kind of frustrating in life to be like, ‘I’m a playwright,’ and watch people’s face fall, because they associate plays with phenomenally dull, didactic, poetic grad-schoolery, where everything takes too long and tediously explores the beauty in ourselves,” he said in a recent interview. “It’s not church, even though it feels like church a lot when we go these days.” The journey to Broadway, where “Hand to God” opens on Tuesday at the Booth Theater, still seems unlikely to Mr. Askins, 34, who works as a bartender in Brooklyn and says he can’t afford to see Broadway shows, despite his newfound prominence. He seems simultaneously enthralled by and contemptuous of contemporary theater, the world in which he has chosen to make his life; during a walk from the Cobble Hill coffee shop where he sometimes writes to the Park Slope restaurant where he tends bar, he quoted Nietzsche and Derrida, described himself as “deeply weird,” and swore like, well, a satanic sock-puppet. “If there were no laughs in the show, I’d think there was something wrong with him,” said the actor Steven Boyer, who won raves in earlier “Hand to God” productions as Jason, a grief-stricken adolescent with a meek demeanor and an angry-puppet pal. “But anybody who is able to write about such serious stuff and be as hilarious as it is, I’m not worried about their mental health.” Mr. Askins’s interest in the performing arts began when he was a boy attending rural Texas churches affiliated with the conservative Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod denomination; he recalls the worshipers as “deeply conservative, old farm folks, stone-faced, pride and suffering, and the only time anybody ever really livened up was when the children’s choir would perform.” “My grandmother had a cross-stitch that said, ‘God respects me when I work, but he loves me when I sing,’ and so I got into that,” he said. “For somebody who enjoys performance, that was the way in.” The church also had a puppet ministry — an effort to teach children about the Bible by use of puppets — and when Mr. Askins’s mother, a nurse, began running the program, he enlisted to help. He would perform shows for other children at preschools and vacation Bible camps. “The shows are wacky, but it was fun,” he said. “They’re badly written attempts to bring children to Jesus.” Not all of his formative encounters with puppets were positive. Particularly scarring: D

They’re looking now. He’s at the far side of the hall with a hulking group of football players, and all heads are turned his way. I’ve always thought Baylor was big and tall, but one of the guys next to him looks like he eats screaming villagers for breakfast. A linebacker, if I had to guess. He even has a beard, full and bushy. Hagrid’s younger brother maybe.

Oooh,’ gushed Coco. ‘Love your jacket. So cute. And such a nice cut.’ I looked again. It was just a jacket, even though it was red and black. Could a jacket have a nice cut? What did that even mean? For me, a jacket was a back, two sleeves and two flaps at the front. Oh, and a collar. Bam. Done. Easy. I had no idea how Coco could say one jacket was cuter than another. And ‘cuter’? Puppies are cute. Foals are cute. Baby bunnies are cute. Jackets are not cute. ‘Thanks,’ I heard Baylor say. ‘I love your shorts. Adorable.’ I coughed and rubbed my eyes again. Honestly.

turned and looked at her. Grandma flexed her arm. “Ride or die.” I squinted at her. “I’m still mad at you for ratting me out.” “You looked like death warmed over,” Grandma said. “You may be the Head of House Baylor, but you’re still my granddaughter and I won’t be taking any of your bullshit.” “How is my sweater coming along, Grandma? Have you knitted more than two inches yet?” Grandma Frida gave me the Look of Death.

I’ve always thought Baylor was big and tall, but one of the guys next to him looks like he eats screaming villagers for breakfast. A linebacker, if I had to guess.

When I talk on the phone with my brother Ivo, who is a theology instructor at Baylor, he invariably wants to talk politics, and I hear clicking in the background, and I say, Why talk politics, just remember where we are! I used to have that experience with my older brother Vlado in Yugoslavia: I would want to expound my political views, but he would point to the phone, and say, Why talk politics, remember where we are. This is not America. How things have changed! Now I tell my brother Ivo, Remember where we are. This is not Croatia!

I don't care who you were. I don't care who you are and I am more concerned with who you're working to become.

Chip asked me about New York and what I wanted to do, and how long my dad had owned the shop, and what it was I loved about Waco. He asked about my sisters and my family in general, and what I’d done at Baylor, and if I’d known a few communications majors he’d run around with at school. (I told y’all he was chatty!) Somehow none of these questions seemed intrusive or strange to me at the time, which is funny, because thinking back I find them particularly telling. At the time, it was just like talking with an old friend. John finally stood up, and this baseball-cap-wearing customer that John had introduced as Chip followed. “Well, nice talking to you,” he said. “Nice talking to you too,” I replied, and that was it. I went back inside. The guys in the shop wanted to know what I thought about Hot John, and I just laughed. “Sorry, guys, I don’t think it’s gonna work out.

Furthermore, an August 2020 paper from Baylor University by Dr. Peter McCullough et al. described mechanisms by which the components of the “HCQ cocktail” exert antiviral effects.34 McCullough shows that the efficacy of the HCQ cocktail is based on the pharmacology of the hydroxychloroquine ionophore acting as the “gun” and zinc as the “bullet,” while azithromycin potentiates the anti-viral effect.

Some are easy to love, ” I tell him quietly, “because they shine so brightly it’s diffcult to look away. But others…. We don’t love them any less, Baylor. Because they are steadfast and true. They are solid rock beside quicksilver, but they will not break when quicksilver is too soft. It is a different kind of love. Steadier, perhaps.

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I’d planned on sitting with Cynthia Miles during the trip to Baylor; she had promised me a blowjob in Bed, Bath, and Beyond, and I’d promised to hold her hand at the mall to seal the deal.

Inflammation is a factor in 80 to 90% of all disease, according to curcumin researcher Ajay Goel, Ph.D., director of Epigenetics and Cancer Prevention at Baylor University Medical Center in Dallas.

Flyers were placed in every seat stating: ‘When, not if, the Lakers win the title, balloons will be released from the rafters, the USC marching band will play Happy Days Are Here Again and broadcaster Chick Hearn will interview Elgin Baylor, Jerry West and Wilt Chamberlain in that order.

Baylor O’Brien,

John, Heard about you while looking up Marketing Directors for major hospitals and love your backstory - incredible that you work as a volunteer firefighter as well. I specialize in iOS development for the healthcare industry. Recently, we built an app for Johns Hopkins that has increased their patient happiness rating by 75% through an automated dashboard. Interested in improving your patient happiness at Baylor? Let me know and I’ll send over some times to chat. Thanks, Alex

One of you jerks needs to go to the bathroom and wipe your ass then stick an air freshener up it. YOU REEK!

It is Alpha. We were just talking with Siobhan here to find out about when her pup is due and what needs she has,” Fiadh replied. “She has a dog that is pregnant too?!” I questioned, I don’t remember seeing any dogs around.

You mean Mr. Love ‘em and Leave ‘em, passed out at the thought of Siobhan’s ‘coochie critter’ making an appearance?” I chortled.