Bimbo Quotes

I'm welding the bimbo room shut.

Never underestimate a well-dressed bimbo.

What happened to your love of the long-legged bimbo?” “It was replaced by my love for great tits, great sex and a smart mouth.

Mr. Latino with the big ego got bested by a ditzy, blond bimbo.

Listen, I don't want to be an asshole to you,' I say. So much for the Alex Fuentes Show. 'I know. It's your image, what Alex Fuentes is all about. It's your brand, your logo... dangerous, deadly, hot and sexy Mexican. I wrote the book on creating an image. I wasn't aiming for the blonde bimbo look, though. More like the perfect, untouchable look.' Woah. Rewind. Brittany called me hot and sexy.... 'You do realize you called me hot.' 'As if you didn't know.' I didn't know Brittany Ellis considered me hot. 'For the record, I thought you were untouchable. But now that I know you think I'm a hot, sexy Mexican god...' 'I never said the word "god,"' I put my finger to my lips. 'Shh. Let me enjoy this fantasy for a minute.' I closed my eyes.

I´d read fantasy if they had simple names like Jane and Bob from Wagga," I say. "Why does it have to be Tehrana and Bihaad from the World of Sceehina?" Jimmy looks at my mother and rolls his eyes. "No wonder they call her bimbo behind her back." And my mum laughs. And because of that, Mark Viduka, the soccer player, stops being my brothers hero, and Luca and Pinocchio run after Jimmy like he´s their idol.

It’s us, Trav. Nothing makes sense unless we’re together. Have you noticed that?” “Noticed? I’ve been telling you that all year!” he teased. “It’s official. Bimbos, fights, leaving, Parker, Vegas…even fires…our relationship can withstand anything.

Sometimes I think bimbo is just another word men made up so they could feel superior to women who are better at survival than they are.

He threw her a distasteful look. "Uh...meaning," he imitated her, "That Caia like totally isn't like a self-absorbed bimbo. She only like totally mashed people into pulp when someone else is in like total danger." "I don't say like and totally that much, O-K!!

There is tremendous trauma in the betrayal caused by a perpetual liar as they repeatedly commit psychological abuse.

I’m not doing any vampire lackey stuff.” “Fine.” “I’m only drinking your blood.” That made his smile widen. “Fine.” “That means you’re stuck with me.” She jutted out her chin. “Try to throw me off for some bimbo and we’ll see who’s immortal.

Well, now I'm all jealous. I wish I had little voices in my head. Guess I'll just have to settle for people really being out to get me." "Bitch," she said cordially. "Bimbo.

Liars are highly unlikely to admit their lies, never mind apologize for the hurt they’ve caused. Liars don’t genuinely apologize. Deceit has become their full-out lifestyle. They are centered on themselves with no thoughts of the consequences of their lies. In cowardly style, they tell more lies to try and cover their tracks. They are not good at admitting they actually have shortcomings.

Apologies require taking full responsibility. No half-truths, no partial admissions, no rationalizations, no finger pointing, and no justifications belong in any apology.

Go out, get wasted, bang a bimbo.

Excuse me? You're the one who was out to mislead me with your alluring bimbo slinkiness! What if I had believed your act last night? What if I had fallen deeply and madly in love with you? You would have had the blood of my love-sickness on your hands, Leila Folger.

He’d use this opportunity to impress Rick and show him that he did, in fact, have more to offer than just being a sexy skanktart. To show that he wasn’t just a brainless bimfoon, that’s when a bimbo breeds with a buffoon, resulting in a true, hot mess.

Romulan or Vulcan?' the ushers asked each guest. Marion, who had been poised to say 'friends of the bride' had responded to the question with an open-mouthed stare, and Jay Omega answered, 'Klingon!" which got them seats in the back row of the Romulan side.

What do you see when you look at me?” My eyes narrowed and I pressed my lips together, weighing my thoughts. All of his bimbo admirers aside, what did I see? What did my gut tell me about this man? What did it say that allowed me to wind up here with him, under such impulsive circumstances? “You’re a sad man,” I swallowed. “You’re arrogant and set in your ways, but that creates a fortress for you. It’s your safe haven. Behind the moat is someone who has lost something he loved, only I’m not sure what, or who. You’re afraid of something and your loyalty is hidden away in a cell, wounded by betrayal.” I rested my head on the pillow. “That’s what I see.” “On second thought,” he exhaled, letting his head drop next to mine. “You’re psychic.

Valkyrie? Well, well, aren’t you full of surprises? Not just another blonde bimbo. You’re like a collector’s edition Barbie, with your gold accessories and rather snazzy boots.

Never underestimate a well-dressed bimbo. The real thinkers of the world aren’t the best dressed. Staying on top of the latestfashions, accessorizing, and presenting oneself is time consuming. It takes a lot of effort, energy, and concentration to be incessantly happy and perfectly groomed. You meet somebody like that—ask yourself what they’re running from.

The Deliverator's car has enough potential energy packed into its batteries to fire a pound of bacon into the Asteroid Belt. Unlike a bimbo box or a Burb beater, the Deliverator's car unloads that power through gaping, gleaming, polished, sphincters. When the Deliverator puts the hammer down, shit happens.

It couldn't be the beer. Donnie McRory was certain of that. If you sent American beer out to be analyzed, the lab would probably phone up and say, 'Your horse has diabetes.

Goooodmorning, my little jumping bean. I got your salsa right here, bimbo," she said.

If someone yells at me, they are not expressing love. They may be threatening me. They may be expressing great frustration with me. They may simply be trying to control my behavior. However, they are not communicating love.

Some people believe that if they yell and scream, others will get the point of just how serious they are. For me, all I get is the point of just how out of control that someone is.

So what’s the verdict?” Kayla asked. “Can I act, or am I just a bimbo who got hired because I look good in lingerie?” “Is that a trick question?” Sean grinned. “Because I’m pretty sure you look good in lingerie.

Direct lies, small lies, huge lies, and lies of omission… these are all self-serving and sources of self-destruction.

Why am I here?” I ask. “I won’t let you die.” Again, I don’t know whether him saving me is a kindness or a curse. It’s obviously a curse, you dumb bimbo. He ain’t saving you to romance your ass.

Yeah, she was grumpy and thought I was a bimbo. But you know what? I wish everyone was like her. No chitchat, no bullshit, no pretense of friendship. Just goods and services exchanged for money. The perfect business partner.

Follow the loglo outward, to where the growth is enfolded into the valleys and the canyons, and you find the land of the refugees. They have fled from the true America, the America of atomic bombs, scalpings, hip-hop, chaos theory, cement overshoes, snake handlers, spree killers, space walks, buffalo jumps, drive-bys, cruise missiles; Sherman's March, gridlock, motorcycle gangs, and bungee jumping. They have parallel-parked their bimbo boxes in identical computer-designed Burbclave street patterns and secreted themselves in symmetrical sheetrock shitholes with vinyl floors and ill-fitting woodwork and no sidewalks, vast house farms out in the loglo wilderness, a culture medium for a medium culture.

Is the groom going to go where no man has gone before?

Screaming and repeating lies makes them neither true nor more believable.

when McCain chose that reason-impaired bimbo from Alaska to be his running mate even Irv had to get off the GOP elevator

Adding more bull to bull yields bigger bull.

It’s amazing how many cheaters and liars believe they won’t be caught. News Flash: In today’s age of technology, there won’t just be a paper trail. There will be multiple electronic and digital trails, as well.

Being a professional writer is a lot like being a hooker. You'd better find out if you're any good at it before you start charging for it.

We will remember the hurt, the injustice, and the trauma, but we can forgive the sinner.

Come on, Ted. I’m not exactly the type to be a rich man’s bimbo.” “That’s true.” A world of compassion softened his voice. “Bimbos are generally good-hearted women who are pleasant to be around.” “Spoken from experience, I’m sure. By the way, you may be God Almighty on the golf course, but you’re a lousy dancer. Let me lead.

Stumbling closer, I held up the manuscript, the pages flapping frantically in the wind. “I take it this is a murder mystery? You killed the ex-fiancée and thanked her in the dedication? Mighty dignified of you, I must say.” “Nah. It’s a horror novel. But yeah, the bimbo dies in the end. Bob Hall says it’s going to be a bestseller, so I figured I owed her some thanks for the inspiration.” He edged a few feet closer, his smile spread from ear to ear. The glimmer in his eyes flickered toward the ocean, breaking our connection. He hung his head, licked his lips, then returned his eyes to mine, restoring the connection with an intense smolder. “Are you gonna get over here, or what?” Letting out a soft chuckle, the tears began to blind me. “Make me.

No one else “makes” us do anything. They can’t make us nag them, or make us angry, or make us have to strike out at them, or make us drink alcohol, or make us yell at them, or anything else. We are responsible for our choices, including our responses and reactions.

Whitney eyed him, wary of a wolfdog sneak attack. Please. Recently, I’d been working on Coop’s begging. Kit had put his foot down—no four-leggers tableside during meals. No exceptions. Coop obeyed me most of the time. When it suited him. I didn’t mind if Coop ruffled Whitney’s feathers—she was a self-important, dog-hating whiner. But it put Kit in a tight spot. Best not to make waves. Another accommodation for the bimbo.

It's not like that. If all i wanted was a whore, i could've taken my pick from the bimbos at school. Whether you like it or not, Dad, i'm in love with Miracle and i have every intention of marrying her if she'll have me.

I can only imagine that future generations will consider us to have been barbaric for our intolerance of differences.

Nah, Mike’s gonna stop by. He had to work late and he works with this really cute chick and I just know he….” Alycia folded her arms on her chest and pouted. “She better be a blonde bimbo with a huge rack and no personality if he’s gonna cheat on me.

In the circles in which I move it is pretty generally recognized that I am a resilient sort of bimbo, and in circumstances where others might crack beneath the strain, may frequently be seen rising on stepping-stones of my dead self to higher things.

I’d be damned if I listened to the same money-grubbing whores who'd sell their ideals and principles for their fifteen minutes of fame; the ignorant buffoons that live in a one-dimensional 140-character world. Tweet tweet, roar roar, caw caw, more like baa baa.

No surprises" is the motto of the franchise ghetto, its Good Housekeeping seal, subliminally blazoned on every sign and logo that make up the curves and grids of light that outline the Basin. The people of America, who live in the world's most surprising and terrible country, take comfort in that motto. Follow the loglo outward, to where the growth is enfolded into the valleys and the canyons, and you find the land of the refugees. They have fled from the true America, the America of atomic bombs, scalpings, hip-hop, chaos theory, cement overshoes, snake handlers, spree killers, space walks, buffalo jumps, drive-bys, cruise missiles, Sherman's March, gridlock, motorcycle gangs, and bun-gee jumping. They have parallel-parked their bimbo boxes in identical computer-designed Burbclave street patterns and secreted themselves in symmetrical sheetrock shitholes with vinyl floors and ill-fitting woodwork and no sidewalks, vast house farms out in the loglo wilderness, a culture medium for a medium culture. The only ones left in the city are street people, feeding off debris; immigrants, thrown out like shrapnel from the destruction of the Asian powers; young bohos; and the technomedia priesthood of Mr. Lee's Greater Hong Kong. Young smart people like Da5id and Hiro, who take the risk of living in the city because they like stimulation and they know they can handle it.

When the Romantic Novelists' Association was founded 35 years ago (in 1960) the image was of pink fluffy bimbos. Now, the view of life through rose-coloured spectacles has gone out of the window. A realistic background and certainly a more realistic relationship between a man and a woman are the important things.

I came in here expecting to find a blond bimbo with huge tits that had all the men wrapped around her little finger.” I just gaped at him, not sure how to react. “I am really relieved that you are the exact opposite.” He told me. “I came in here plotting about how to run you out of here, but instead I really want you to stay.” “Awww, Quinn.” “Don’t get sentimental,” he sniffed. “I’ve just really always wanted a giant blond Barbie to dress.” He gave me a smirk and I laughed.

Most single people are sick of married people presenting themselves as both available and interested, when indeed they are merely “playing.” Oh, yeah… and cheating. Gee, that is attractive. Not! Others could not care less what someone’s marital status might be.

Dani in front of me now is not the same person I'm dealing business with. Of course I'm different. I'm not working now. I'm flirting.

Quali sono, quindi le prime impressioni che un bimbo nomade ha del mondo? Un capezzolo dondolante e una cascata d'oro.

So the bimbo’s a hairdresser? Sadly for her, I’ve seen better hair on a stray dog out on the street, over the bleached mess that she has on her head. “You

So much for the bimbo alert; if she read books like that, then there was a light on upstairs, above the splendid front porch.

Only old retired coots and gold-digging bimbos live in Florida.

An orange-stained Los Angelina she wasn't. Not yet another bimbo beat hard with a blonde stick.

Where are you keeping that blond bimbo—” he started saying once Anders had finished, but he stopped himself when Parvaneh kicked his leg. “Your girlfriend,” he corrected himself.

Next to Joel on the beach was Martha. Two years back in time she had been Joel’s bimbo. That’s because Joel was still married at the time, and they were committing adultery. ~ The Last Straw

She came through the door the moment my beer arrived. Fortyish, salon-blonde, spray tan, fake boobs and real diamonds. Anywhere else it would be a bimbo alert, but in Florida it was just protective coloration.

It's time for him to get over into the right lanes where the retards and the bimbo boxes poke along, random, indecisive, looking at each passing franchise's driveway like they don't know if it's a promise or a threat.

It was why she was my everything. My forever always. Because she was unique. Unique in a town full of carbon-copy bimbos. She didn't want to cheer, or bitch, or chase boys. She knew she had me, just as much as I had her.

State your name.” “Venice Huber.” “Occupation?” “Well, it’s hard to say. I don’t model, land of the seventeen bimbos. I don’t act—after all, isn’t an actress just a model who won’t shut up? Let’s say, oh—homemaker. Could you die?

If there were past misdeeds, I do not believe we should nag or repeat them, never mind throw them in someone’s face. If they sincerely apologized and we genuinely forgave them, we must move on. Learn from mistakes, but move on. If we bring them up and toss them at the offender, we may not have actually forgiven them, even if we claim we have.

L'AQUILONE C'è qualcosa di nuovo oggi nel sole, anzi d'antico: io vivo altrove, e sento che sono intorno nate le viole. Son nate nella selva del convento dei cappuccini, tra le morte foglie che al ceppo delle quercie agita il vento. Si respira una dolce aria che scioglie le dure zolle, e visita le chiese di campagna, ch'erbose hanno le soglie: un'aria d'altro luogo e d'altro mese e d'altra vita: un'aria celestina che regga molte bianche ali sospese... sì, gli aquiloni! È questa una mattina che non c'è scuola. Siamo usciti a schiera tra le siepi di rovo e d'albaspina. Le siepi erano brulle, irte; ma c'era d'autunno ancora qualche mazzo rosso di bacche, e qualche fior di primavera bianco; e sui rami nudi il pettirosso saltava, e la lucertola il capino mostrava tra le foglie aspre del fosso. Or siamo fermi: abbiamo in faccia Urbino ventoso: ognuno manda da una balza la sua cometa per il ciel turchino. Ed ecco ondeggia, pencola, urta, sbalza, risale, prende il vento; ecco pian piano tra un lungo dei fanciulli urlo s'inalza. S'inalza; e ruba il filo dalla mano, come un fiore che fugga su lo stelo esile, e vada a rifiorir lontano. S'inalza; e i piedi trepidi e l'anelo petto del bimbo e l'avida pupilla e il viso e il cuore, porta tutto in cielo. Più su, più su: già come un punto brilla lassù lassù... Ma ecco una ventata di sbieco, ecco uno strillo alto... - Chi strilla? Sono le voci della camerata mia: le conosco tutte all'improvviso, una dolce, una acuta, una velata... A uno a uno tutti vi ravviso, o miei compagni! e te, sì, che abbandoni su l'omero il pallor muto del viso. Sì: dissi sopra te l'orazïoni, e piansi: eppur, felice te che al vento non vedesti cader che gli aquiloni! Tu eri tutto bianco, io mi rammento. solo avevi del rosso nei ginocchi, per quel nostro pregar sul pavimento. Oh! te felice che chiudesti gli occhi persuaso, stringendoti sul cuore il più caro dei tuoi cari balocchi! Oh! dolcemente, so ben io, si muore la sua stringendo fanciullezza al petto, come i candidi suoi pètali un fiore ancora in boccia! O morto giovinetto, anch'io presto verrò sotto le zolle là dove dormi placido e soletto... Meglio venirci ansante, roseo, molle di sudor, come dopo una gioconda corsa di gara per salire un colle! Meglio venirci con la testa bionda, che poi che fredda giacque sul guanciale, ti pettinò co' bei capelli a onda tua madre... adagio, per non farti male.

I walked back to the window to look down at the people who shared this city with me. The people who made every day a series of mediocrities. The unreformed murderers masquerading as businessmen in borrowed suits and debt-laden cars. The voluptuous bimbos floating around in an inexplicable mix of vacuity and despair. The crumbling face of my building looked pretty enough from across the street, but from here I could see how worn it was. I peeled off a satisfying chunk of paint, cement and matter. And I let it fall to the street below.

It’s just a party. You eat some food and drink a beer and pretend you don’t want to be crawdad fishing,” Angie said. “No, it’s an echo chamber of sycophants and I can’t listen to some bimbo recite her newest purchases while pretending I don’t want to throw myself from the roof.

They have parallel-parked their bimbo boxes in identical computer-designed Burbclave street patterns and secreted themselves in symmetrical sheetrock shitholes with vinyl floors and ill-fitting woodwork and no sidewalks, vast house farms out in the loglo wilderness, a culture medium for a medium culture.

Silk aveva qualcosa che la faceva sempre tornare all’infanzia e alla paura che ha il bimbo precoce di essere visto per quello che è; ma anche alla paura che ha il bimbo precoce di non essere sufficientemente guardato. Temeva di essere smascherata, moriva dalla voglia di essere al centro dell’attenzione: ecco il suo dilemma.

Perfection can only be reached on the eyes of the one that loves you

Cheating is pure hypocrisy. Our partner deserves better than that. If we don’t love someone, we should not be with them. That would also be hypocrisy.

Actively repeating a lie or denial does not make it true.

We are imperfect humans and are bound to need attitude adjustments from time to time.

It takes a strong woman to tolerate a weak man. That said, it takes a strong man to tolerate a weak woman, too.

It matters not which partner is bringing negativity into conversations and exchanges. Toxicity has no place at all between people who have promised to love each other.

Societies that have condoned male cheating and condemned female cheating are simply male-dominated cultures. Cheating is cheating, no matter who is doing it. It’s wrong.

On the TV screen in Harry's is The Patty Winters Show, which is now on in the afternoon and is up against Geraldo Rivera, Phil Donahue and Oprah Winfrey. Today's topic is Does Economic Success Equal Happiness? The answer, in Harry's this afternoon, is a roar of resounding "Definitely," followed by much hooting, the guys all cheering together in a friendly way. On the screen now are scenes from President Bush's inauguration early this year, then a speech from former President Reagan, while Patty delivers a hard-to-hear commentary. Soon a tiresome debate forms over whether he's lying or not, even though we don't, can't, hear the words. The first and really only one to complain is Price, who, though I think he's bothered by something else, uses this opportunity to vent his frustration, looks inappropriately stunned, asks, "How can he lie like that? How can he pull that shit?" "Oh Christ," I moan. "What shit? Now where do we have reservations at? I mean I'm not really hungry but I would like to have reservations somewhere. How about 220?" An afterthought: "McDermott, how did that rate in the new Zagat's?" "No way," Farrell complains before Craig can answer. "The coke I scored there last time was cut with so much laxative I actually had to take a shit in M.K." "Yeah, yeah, life sucks and then you die." "Low point of the night," Farrell mutters. "Weren't you with Kyria the last time you were there?" Goodrich asks. "Wasn't that the low point?" "She caught me on call waiting. What could I do?" Farrell shrugs. "I apologize." "Caught him on call waiting." McDermott nudges me, dubious. "Shut up, McDermott," Farrell says, snapping Craig's suspenders. "Date a beggar." "You forgot something, Farrell," Preston mentions. "McDermott is a beggar." "How's Courtney?" Farrell asks Craig, leering. "Just say no." Someone laughs. Price looks away from the television screen, then at Craig, and he tries to hide his displeasure by asking me, waving at the TV, "I don't believe it. He looks so... normal. He seems so... out of it. So... un dangerous." "Bimbo, bimbo," someone says. "Bypass, bypass." "He is totally harmless, you geek. Was totally harmless. Just like you are totally harmless. But he did do all that shit and you have failed to get us into 150, so, you know, what can I say?" McDermott shrugs. "I just don't get how someone, anyone, can appear that way yet be involved in such total shit," Price says, ignoring Craig, averting his eyes from Farrell. He takes out a cigar and studies it sadly. To me it still looks like there's a smudge on Price's forehead. "Because Nancy was right behind him?" Farrell guesses, looking up from the Quotrek. "Because Nancy did it?" "How can you be so fucking, I don't know, cool about it?" Price, to whom something really eerie has obviously happened, sounds genuinely perplexed. Rumor has it that he was in rehab.

Qualcosa gli sfiorò la mano: dita sottili e delicate si infilarono fra le sue, stringendogli la mano in una morsa calda e gentile. «Vorrei questo da te,» gli disse Gabe. «Se tu puoi.» Non vuoi: puoi. Aveva proprio usato quella parola, come se non fosse certo di Zeke. Non dei suoi sentimenti, ma della volontà di esternarli. Di dire a tutto il mondo che non amava un maschio. Che amava Gabe. Zeke non poté fare a meno di sorridere. «Io pensavo che preferissi questo.» Gli posò un bacio sulle labbra. Talmente rapido e delicato che più che un bacio sembrò il battito di ciglia di un bimbo, ma sufficiente a trasformare l’espressione di Gabe da esitante a esultante. Con tanto di coriandoli e trombette, almeno nella mente di Zeke

A budget?" He'd expected an explosion.Even, perversely,hoped for one.Margo's tantrums were always so..stimulating.It didn't appear that he was going to be disappointed. "A budget?" she repeated,storming to him. "Of all the unbelievable,bloody nerve.You arrogant son of a bitch. Do you think I'm going to stand here and let you treat me like some sort of brainless bimbo who needs to be told how much she can spend on face powder?" "Face powder." Deliberately, he scanned the papers,took a pen out of his pocket,and made a quick note. "That would come under 'Miscellaneous Luxuries.' I think I've been very generous there. Now,as to your clothing allowance-" "Allowance!" She used both hands to shove him back a step. "Just let me tell you what you can do with your fucking allowance." "Careful,duchess." He brushed the front of his shirt. "Turnbill and Asser." The strangled sound in her throat was the best she could do.If there had been anything at all to throw,she'd have heaved it at his head. "I'd rather be picked apart,alive, by vultures than let you handle the money." "You don't have any money," he began, but she barreled on as she whirled around the room. Watching her, he all but salivated. "I'd rather be gang-raped by midgets, staked naked to a wasp nest,be force-fed garden slugs." "Go three weeks without a manicure?" he put in and watched her hands curl into claws. "You go after my face with those, I'll have to hurt you." "Oh,I hate you." "No,you don't.

Unconditional love takes a strong and deliberate evolution. Unconditional love is way beyond emotional involvement. This is loving the person inside the person… loving their very soul.

When we resort to screaming at someone, we are revealing weakness and a sense of helplessness. If we can’t seem to get our message or feelings across any other way, then we get angry, and we get loud!

E gli occhi. Io non so dire il colore degli occhi di Lenore Beadsman; non posso guardarli; per me quegli occhi sono il sole. Sono blu. Le sue labbra sono carnose e rosse e tendono al rorido e più che chiedere pare pretandano, in quel loro broncio di seta liquida, d'esser baciate. Io le bacio spesso, lo ammetto, inutile negarlo, ne sono un baciatore, e un bacio con Lenore è, se mi è concesso indugiare un po' su questo tema, non tanto un bacio quanto una dislocazione, è rimozione e poi brusca assunzione di essenza dall'io alle labbra, sicchè è non tanto il contatto di due corpi umani per fare le solite cose a colpi di labbra quanto due insiemi di labbra in reciproca cova e in comunione di specie sin dagli albori dell'era post-Scarsdale, forti di condizione ontologica autonoma sancita dalla suddetta comunione, che trascinano dietro e sotto di sè, mentre si uniscono e diventano una cosa sola, due ormai completamente superflui corpi terreni appesi al bacio come spossati cambi di fiori sursbocciati ovvero come mute ormai inservibili. Un bacio con Lenore è una sequenza in cui io pattino con scarpe imburrate sull'umida pista del suo labbro inferiore, protetto dalle intemperie grazie all'aggetto madido e tiepido di quello superiore, per infine riparare tra labbro e gengiva e rimboccarmi il labbro sin sul naso come un bimbo la coperta e da lì scrutare con occhi lustri e ostili il mondo esterno di Lenore, del quale non voglio più far parte.

It was a hideous ancient thing that stood on tiger feet in the middle of the floor. Like a showpiece. And he did enjoy showing it. He would bring his friends upstairs to the master bathroom so that they could admire the monstrosity while he told them the whole long boring story of how he’d gotten it at an estate sale in Hollywood. Some bimbo actress from the silent-screen days had supposedly slit her wrists while she was in the thing. ‘Cashed in her chips,’ Harold liked to say. ‘In this very tub.

We may repeatedly try to get our need for sex or our need for communication met by our partner. If our attempts are met with rejection over and over again, we may eventually stop asking. We tend to give up rather than keep setting ourselves up for regular rejection.

In olden times, you'd wander down to Mom's Cafe for a bite to eat and a cup of joe, and you would feel right at home. It worked just fine if you never left your home-own. But if you went to the next town over, everyone would look up and stare at you when you came in the door, and the Blue Plate Special would be something you didn't recognize. If you did enough traveling, you'd never feel at home anywhere. But when a businessman from New Jersey goes to Dubuque, he knows he can walk into a McDonald's and no one will stare at him. He can order without having to look at the menu, and the food will always taste the same. McDonald's is Home, condensed into a three-ring binder and xeroxed. “No surprises” is the motto of the franchise ghetto, its Good Housekeeping seal, subliminally blazoned on every sign and logo that make up the curves and grids of light that outline the Basin. The people of America, who live in the world's most surprising and terrible country, take comfort in that motto. Follow the loglo outward, to where the growth is enfolded into the valleys and the canyons, and you find the land of the refugees. They have fled from the true America, the America of atomic bombs, scalpings, hip-hop, chaos theory, cement overshoes, snake handlers, spree killers, space walks, buffalo jumps, drive-bys, cruise missiles; Sherman's March, gridlock, motorcycle gangs, and bungee jumping. They have parallel-parked their bimbo boxes in identical computer-designed Burbclave street patterns and secreted themselves in symmetrical sheetrock shitholes with vinyl floors and ill-fitting woodwork and no sidewalks, vast house farms out in the loglo wilderness, a culture medium for a medium culture.

The way to succeed on Tinder is, as everyone knows, to be a humorless narcissist with no personality because you spend all your time trying to look good and none at all cultivating a brain. You get two beauties together – a bimbo and a himbo – and all you have is a tumbleweed conversation. They don’t know anything, so they have nothing to talk about. Once the vacuous, vapid chat-up lines are exhausted – in five-seconds-flat – what’s left? They have to fuck because there’s nothing else for them to do, except go back to posting selfies and watching videos of cats. Yawn. What a non-life.

Should we “expect” our physical, sexual, intellectual, and emotional intimacies to automatically continue throughout a marriage? Nope. At least, not in my opinion. But I do think we should be able to expect both partners to protect and preserve the sanctity of these intimacies. That, to me, is part of honest loyalty.

When it comes to people… you could aptly say that I am a racist… a human racist. I believe in people. There are good and not-so-good people of all colors and creeds. I’m not here to judge. Period. As people, we draw judgments from others when we behave badly, especially when we try to blame our bad behavior on others. This is not based on race, age, sex, or religion. It’s based on behavior differences.

Whether we know it or choose to admit it, we are either an Encourager or a Discourager. We each make a choice as to which type we will be… every day. Discouragers bring “stresspools.” I call any of those places that add unnecessary stress and aggravation “stresspools.” They are just as stinky and rotten as cesspools, but “stresspools” wreak of tension, strain, anxiety, worry, hassle, pressure, and emotional trauma.

Don’t worry,” I say. “There’s plenty more fish in the sea.” “But I don’t want a fish,” Davey says. He really did say that and he wasn’t even trying to be funny. “I mean there’ll be other girls,” I say. “And anyway I’ve been thinking about all this and I’m wondering if we’re a bit too young to be worried about girls. You know, Davey, there are actually loads of boys who haven’t got girlfriends at our school. And even the ones who have don’t really go out with them. They just hang around school and maybe outside Morrisons. What sort of relationship is that? I think we’ve been fooled into submitting to peer pressure and we should just stop and say no! No, I will not feel inferior. I refuse to feel like a loser just because some bimbo isn’t trying to lick my tonsils... And besides, a girl will come along in her own good time. Probably when we're least expecting it!

The client had the boudin blanc, the roasted chicken and the cheesecake," he says. "Cheesecake?" I say, confused by this plain, alien-sounding list. "What sauce or fruits were on the roasted chicken? What shapes was it cut into?" "None, Patrick," he says, also confused. "It was… roasted." "And the cheesecake, what flavor? Was it heated?" I say. "Ricotta cheesecake? Goat cheese? Were there flowers or cilantro in it?" "It was just… regular," he says, and then, "Patrick, you're sweating." "What did she have?" I ask, ignoring him. "The client's bimbo." "Well, she had the country salad, the scallops and the lemon tart," Luis says. "The scallops were grilled? Were they sashimi scallops? In a ceviche of sorts?" I'm asking. "Or were they gratinized?" "No, Patrick," Luis says. "They were… broiled." It's silent in the boardroom as I contemplate this, thinking it through before asking, finally, "What's 'broiled,' Luis?" "I'm not sure," he says. "I think it involves… a pan.

Pastor Max Lucado of San Antonio, Texas, said in an editorial for the Washington Post in February 2016 that he was “chagrined” by Trump’s antics. He ridiculed a war hero. He made a mockery of a reporter’s menstrual cycle. He made fun of a disabled reporter. He referred to a former first lady, Barbara Bush, as “mommy” and belittled Jeb Bush for bringing her on the campaign trail. He routinely calls people “stupid” and “dummy.” One writer catalogued 64 occasions that he called someone “loser.” These were not off-line, backstage, overheard, not-to-be-repeated comments. They were publicly and intentionally tweeted, recorded and presented.18 Lucado went on to question how Christians could support a man doing these things as a candidate for president, much less as someone who repeatedly attempted to capture evangelical audiences by portraying himself as similarly committed to Christian values. He continued, “If a public personality calls on Christ one day and calls someone a ‘bimbo’ the next, is something not awry? And to do so, not once, but repeatedly, unrepentantly and unapologetically? We stand against bullying in schools. Shouldn’t we do the same in presidential politics?” Rolling Stone reported on several evangelical leaders pushing against a Trump nomination, including North Carolina radio host and evangelical Dr. Michael Brown, who wrote an open letter to Jerry Falwell Jr., blasting his endorsement of Donald Trump. Brown wrote, “As an evangelical follower of Jesus, the contrast is between putting nationalism first or the kingdom of God first. From my vantage point, you and other evangelicals seem to have put nationalism first, and that is what deeply concerns me.”19 John Stemberger, president and general counsel for Florida Family Action, lamented to CNN, “The really puzzling thing is that Donald Trump defies every stereotype of a candidate you would typically expect Christians to vote for.” He wondered, “Should evangelical Christians choose to elect a man I believe would be the most immoral and ungodly person ever to be president of the United States?”20 A

You only like white guys?” “Stop that,” I say through gritted teeth. “What?” he says, getting all serious. “It’s the truth, ain’t it?” Mrs. Peterson appears in front of us. “How’s that outline coming along?” she asks. I put on a fake smile. “Peachy.” I pull out the research I did at home and get down to business while Mrs. Peterson watches. “I did some research on the hand warmers last night. We need to dissolve sixty grams of sodium acetate and one hundred millimeters of water at seventy degrees.” “Wrong,” Alex says. I look up and realize Mrs. Peterson is gone. “Excuse me?” Alex folds his arms across his chest. “You’re wrong.” “I don’t think so.” “You think you’ve never been wrong before?” He says it as if I’m a ditzy blond bimbo, which sets my blood to way past boiling. “Sure I have,” I say. I make my voice sound high and breathless, like a Southern debutante. “Why, just last week I bought Bobbi Brown Sandwash Petal lip gloss when the Pink Blossom color would have looked so much better with my complexion. Needless to say the purchase was a total disaster,” I say. He expected to hear something like that come out of my mouth. I wonder if he believes it, or from my tone realizes I’m being sarcastic. “I’ll bet,” he says. “Haven’t you ever been wrong before?” I ask him. “Absolutely,” he says. “Last week, when I robbed that bank over by the Walgreens, I told the teller to hand over all the fifties he had in the till. What I really should have asked for was the twenties ‘cause there were way more twenties than fifties.” Okay, so he did get that I was putting on an act. And gave it right back to me with his own ridiculous scenario, which is actually unsettling because it makes us similar in some twisted way. I put a hand on my chest and gasp, playing along. “What a disaster.” “So I guess we can both be wrong.” I stick my chin in the air and declare stubbornly, “Well, I’m not wrong about chemistry. Unlike you, I take this class seriously.” “Let’s have a bet, then. If I’m right, you kiss me,” he says. “And if I’m right?” “Name it.” It’s like taking candy from a baby. Mr. Macho Guy’s ego is about to be taken down a notch, and I’m all too happy to be the one to do it.

The Deliverator's car has enough potential energy packed into its batteries to fire a pound of bacon into the Asteroid Belt. Unlike a bimbo box or a Burb beater, the Deliverator's car unloads that power through gaping, gleaming, polished sphincters. When the Deliverator puts the hammer down, shit happens. You want to talk contact patches? Your car's tires have tiny contact patches, talk to the asphalt in four places the size of your tongue. The Deliverator's car has big sticky tires with contact patches the size of a fat lady's thighs. The Deliverator is in touch with the road, starts like a bad day, stops on a peseta. Why is the Deliverator so equipped? Because people rely on him. He is a role model. This is America. People do whatever the fuck they feel like doing, you got a problem with that? Because they have a right to. And because they have guns and no one can fucking stop them. As a result, this country has one of the worst economies in the world. When it gets down to it -- talking trade balances here -- once we've brain-drained all our technology into other countries, once things have evened out, they're making cars in Bolivia and microwave ovens in Tadzhikistan and selling them here -- once our edge in natural resources has been made irrelevant by giant Hong Kong ships and dirigibles that can ship North Dakota all the way to New Zealand for a nickel -- once the Invisible Hand has taken all those historical inequities and smeared them out into a broad global layer of what a Pakistani brickmaker would consider to be prosperity -- y'know what? There's only four things we do better than anyone else: * music * movies * microcode (software) * high-speed pizza delivery The Deliverator used to make software. Still does, sometimes. But if life were a mellow elementary school run by well-meaning education Ph.D.s, the Deliverator's report card would say: "Hiro is so bright and creative but needs to work harder on his cooperation skills." So now he has this other job. No brightness or creativity involved -- but no cooperation either. Just a single principle: The Deliverator stands tall, your pie in thirty minutes or you can have it free, shoot the driver, take his car, file a class-action suit. The Deliverator has been working this job for six months, a rich and lengthy tenure by his standards, and has never delivered a pizza in more than twenty-one minutes.

The franchise and the virus work on the same principle: what thrives in one place will thrive in another. You just have to find a sufficiently virulent business plan, condense it into a three-ring binder -- its DNA -- Xerox(tm) it, and embed it in the fertile lining of a well-traveled highway, preferably one with a left-turn lane. Then the growth will expand until it runs up against its property lines. In olden times, you'd wander down to Mom's Cafe for a bite to eat and a cup of joe, and you would feel right at home. It worked just fine if you never left your hometown. But if you went to the next town over, everyone would look up and stare at you when you came in the door, and the Blue Plate Special would be something you didn't recognize. If you did enough traveling, you'd never feel at home anywhere. But when a businessman from New Jersey goes to Dubuque, he knows he can walk into a McDonald's and no one will stare at him. He can order without having to look at the menu, and the food will always taste the same. McDonald's is Home, condensed into a three-ring binder and xeroxed. "No surprises" is the motto of the franchise ghetto, its Good Housekeeping seal, subliminally blazoned on every sign and logo that make up the curves and grids of light that outline the Basin. The people of America, who live in the world's most surprising and terrible country, take comfort in that motto. Follow the loglo outward, to where the growth is enfolded into the valleys and the canyons, and you find the land of the refugees. They have fled from the true America, the America of atomic bombs, scalpings, hip-hop, chaos theory, cement overshoes, snake handlers, spree killers, space walks, buffalo jumps, drive-bys, cruise missiles, Sherman's March, gridlock, motorcycle gangs, and bun-gee jumping. They have parallelparked their bimbo boxes in identical computer-designed Burbclave street patterns and secreted themselves in symmetrical sheetrock shitholes with vinyl floors and ill-fitting woodwork and no sidewalks, vast house farms out in the loglo wilderness, a culture medium for a medium culture. The only ones left in the city are street people, feeding off debris; immigrants, thrown out like shrapnel from the destruction of the Asian powers; young bohos; and the technomedia priesthood of Mr. Lee's Greater Hong Kong. Young smart people like Da5id and Hiro, who take the risk of living in the city because they like stimulation and they know they can handle it.

The glamorous life is a facade, a fraud a farce of frivolous trite The storybook is blank inside Chivalry has died

A costume party… great… a chance for the bimbos to whore themselves out with no penalty of conscience. I found myself excruciatingly curious as to what she was going as, a sailor? No. A pilot. That would be something

Molti vanno in trip con la psicanalisi, finiscono per pensare di essere i messaggi che hanno ricevuto, il contesto che li ha formati, l'educazione familiare, le caratteristiche ereditarie...Tutto questo è profondissima ideologia e inganno del sistema con cui bisogna rompere d'entrata: nessuno di noi ha il diritto di spiegare le proprie scelte o le proprie non scelte, i propri destini in base ai contesti. I contesti possono essere cambiati sempre, socialmente e individualmente, e se noi in primo luogo non affermiamo questo e non lo affermiamo positivamente, costruttivamente, come possiamo anche solo lontanamente pretendere che lo facciano gli altri? Poi possiamo e dobbiamo analizzare opposizioni, contrarietà, contraddizioni, contrapposizioni, e anche conflitti - perché ovviamente i conflitti esistono - , ma a partire da questo, cioè ribaltando la formula di pensiero tradizionale e cercando di ricondurci, di ripartire da questo. Questo approccio non è solo molto più utile e valido, è molto più materialistico e molto più autentico. Per dare un esempio, un'immagine che non è solo metaforica: è difficile negare i vagiti di una bimba o di un bimbo appena nati, i tentativi di chiamare la mamma, di sorridere; è difficile dire che un individuo della specie cominci con una negazione: gli individui della specie cominciano affermandosi, lottando per la vita, cercando la vita. Le spiegazioni biologiche e della scienza medica sono vere, ma non è questo l'aspetto principale. Se si comincia così si finisce per credere che la vita è qualcosa che si consuma, non la realizzazione della nostra esistenza, delle nostre idee; la nostra ragione finisce per essere puramente negativa, come una nobilissima scuola, come quella di Francoforte, ha messo alla base di tutta la sua ricerca. La vita è una cosa che si realizza, non una cosa che si consuma.

Dirigiti verso il continente la cui musica ti chiama, la cui cultura ti ispira e fermati nel paese dove ti sentirai a casa. Ritorna due volte, dieci volte nel tuo paese d'adozione. Forse ci andrai a vivere? Non ti imporre dei limiti, lascia aperte tutte le porte. Parti come un bimbo incantato e lascia che il viaggio ti porti per mano: il primo sconosciuto da scoprire sei tu stesso! Approfitta del viaggio per perdere colui o colei che pensi di essere. Dimentica quello che hai imparato, diffida delle tue certezze, molla gli ormeggi, lasciati sorprendere! Parti nudo, osa fare il mendicante: il viaggio ti offrirà abiti nuovi. Rivelerà in te ricchezze che neanche sospettavi. Tornerai senza un soldo, ma sarai ricchissimo.

bimbo boxes with license plates from all the Burbclaves.