Biker Sayings And Quotes

Angelina leaned forward as Sara pulled Miki back to her, "You know what they say about curiosity? That it stabbed the annoying biker girl over and over and over again until she spit up blood.

Um, Dr. Alexander, there’s a couple out here who say they’re related to you. They…um…they’re biker people. (Nurse) Hey, Julian. Tell Attila the Hun here that we’re okay so we can come and ooh and aah over the babies. (Eros)

Woss the matter with you?” asked Big Ted, irritably. “Go on. Press ‘D.’ Elvis Presley died in 1976.” I DON’T CARE WHAT IT SAYS, said the tall biker in the helmet, I NEVER LAID A FINGER ON HIM.

My eyes narrowed and I snapped, “You’re not allowed to do that shift.” His head jerked slightly and he asked, “Say again?” “Be sweet and make me all melty and want to jump you when I ‘m celebrating my heretofore unknown badassness with a bunch of bikers and their bitches. Not to mention, I’m hungry.” Tack grinned as his arm snaked around me and he yanked me close. “You wanna jump me?” he asked. “I always want to jump you,” I answered. “Good to know,” he muttered.

CUSTOMER: Do you have that book – I forget what it’s called; it’s about people with large, hairy feet. BOOKSELLER: Do you mean hobbits? The Lord of the Rings? CUSTOMER: No.... erm – The Hairy Bikers.

What is it you’re interested in exactly?” the man asked slowly. “Just the color?” “I think we both know,” said Adrian cunningly. “I want the color. I want the ‘bonus effects.’ And I want it to look badass. You probably can’t even do the design I want.” “That’s the least of your worries,” said the guy. “I’ve been doing this for years. I can draw anything you want.” “Yeah? Can you draw a skeleton riding a motorcycle with flames coming out of it? And I want a pirate hat on the skeleton. And a parrot on his shoulder. A skeleton parrot. Or maybe a ninja skeleton parrot? No, that would be overkill. But it’d be cool if the biker skeleton could be shooting some ninja throwing stars. That are on fire.” “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” said the tattooist. “That’s not what the ladies are going to say,” said Adrian

You don’t say words like ‘gig’, lady.” “My man’s a biker. Shit rubs off.

So, what happened to your face?” Sara grabbed Miki by her T-shirt and jeans before she could dive over the counter at the Asian girl they called Kelly. Angelina leaned forward as Sara pulled Miki back to her, “You know what they say about curiosity? That it stabbed the annoying biker girl over and over and over again until she spit up blood.” Oh, yeah. That was subtle.

Then, still smiling, he kissed me. When he lifted his head he didn’t go far so I heard it when he whispered, “My reward.” My eyes narrowed and I snapped, “You’re not allowed to do that shit.” His head jerked slightly and he asked, “Say again?” “Be sweet and make me all melty and want to jump you when I’m celebrating my heretofore unknown badassness with a bunch of bikers and their bitches. Not to mention, I’m hungry.” Tack grinned as his arm snaked around me and he yanked me close. “You wanna jump me?” he asked.

So don't come in here acting like you matter. You left and took your high horse with you," he takes another step in my direction. My throat constricts. He's not finished, "And you show up here at my club thinking you can just waltz right in and have a say? No bitch.

There were no zombies in those movies is all I’m saying. How many dangers should we have to face on any given day? We’ve got zombies, vampires, rednecks and now a biker gang. Enough is enough already!

A word of advice about Ricky ..." Gabriel said as he swung his car from the end of the drive. "Is it going to cost me?" I waved off his answer. "Whatever you're going to say, save your breath." "I overheard him offering you a ride on his motorcycle. I don't believe you understand what that entails." "Grass, gas, or ass. No one rides for free." I looked over at him. "I've seen the T-shirt." "I don't think you're taking this seriously, Olivia. Do you know what a one-percenter is?" I sighed. "Yes, Gabriel. It refers to the portion of bikers who belong to a professional motorcycle club. A gang. Ricky is one. As such, I'm going to guess that the only women who get to ride his bike are also riding him. Am I right?" His mouth tightened as if he didn't appreciate the crass phrasing. "I'm afraid you're under some illusions about Ricky because he does not fit the stereotype." "Oh, I'm not fooled. He may appear to be the heir to a criminal empire, but he's really an undercover cop, working tirelessly to overthrow his father's evil empire and restore justice and goodness to the land." I glanced over. "Am I close?" Not even a hint of a smile.

Biker George says God’s voice is not an opinion… It’s a decision. He is not politician trying to win an opinion poll.

In one hallway, the floor gleaming parquet and the ceiling festooned with golden cherubs, there was a boy in a grumpy cat mask and biker boots, not involved in any sexual activity, legs crossed and leaning against the wall. As a bevy of faeries passed the boy, giggling and groping, the boy scooted away. Alec remembered being younger, and how overwhelming large groups of people had seemed. He came over and leaned against the wall beside the boy. He saw the boy texting, PARTIES WERE INVENTED TO ANNOY ME. THEY FEATURE MY LEAST FAVORITE THING: PEOPLE, ALL INTENT ON MY LEAST FAVORITE ACTIVITY: SOCIAL INTERACTION. “I don’t really like parties either,” Alec said sympathetically. “No hablo italiano,” the boy mumbled without looking up. “Er,” said Alec. “This conversation is happening in English.” “No hablo ingles,” he said without missing a beat. “Oh, come on. Really?” “Worth a shot,” said the boy. Alec considered going away. The boy wrote another text to a contact he had saved as RF. Alec could not help but notice that the conversation was entirely one-sided, the boy sending text after text with no response. The last text read VENICE SMELLS LIKE A TOILET. AS A NEW YORKER, I DO NOT SAY THIS LIGHTLY. The weird coincidence emboldened Alec to try again. “I get shy when there are strangers too,” Alec told the kid. “I’m not shy,” the boy sneered. “I just hate everyone around me and everything that is happening.” “Well.” Alec shrugged. “Those feel like similar things sometimes.” The boy lifted his curly head, pushing the grumpy cat mask off his face, and froze. Alec froze too, at the twin shock of fangs and familiarity. This was a vampire, and Alec knew him. “Raphael?” he asked. “Raphael Santiago?” He wondered what the second-in-command of the New York clan was doing here. Downworlders might be flooding in from all over the world, but Raphael had never struck Alec as a party animal. Of course, he was not exactly coming off as a party animal now. “Oh no, it’s you,” said Raphael. “The twelve-year-old idiot.” Alec was not keen on vampires. They were, after all, people who had died. Alec had seen too much death to want reminders of it. He understood that they were immortal, but there was no need to show off about it. “We just fought a war together. I was with you in the graveyard when Simon came back as a vampire. You’ve seen me multiple times since I was twelve.” “The thought of you at twelve haunts me,” Raphael said darkly. “Okay,” Alec said, humoring him. “So have you seen a guy called Mori Shu anywhere around here?” “I am trying not to make eye contact with anyone here,” said Raphael. “And I’m not a snitch for Shadowhunters. Or a fan of talking to people, of any kind, in any place.” Alec rolled his eyes.

Georgie?” He reached out with both hands to steady her—and himself. His mind had trouble focusing. He couldn’t believe Georgie was actually standing in front of him. She looked liked an angel—in knee-high biker boots. Those boots looked even better in real life than in his imagination. He gazed into her eyes and was filled with so many emotions, so many things he wanted to say to her, he didn’t know where to start. “I like your shoes,” he said.

Sugar, what the fuck did I say about games? I don’t fuckin’ play them. You ain’t gonna make a scene about somethin’ you don’t know. Get out to my bike, shut your mouth and we’ll talk.” “I hate you when you’re bossy,” I say, before spinning on my heel. “You fuckin’ love me, you moody little shit.

Mischeif, I can't say before you my life was empty because you have always been in my life. There is no before you, there is no after you, there is only you. I am a better man because of you , and you are my light. I told you once all darkness needs is a little of the right kinda light, an I was right - because even in my darkest times you were there and you changed me. Marry me, because without you my life isn't woth living. Be my light Mischief, forever?

I’ll show you my doodle anytime you want… who the fuck says shit like that? Me apparently. The former Marine biker. She probably thinks I’m a complete idiot.

She’s not the kind to piss off is all I’m saying. You can poke a bear all you want, but be careful poking at the mama bear. That shit usually doesn’t end well.

Jesus, my yard was starting to feel like a Village People reunion.  So far I had the cop, the biker, and the cowboy. 

The center-point of riding a motorcycle, and of life itself, is Freedom.

First, Pops gets a kiss, then a hug and now cookies. Do you not see this big badass biker man meat in front of you?” he states loudly. I hear some chuckles and I stop when I’m next to Axel. I stare him down for a moment and notice there is nothing but pure mischief in his eyes. I lean in and wrap my arms around his waist and snuggle up to his chest. Very impressive chest I might add. “You need some attention today Axel?” I ask smirking. He wraps his arms around me and answers with a shouted, “Yes!” I hear a growl from somewhere but ignore it and wait for Axel to relax. When he does, I pull back from him smiling big while I reach up and twist his nipple. Hard. He howls and jerks back rubbing the abused nub. “You good now Axel or do you still need some more attention?” I purr. “No, you evil witch, I’m good. Thanks!” he says sarcastically.

When they reached the table, Hannah started to introduce them. “Layla, this is Joe. Joe, this is—” “We’ve already met,” said Joseph, extending his hand and smiling. “Have we?” asked Layla, baffled. “Have you?” said Hannah. This was news to her. “Yeah, we have,” continued Joseph. “A couple of hours ago. On the road into the village. You tried to kill me, remember?” “Kill you?” gasped Layla. “You’re the biker? The one I knocked over?” “You knocked him over?” repeated Hannah in horror. “I didn’t mean to,” explained Layla quickly. “It was an accident. I was going to tell you about it. I just haven’t had the chance yet.” Turning to Joseph, Hannah asked, “Are you okay? Are you hurt at all?” “Well,” he replied somberly, “apart from my right arm, which I’m not sure is going to be of much use to me ever again, I’m fine.” As Layla’s jaw dropped open, he added quickly, “I’m joking. Really, it’s just a joke. I’m fine.” “Right, well, in that case,” Hannah continued, “as I was saying, Layla, this is Joseph Scott. Joe, this is Layla Lewis, your would-be killer, next door neighbor, and my best friend. She’s house-sitting whilst Lenny’s in Scotland.” “Next door neighbor, huh?” replied Joseph, taking a swig from his pint glass. “That could prove interesting.

Bob Death smiles coolly (South Shore bikers are required to be extremely cool in everything they do) and manipulated a wooden match with his lip and says No, not that fish-one. He has to assume a kind of bar-shout to clear the noise of his idling hawg. He leans in more toward Gately and shouts that the one he was talking about was: The wise old whiskery fish swims up to three young fish and goes, 'Morning boys, how's the water?' and swims away; and three young fish watch him swim away and look at each other and go, 'What the fuck is water?' and swim away. The young biker leans back and smiles at Gately and gives an affable shrug and blatts away, a halter top's tits mashed against his back.

Here’s what the Encyclopedia Galactica has to say about alcohol. It says that alcohol is a colorless volatile liquid formed by the fermentation of sugars and also notes its intoxicating effect on certain carbon-based life forms. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy also mentions alcohol. It says that the best drink in existence is the Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster. It says that the effect of drinking a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster is like having your brains smashed out by a slice of lemon wrapped round a large gold brick. The Guide also tells you on which planets the best Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters are mixed, how much you can expect to pay for one and what voluntary organizations exist to help you rehabilitate afterward. The Guide even tells you how you can mix one yourself. Take the juice from one bottle of the Ol’ Janx Spirit, it says. Pour into it one measure of water from the seas of Santraginus V—Oh, that Santraginean seawater, it says. Oh, those Santraginean fish! Allow three cubes of Arcturan Mega-gin to melt into the mixture (it must be properly iced or the benzine is lost). Allow four liters of Fallian marsh gas to bubble through it, in memory of all those happy bikers who have died of pleasure in the Marshes of Pallia. Over the back of a silver spoon float a measure of Qualactin Hypermint extract, redolent of all the heady odors of the dark Qualactin Zones, subtle, sweet and mystic. Drop in the tooth of an Algolian Suntiger. Watch it dissolve, spreading the fires of the Algolian Suns deep into the heart of the drink. Sprinkle Zamphuor. Add an olive. Drink…but…very carefully… The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy sells rather better than the Encyclopedia Galactica.

Maddy’s going to pop soon,” Cooper said, finishing his beer and getting ready to head out. “Tucker is attached to her. It’s pretty fucking adorable. The guy about wets his pants every time she makes any noise that might be labor pain.” “You’ll be an uncle soon.” “I’m already an uncle,” Cooper mumbled, sliding on his jacket. “I just can’t hold the kid yet.” “You and Farah still planning on trying?” “No planning. We’re just trying now. She’s off the pill. Whenever it happens, it’ll be cool. Farah worries she’ll suck at being a mom. Can you believe that shit?” Cooper asked as his dark eyes warmed at the thought of his wife. “The way she takes care of Sawyer and me and everyone else and she thinks she’ll be a bad mom. These girls with their shit families get all fucked up in the head and no logic is going to fix it. They just need to face their fears and see how amazing they are when their idiot parents aren’t around to fuck things up.” “Should I fix things for Lark?” “I don’t know. If it was me, I’d go smack her stupid brother and father around. I don’t know if that’d be a good idea though. Those fucks aren’t low life drifters like Farah’s parents. That Larry asshole is a respectable member of the community. If you want to smack him around, you’ll need to do it in a more subtle way. Of course, if he ever fucks with you, we can just remind Mister Upstanding how his kind doesn’t run Ellsberg. It’s us dirty biker types who keep his house from burning down or his head from getting cracked open. If it comes down to it, I’ll help you take him down. Pop says behave. I say I’ve got my bud’s back.” Grinning, I shoved him away from me. “Crap. I’m worried you might hug me next.” “I was thinking about it,” Cooper said, smiling. “Farah’s turned me all nice and shit. I’m getting manners too. It’s disgusting.” “Horrifying,” I teased. “Thanks for the offer, but I feel like Lark needs to make a move. If she needs me to, I’ll burn down houses and crack open skulls. Right now, I feel like maybe she needs to find her way back to me. If she does, I’m keeping her and ruining anyone who tries to take her away.” “Now, there’s the punk ass jerk I became friends with.

So, fuck ’em, we say. Fuck the mundane of Mainstream, the elitists of Literature. We’re GENRE FICTION and proud of it, proud to wear that brand painted on the backs of our biker’s jackets.

She’s happy for me because she knows I love you. If that love’s changed, well, she knows me. She knows it’s still love.” “But what does ‘I know’ mean?” Joe sighed. “Are you really going to make me state the obvious?” His brown eyes were mild, and accepting, and sad. Casey felt his mouth wobble, which went with the chin quiver, which went with the fact that all of his muscles seemed to be wrapped around his throat. “Say it,” he whispered. “I want to hear you say it so it’s not between us ever again.” Of course it wasn’t that easy. But for the moment, he’d pretend. “Fine,” Joe said, resting his face on his knees. His hair fell behind him, and not for the first time since Casey had seen this big, burly biker on a foothill back road, Casey saw past the mustache and the soul patch, saw beyond the hair, and saw a relatively young man, probably as vulnerable in his gentleness as Casey had been in his youth. “It means that you don’t have a functioning uterus, so we’re probably not going to have children.” Yeah. This was not going away, whether they talked it to death right now or not. Casey suddenly felt that loss almost as keenly as Joe. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his eyes burning with real, sudden, unanticipated pain. “That you fell in love with me? That you made it stick until I loved you back the same way? Don’t be.

Elvis Presley died in 1976." I DON'T CARE WHAT IT SAYS, said the tall biker in the helmet, I NEVER LAID A FINGER ON HIM.

I don't understand why you bikers revere the Grateful Dead," I say, tentatively approaching the saddle. "I want to make it clear that if we end up dead, I'm not going to be grateful.

If a man ever hits you, it's over. That's what my mammy told me, and it was good advice. Not that it applied to me either, if you know what I mean. But good advice nonetheless. No second chances. No matter how much he apologises, the truth is it's only more likely - even inevitable - that it will happen again. Once the line has been crossed, it only becomes easier to cross it the next time. And I remember saying to my mammy that everyone deserves a chance at redemption, and that maybe unique circumstances can contrive to make a good man lose control. She asked me this: if it was a twenty-stone, six-foot biker with five mates that he was angry with, would he lose control then? So it's sad, because you don't want it to be over, and you think it doesn't have to be. But it is, and it does. It's like he's died or he's dumped you, or cheated on you: turned out not to be the person you thought he was.

What’s your type, Bailey?” “Well, let’s see. I like them tall, hot, muscled. A great ass is a must. A little scruff is great but I don’t like full on beards much. Not a suit wearing person. Not clean cut but a little rough. Someone who knows who he is and what he is about.” “Hate to shatter your illusions, babe, but you just described me. Hah! Let’s go to bed and good luck trying to keep your mitts off my goodies!” I laugh at her. “Oh my god! You are as full of yourself as Mac!” “Doesn’t mean it’s not true. Name someone who matches your description. Who is your perfect man?” “Jax Teller from Sons of Anarchy. That’s my type,” she grins at me. The little wench is just trying to get a rise out of me. It’s working, too. “Jax looks just like me except I have more muscle and shave my head. Everyone says that so we’re back to where we started. Am I going to get fondled in my sleep tonight?” I tease her. “You wish, biker boy! Just keep to your side of the bed or you might end up getting junk punched[…]

You know what they say about curiosity? That it stabbed the annoying biker girl over and over and over again until she spit up blood.

I’m going to say one thing and one thing only,” she starts. “I love you, William Pellman. I loved you as a dumb kid with a crush, I loved you as an angsty teenager with a fantasy, and I love you as a woman with a dream of being your forever.

After saying goodbye to Cassie, Wyatt was alone, an everywhere stranger, his emotions disconnected like old kitchen items strewn around a dump. Loneliness was his only companion. But the loneliness itself was something he simply observed rather than felt so it didn’t bother him, but he did gradually come to worry about the fact that it didn’t. He wondered if he was dying. Maybe. It didn’t seem so, but still, maybe he was. Maybe he was already dead. That thought occurred to him, too.

You’re fine, Aurora,” Frank says. “Just take my hand, follow me, and do as you’re told.” I scrunch up my face at that remark. And the way he calls me Aurora. I hate being called Aurora and anyone who knows me understands that. The Bombshell in me wants to come out. The white-trash biker-bitch farm girl is about to give him a piece of my mind when Kallie whisper-yells, “Aurora, we’re waiting for you.

Biker George says you're not alone anywhere when you know The One who's with you everywhere.

Biker George says that God's presence is the present we all need the most!

Biker George says that life can be hard & it's even harder if you don't have Christ.

Sometimes Biker George lets the clutch slip on his motorcycle which isn’t good for the bike. Ya know, this is sortta like we know what the Word of God says, but sometimes it slips our mind… and that isn’t good for us!

Biker George says that even though the government makes laws that sin is legal, it doesn't make it harmless or right.

Biker George says that laughter is like a shock absorber on your bike that softens & minimizes the bumps of life.

Regina kicked a hornet's nest, throwing around accusations within the Myers family, and Betsy publicly threatened her." Oh, Betsy. "Regardless of what Betsy says in anger, Regina knows Betsy would never hurt her family and accusations aren't proof. What about the biker guy? All signs point to him, in my opinion." Eddie sighed. "Regina has other ideas." "Ah, ideas that just so happen to not paint her daughter-in-law as a cheater and her son as a moron for being blind to her stepping out on him.

He grunted. “There are things you won’t ever be able to cover up. We left our mark inside of you. You’ll fear the dark until the day you die.” I wished he wasn’t right. Maybe last night had been the exception but I worried it would take me a while to be comfortable in the dark again, to not flinch when someone knocked and not look over my shoulder. But eventually I’d overcome this. I stepped closer to him, smiling darkly. “I have darkness running in my veins. I am my father’s daughter, don’t ever underestimate me because I’m a woman. Being a woman doesn’t mean I’m not strong. And trust me when I say that nothing you did will leave a scar. Your name and family will long be forgotten while mine will rule over the East and hunt down every biker affiliated to Tartarus.

She says some people can find love over and over again. Some people never find it. But some people find it. It. The one love that’s all they think they’ll ever need.

I have darkness running in my veins. I am my father’s daughter, don’t ever underestimate me because I’m a woman. Being a woman doesn’t mean I’m not strong. And trust me when I say that nothing you did will leave a scar. Your name and family will long be forgotten while mine will rule over the East and hunt down every biker affiliated to Tartarus.

You’re it for me, baby. I don’t say it, because I don’t need you runnin’ scared from me and my heart.” His thumb rubs gently across my cheekbone. “But there isn’t another soul on this earth that’s gonna intertwine with mine, not like yours already has.

We grieve to the extent that we loved. We should all be so lucky to experience a love that causes such pain. Deep grief means great love.

Softly softly catchee monkey,” I told him, using the same phrase Link had yesterday. It had stuck out in my mind because it was the exact opposite of what I’d imagined a biker saying, so I’d googled it. Turned out it was a quote from Victoria, the show about Victoria and Albert. I didn’t have a clue how he’d come to know it, couldn’t imagine him watching something like that, but I liked the phrase. Liked what it meant. Tread softly. Be careful. And you’ll gain everything you desire.

When I was growing up in the late 1950s and early ’60s, there was very little in the way of literate adventure writing. Periodicals that catered to our adolescent dreams of travel and adventure clearly held us in contempt. Feature articles in magazines that might be called Man’s Testicle carried illustrations of tough, unshaven guys dragging terrified women in artfully torn blouses through jungles, caves, or submarine corridors; through hordes of menacing bikers, lions, and hippopotami. The stories bore the same relation to the truth that professional wrestling bears to sport, which is to say, they were larger-than-life contrivances of an artfully absurd nature aimed, it seemed, at lonely bachelor lip-readers, drinkers of cheap beer, violence-prone psychotics, and semiliterate Walter Mitty types whose vision of true love involved the rescue of some distressed damsel about to be ravaged by bikers, lions, or hippopotami.

Well, this is the second time you’ve had your hand around my throat, pinning me in place, and add in the fact that you told me that this isn’t over and I shouldn’t have come back, yada yada, I’m assuming you still want revenge for what happened,” I deduce. “Damn fucking straight I do,” “Well, come on then, biker boy, do your fucking worst,” “Don’t presume to know what I want, pretty girl ,” he says, ‘When you love someone, you’ll do anything for them.

What the fuck do you want?" "Y.T., I'm sorry about this. But something's going on. Something big time. I'm keeping one eye on a big biker named Raven." "The problem with you hackers is you never stop working." "That's what a hacker is," Hiro says.

Neil. The club is who you are. It’s—” “No! Who I am is a biker. A rider. Riding’s my fucking freedom, babe. Ain’t never gonna stop. But club member? Nah, not no more. Right now, Thorns is clipping my wings. Whole reason I joined, whole reason all the boys joined, was to live on our own terms outside of society’s rules and the fucking shackles they slap on your wrists, you know? But the club ain’t that way no more. Trig’s screwed it up. And I ain’t gonna let no one control me. Right now, I gotta play the game, yeah? But freedom’s coming, babe. And you’re a big part of that. I love you. I fucking want you and I’m gonna have you. Don’t give a fuck what no one says, who or what gets in my face, cuz I’ll pound it all into the ground. Pay the price to make damn sure I can always live free—WE can always live free. You feel me?

Any suggestions?” “Boom-boom. Clump of C-4 the size of a butter stick,” Jennifer said. “Loud,” Bentley said, “but they’ll almost certainly be alerted to your presence as soon as the assault begins, no matter how you go in. Loud and disorienting might be to our advantage.” “Wait,” I said, “plastic explosives? You can get that?” “Darlin’, I deal in mass quantities of recreational substances for a living. Outlaw bikers are some of my best customers. When I say I can get some boom-boom, I mean I can get some boom-boom. Lemme make some calls, I’ll have it by tonight.” It made sense.