Bmw Quotes

Kate's Daddy had bought her a red BMW for her birthday. I found it to be an absolute miracle of God that Kate hadn't pancaked it yet. She drove like a blind person going into diabetic shock.

If you are clinically insane, by which I mean you wake up in the morning, and you think you are an onion, this is your car, (about the BMW X3).

Give me those keys.” “I will not!” “You win, Professor. I’ll buy you a car. Now give me the damn keys.” “I have a car.” “A real car. A Mercedes, a BMW, whatever you want.” “I don’t want a Mercedes or a BMW.” “That’s what you think.” “Stop bullying me.” “I haven’t even started.

By killing us, they showed us the idiocy of stuff. The guy who owned this BMW? He’s in the same place as the woman who owned that Kia.

Tampaknya hanya buku yang paling pantas diceritakan dengan bangga oleh manusia beradab, bukan BMW, Mercedes, ataupun Volvo. Apabila ada manusia di zaman sekarang yang menyebut dirinya modern tetapi tidak mengindahkan buku, memilikinya, dan membacanya, maka dengan demikian manusia tersebut telah mengambil inisiatif menjadikan dirinya sebagai hewan.

Tex shrink-wrapped a dealer’s BMW. Wrapped the whole thing in plastic wrap and then used a portable blow drier on it to tighten the plastic. Word has it, it was several layers deep.

jose jaliopinio on a stick" do you like bmw's (big mexican weman)

That is not my car!” “Correction. You used to drive a falling apart Toyota. B.A.” Had his lips just brushed her hair? She shivered. And though she knew better than to ask, she did it anyway. “Okay. You got me. What’s B.A.?” “Before. Adam. After Adam, you drive a BMW. I take care of what is mine. That Toyota wasn’t safe.” Figured that arrogant beast would define himself as the dawning of an epoch. “I’m not yours. It was too, and you can’t just go around stealing.” “I didn’t, and I filled out the paperwork myself.

I pulled into the Grand Union parking lot and drove to the end of the mall where the bank was located. I parked at a safe distance from other cars, exited the BMW, and set the alarm. You want me to stay with the car in case someone's riding around with a bomb in his backseat looking for a place to put it?" Lula asked. Not necessary. Ranger says the car has sensors." Ranger give you a car with bomb sensors? The head of the CIA don't even have a car with bomb sensors. I hear they give him a stick with a mirror on the end of it.

We can have Rome again, if you break enough BMW windows.

13. Boretar was basking in the warm June sun as the Russell family prepared to depart. The black BMW’s boot was packed with the suitcases and the roof box was filled with tennis rackets and other sports gear. The bike stand on the rear of the car was already loaded with the children’s bikes. Peter made one final check of the house to ensure that all doors and windows were locked and secure. Then he shouted to his wife Mary, “We’re ready to go, where are the children?

I was just telling Steve how much you appreciate motorcycles and it just so happens that he has one” Whoopee. Like I fucking cared. “Oh yeah?” I said, glancing at Steve. “What kind of ride?” The douche canoe grinned at me, revealing two perfectly straight and glaringly white rows of teeth. “A BMW,” he said. “R12—“ “A sports bike?” I interrupted, wrinkling up my nose. “How super gay for you.” … “Sports bikes are for pussies. True fucking story.

no man with any sense should marry the girl to whom he loses his virginity. It’s like learning to drive in some clapped-out old banger and then holding on to it for the rest of your life when you’ve developed the skill to handle a BMW in rush-hour traffic on a busy Autobahn.

Where's your car? Miles asks, glancing at him as he slams his door shut and slings his backpack over his shoulder. "And whats up with your hand?" "I got rid of it," Damen says, gaze fixed on mine. Then glancing at Miles and seeing his expression he adds, "The car, not the hand." "Did you trade it in?" I ask, but only because Miles is listening. [...] He shakes his head and walks me to the gate, smiling as he says, "No, I just dropped off on the side of the road, key in the ignition, engine running." "Excuse me?!" Miles yelps. "You mean to tell me that you left your shiny, black, BMW M6 Coupe—by the side of the road?" Damen nods. But thats a hundred-thousand-dollar car!" Miles gasps as his face turns bright red. "A hundreds and ten." Damen laughs. "Don't forget, it was fully customized and loaded with options." Miles stares at him, eyes practically bugging out of his head, unable to comprehend how anyone could do such a thing—why anyone would do such a thing. "Um, okay, so let me get this straight—you just woke up and decided—Hey, what the hell? I think I'll just dump my ridiculously expensive luxury car by the side of the road—WHERE JUST ANYONE CAN TAKE IT?" Damen shrugs. "Pretty much." "Because in case you haven't noticed," Miles says, practically hyperventilating now. "Some of us are a little car deprived. Some of us were born with parents so cruel and unusual they're forced to rely on the kindness of friends for the rest of their lives!" "Sorry." Damen shrugs. "Guess I hadn't thought about that. Though if it makes you feel any better, it was all for a very good cause.

The better you get, the less you run around showing off as a muscle guy. You know, you wear regular shirts-not always trying to show off what you have. You talk less about it. It's like you have a little BMW - you want to race the hell out of this car, because you know it's just going 110. But if you see guys driving a ferrari or a lamborghini, they slide around at 60 on the freeway because they know if they press on that accelerator they are going to go 170. These things are the same in every field.

BMW drivers take evasive action at the drop of a hat, emulating the drivers in the BMW advertisements – this is how they convince themselves they didn’t get ripped off.

Take care of your car in the garage, and the car will take care of you on the road.

How the heck are you supposed to have a reasonable conversation with someone who buys a BMW?

that time Rune drove a Volvo, but later he bought a BMW. You just couldn’t reason with a person who behaved like that.

My fingers scrabbled at the smooth leather interior of Ryu’s BMW as he missed the exit we needed. Causing him to drop a few more F bombs and slam on the breaks. He then opened what I assume was a rift in the space time continuum in order to hurtle his German made steal cage of doom through said continuum.

You are four days sober and I love you. You’re about to get in your BMW and I love you. You are not my problem to solve but my brother to love, all of you.

Ronan pointed at the cart. "Get in there." "What?" He just continued pointing. Adam said, "Give me a break. This is a public parking lot." "Don't make this ugly, Parrish." As an old lady headed past them, Adam sighed and climbed into the basket of the shopping cart. He drew his knees up so that he would fit. He was full of the knowledge that this was probably going to end with scabs. Ronan gripped the handle with the skittish concentration of a motorcycle racer and eyed the line between them and the BMW parked on the far side of the lot. "What do you think the grade is on this parking lot?" "C plus, maybe a B. Oh. I don't know. Ten degrees?" Adam held the sides of the cart and then thought better of it. He held himself instead. With a savage smile, Ronan shoved the cart off the curb and belted towards the BMW. As they picked up speed, Ronan called out a joyful and awful swear and then jumped on to the back of the cart himself. As they hurtled towards the BMW, Adam realised that Ronan, as usual, had no intention of stopping before something bad happened. He cupped a hand over his nose just as they glanced off the side of the BMW. The unseated cart wobbled once, twice, and then tipped catastrophically on to its side. It kept skidding, the boys skidding along with it. The three of them came to a stop. "Oh, God," Adam said, touching the road burn on his elbow. It wasn't that bad, really. "God, God. I can feel my teeth." Ronan lay on his back a few feet away. A box of toothpaste rested on his chest and the cart keeled beside him. He looked profoundly happy. "You should tell me what you've found out about Greenmantle," Ronan said, "so that I can get started on my dreaming." Adam picked himself up before he got driven over. "When?" Ronan grinned.

a drug dealer on Thirteenth Street who offers me crack and blindly I wave a fifty at him and he says “Oh, man” gratefully and shakes my hand, pressing five vials into my palm which I proceed to eat whole and the crack dealer stares at me, trying to mask his deep disturbance with an amused glare, and I grab him by the neck and croak out, my breath reeking, “The best engine is in the BMW 750iL,

Jade helped Az into the BMW. Well, helped, shoved, same thing. The guy still wasn’t talking. With the bullets in him, maybe he was just in too much pain to talk right then.

While they waited, Ronan decided to finally take up the task of teaching Adam how to drive a stick shift. For several minutes, it seemed to be going well, as the BMW had an easy clutch, Ronan was brief and to the point with his instruction, and Adam was a quick study with no ego to get in the way. From a safe vantage point beside the building, Gansey and Noah huddled and watched as Adam began to make ever quicker circles around the parking lot. Every so often their hoots were audible through the open windows of the BMW. Then—it had to happen eventually—Adam stalled the car. It was a pretty magnificent beast, as far as stalls went, with lots of noise and death spasms on the part of the car. From the passenger seat, Ronan began to swear at Adam. It was a long, involved swear, using every forbidden word possible, often in compound-word form. As Adam stared at his lap, penitent, he mused that there was something musical about Ronan when he swore, a careful and loving precision to the way he fit the words together, a black-painted poetry. It was far less hateful sounding than when he didn’t swear. Ronan finished with, “For the love of . . . Parrish, take some care, this is not your mother’s 1971 Honda Civic.” Adam lifted his head and said, “They didn’t start making the Civic until ’73.” There was a flash of fangs from the passenger seat, but before Ronan truly had time to strike, they both heard Gansey call warmly, “Jane! I thought you’d never show up. Ronan is tutoring Adam in the ways of manual transmissions.” Blue, her hair pulled every which way by the wind, stuck her head in the driver’s side window. The scent of wildflowers accompanied her presence. As Adam catalogued the scent in the mental file of things that made Blue attractive, she said brightly, “Looks like it’s going well. Is that what that smell is?” Without replying, Ronan climbed out of the car and slammed the door. Noah appeared beside Blue. He looked joyful and adoring, like a Labrador retriever. Noah had decided almost immediately that he would do anything for Blue, a fact that would’ve needled Adam if it had been anyone other than Noah. Blue permitted Noah to pet the crazy tufts of her hair, something Adam would have also liked to do, but felt would mean something far different coming from him.

I am emotional about engines, if you hurt my car, you hurt my heart.

Most of the Columbine parents were affluent enough to endow their kids with cars. Eric had a black Honda Prelude. Dylan drove a vintage BMW his dad had refurbished. The two cars sat side by side in their assigned spaces in the senior lot every day. At lunch the boys loaded into one with a handful of friends to grab a bite and a smoke.

She took several slow deep breaths, then, "Okay, what happened to my car?" "This is your car." "I may not know much lately," she gritted, "but I do know what I drive. I drive a falling-apart Toyota. A disgustingly powdery-blue one. With lots of rust and no antenna. That is not my car." "Correction. You used to drive a falling apart Toyota, B.A." Had his lips just brushed her hair? She shivered, and though she knew better than to ask, she did it anyways. "Okay, you got me, what's 'B.A.'" "Before Adam. After Adam, you drive a BMW.

One of his friends, a marketing professor at Stanford, said, “Think about this from a marketing perspective. We can change behavior in a short television ad. We don’t do it with information. We do it with identity: ‘If I buy a BMW, I’m going to be this kind of person.

Kamu itu bajaj bermesin BMW, begitu Lana mengungkapkan kepadanya saat didesak. Lana kenal banyak BMW bermesin bajaj, dan semua itu habis dia hina-hina. Untuk benar-benar bersanding sebagai pacar Lana, seseorang harus jadi mobil mewah Eropa luar dalam. Lana yang unik dan glamor. Kamu cukup jadi kacung intelektualky saja, kata Lana kepadanya.

Niet elke zelfstandige is een knoeier met een dure BMW.

debt is dumb, cash is king, and the paid-off home mortgage has taken the place of the BMW as the status symbol of choice.

He's got a new BMW now, thanks to the Galaxy. He can't spell it, but he can drive it like crazy.

He sent an older marine to supervise as I shopped for my first car so that I’d end up with a practical car, like a Toyota or a Honda, not the BMW I wanted.

Does it really matter if I choose the bus over a BMW, and generic over Gucci? Because the car, the wardrobe, the zip code-those are just nouns, things that are fun to have around, sure, but in the end, they have nothing to do with the real me. Nothing to do with who I really am.

I kiss her on the mouth. She looks around nervously. I watch her reflection in the BMW. "What's wrong?" I ask. "Not here", she says, but as if "not here" is the promise of somewhere better.

You’re seeing someone else, aren’t you?" Seeing someone else? How on earth could that explain any of this? Why would seeing someone else necessitate bringing home a middle­-aged woman, a teenaged punk and an American with a leather jacket and a Rod Stewart haircut? What would the story have been? But then, after reflection, I realised that Penny had probably been here before, and therefore knew that infidelity can usually provide the answer to any domestic mystery. If I had walked in with Sheena Easton and Donald Rumsfeld, Penny would probably have scratched her head for a few seconds before saying exactly the same thing. In other circumstances, on other evenings, it would have been the right conclusion, too; I used to be pretty resourceful when I was being unfaithful to Cindy, even if I do say so myself. I once drove a new BMW into a wall, simply because I needed to explain a four­-hour delay in getting home from work. Cindy came out into the street to inspect the crumpled bonnet, looked at me, and said, “You’re seeing someone else, aren’t you?” I denied it, of course. But then, anything – smashing up a new car, persuading Donald Rumsfeld to come to an Islington flat in the early hours of New Year’s Day – is easier than actually telling the truth. That look you get, the look which lets you see right through the eyes and down into the place where she keeps all the hurt and the rage and the loathing... Who wouldn’t go that extra yard to avoid it?

But if lifestyle ads work by the third-person effect, then there will be some products for which it makes good business sense to target a wider audience, one that includes both buyers and non-buyers.32 One reason to target non-buyers is to create envy. As Miller argues, this is the case for many luxury products. “Most BMW ads,” he says, “are not really aimed so much at potential BMW buyers as they are at potential BMW coveters.”33 When BMW advertises during popular TV shows or in mass-circulation magazines, only a small fraction of the audience can actually afford a BMW. But the goal is to reinforce for non-buyers the idea that BMW is a luxury brand.

Asking someone else to drive your sports car is like asking someone else to kiss your girlfriend.

At the end of my third year as a full-time student, when I won a $750 prize, I immediately went to a BMW motorcycle shop in the Eighties on the West Side and bought a used BMW R69 500-cc motorcycle, all black and, though used, in great shape.

Outside, overgrown grass lapped dew on Ronan’s boots, and mist curled around the tyres of the charcoal BMW. The sky over Monmouth Manufacturing was the colour of a muddy lake. It was cold, but Ronan’s gasoline heart was firing. He settled into the car, letting it become his skin. The night air was still coiled beneath the seats and lurking in the door pockets; he shivered as he tethered his raven to the seat belt fastener in the passenger seat. Not the fanciest setup, but effective for keeping a corvid from flapping around one’s sports car. Chainsaw bit him, but not as hard as the early morning cold.

Everyone wants to be the same,” he said. “Young lawyers get a bonus and one of the first things most of them do is buy a BMW.” When I pointed out that he, too, drove a BMW, he took issue with my comment. “Sure,” he said, “but they all drive silver BMWs. I drive a blue one.

The path that leads through Latin and alebra is not the path to material success. But it may suggest much more: that understanding things is a waste of time; that if you want to succeed in the world and have a happy family and a nice home and a BMW you should not try to understand things but just add up the numbers or press the buttons or do whatever else it is that marketers are so richly rewarded for doing

What is your plan with these things anyway?" Adam asked. Ronan smiled his lizard smile. "Ramp. BMW. The goddamn moon." This was so like Ronan. His room inside Monmouth was filled with expensive toys, but, like a spoiled child, he ended up playing outside with sticks. "The trajectory you're building doesn't suggest the moon," Adam replied. "It suggests the end of your suspension." "I don't need your back talk, science guy.

I sell BMWs—I’m not sure if your mom told you?” No matter how good Alton was at selling stuff, he had nothing on my mom selling me on a new suitor. “They’re great cars. Sexy, stylish. Every man would love to drive one.” I watched as he arranged his face in a very practiced smolder. “Don’t say it,” I offered. “Just don’t say it.” “You remind me of a BMW.” “You said it.” I patted the bar in front of him. “Let me go get your tab.

Jesse." My head springs up with a deep breath of panic. Alex's face appears in my blurry vision. I guess I managed to fall asleep in this old chair after all. Now I feel worse than when I sat down. "Come." She takes my hand and tugs me until I get out of the chair, leading me to the bed. It's still dark out, but the fire casts enough glow. "Wait, let me get the-" "No, this is perfect. Really." She's still whispering. the girl who drives a BMW Z8, and she wears probably two years' worth my salary on her finger, curls up on an unmade bed with an old wool blanket and says it's perfect.

We hated not knowing something. We hated not knowing who was going to walk Spanish down the hall. How would our bills get paid? And where would we find new work? We knew the power of the credit card companies and the collection agencies and the consequences of bankruptcy. Those institutions were without appeal. They put your name into a system, and from that point forward, vital parts of the American dream were foreclosed upon. A backyard swimming pool. A long weekend in Vegas. A low-end BMW. These were not Jeffersonian ideals, perhaps, on par with life and liberty, but at this advanced stage, with the West won and the Cold War over, they, too, seemed among our inalienable rights.

Among all the machines, motorcar is my favorite machine.

BMW drivers take evasive action at the drop of a hat, emulating the drivers in the BMW advertisements—this is how they convince themselves they didn't get ripped off.

At that time Rune drove a Volvo, but later he bought a BMW. You just couldn’t reason with a person who behaved like that.

BMW.” He smiles. “Little black beamer.

I yanked my steering wheel hard, cutting off a BMW with a very loud horn. I extended my middle finger, for once driving like the Miami native I was, and accelerated over the causeway.

For a few weeks in the last semester of my third year of high school I dated a guy named Klabbe, who did arms and chest in the gym four nights a week whenever he wasn’t driving back and forth between the two city squares in the BMW that ate up half his salary from the bread factory. He liked to call me Princess because I made him rinse the tobacco from his teeth before we kissed.

But the more the Tesla guys researched the industry, the more they realized that the big automakers don’t even really build their cars anymore. The days of Henry Ford having raw materials delivered to one end of his Michigan factory and then sending cars out the other end had long passed. “BMW didn’t make its windshields or upholstery or rearview mirrors,” Tarpenning said. “The only thing the big car companies had kept was internal combustion research, sales and marketing, and the final assembly. We thought naïvely that we could access all the same suppliers for our parts.

I briefly consider keying her precious BMW, but quite frankly, I don't have the energy to go all Carrie Underwood on her ass. I still have over an hour drive ahead of me. -Jackson 'Blame It on the Pain

He stopped, though, after we gave him crabs.” “You infected your father with a disease?” “Not those kinds of crabs.” He rolled his eyes. “We filled his expensive BMW with real ones. Turns out they’re rough on leather.

It was becoming more and more evident that Salem was a town that celebrated individuality, a real live-and-let-live kind of place. Melody felt a gut punch of regret. Her old nose would have fit in here. "Look!" She pointed at the multicolored car whizzing by. Its black door were from a Mercedes coupe, the white hood from a BMW; the silver trunk was Jaguar, the red convertible top was Lexus, the whitewall tires were Bentley, the sound system was Bose, and the music was classical. A hood ornament from each model dangled from the rear view mirror. Its license plate appropriately read MUTT. "That car looks like a moving Benton ad." "Or a pileup on Rodeo drive." Candace snapped a picture with her iPhone and e-mailed to her friends back home. They responded instantly with a shot of what they were doing. It must have involved the mall because Candace picked up her pace and began asking anyone under the age of fifty where the cool people hung out.

Imagine three days of God gone missing. Now, imagine my lifetime of it. Better to build your own sepulcher inside an idling Charger - gorged and crimson. I’d rather roll up on God’s pearly in a blood-red Benz or BMW. Any fancy casket will do.

Your BMW’s a convertible?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. “Yes, ma’am.” “I like fast German cars.” “Riding or driving?” “Both.” “Is that a request?” “Mm-hm.” “I love my car, Savannah. I’m not a shallow man, but I love that vehicle. What’s your driving record look like?” “This question from the man who made me cry?” “I would love for you to drive my car as far and as fast as you like,” he amended. She leaned back and winked at him. “I thought so. Give me a minute to change?” “Must you?” “I’m afraid so.

The next morning over a breakfast of bran muffins and kiwi and Evian water and wheatgrass juice, Ann mentioned something about buying a BMW and I had to hold back a scream. It was clear that this had not been my best term; it was clear that I was losing it

I look at everyone in their Honda CR-Vs and their BMW X3s and their Audi Q3s and I think, Are you all mad? An ordinary estate or hatchback costs less to buy and less to run and is nicer to drive, more comfortable and just as practical. But it doesn’t take up so much bloody space.

The dude gunned his BMW 528i (of course it had to be a BMW) and shot down Commonwealth Avenue, ignoring the lights, honking at other cars, weaving randomly from lane to lane. “You missed a pedestrian,” I said. “You want to go back and hit her?” Randolph was too distracted to answer.

I concede that getting drunk and stuffing a wad of Delia's Play-Doh in the exhaust pipe of Theresa's BMW may not have been the best way to handle the news when he'd told me they were getting engaged, but letting her walk away with half my advance and my husband felt like salt in the wound.

It was like the outbreak of a fever just as the country stood at a crucial turning point And here I was, myself swallowed up by the very same capitalist logic, savoring Schubert’s Winterreise as I lounged in my BMW, waiting for the signal to change at an intersection in ritzy Aoyama. I was living someone else’s life, not my own.

I flash a fake smile of my own, refraining from telling her what I'm really thinking: that it's an unwise karmic move to go around feeling superior to other mothers. Because before she knows it, her little angel could become a tattooed teenager hiding joints in her designer handbag and doling out blow jobs in the backseat of her BMW.

From the safety of his BMW with tinted windows, he watched Hannah Young pull out of her parking space, seemingly in a hurry to leave work. He'd hoped to catch her alone, but the garage was too busy right now. He wasn't out of place at all, but he couldn't have made a move against her without someone noticing. And following her from the hospital wasn't an option. Traffic in Miami was too thick this time of day. Something told him she'd notice if he tailed her. Hannah was far too smart for her own good. She'd seen something she shouldn't have, and unfortunately he needed to eliminate her. It wasn't something he relished doing, but it came down to his life or hers.

I am so obsessed with the cars that sometimes I feel like my heart is not a muscle, it's an engine.

The bodyguard’s description of the shooting added a detail Poole had never heard before: That white Cadillac didn’t just pull up “alongside” the car Tupac and Suge were riding in, Alexander said, but was actually a little bit ahead of the BMW when the killer opened fire, allowing him to shoot at an angle that made it possible to avoid hitting Suge with a stray bullet.

So can I ask you a question?” She wraps a strand of hair around her finger and examines the end of it before dropping it to look at me. “Sure.” I pass a slow-moving BMW and get comfortable, glancing at her to continue. “Does the FBI monitor Google searches? Like, um, randomly? For normal people?” “Normal people?” “Non-criminal people.” “What kind of a question is that?” “It’s a real question!” “But why are you asking it?” “Because I Google some weird shit,” she says, blowing out a breath and shaking her head. “I keep expecting someone to show up on my doorstep and ask what the heck I’m doing, but I’m just a really curious person and all the answers are right there, you know? Just click, click and there’s your answer.” “I think you’ll be okay,” I assure her.

The path that leads through Latin and alebra is not the path to material success. But it may suggest much more: that understanding things is a waste of time; that if you want to succeed in the world and have a happy family and a nice home and a BMW you should not try to understand things but just add up the numbers or press the buttons or do whatever else it is that marketers are so richly rewarded for doing.

In the house on the other side of Jimmy live Rune and his wife. Ove wouldn’t exactly call Rune his “enemy” . . . or rather, he would. Everything that went to pot in the Residents’ Association began with Rune. He and his wife, Anita, moved into the area on the same day that Ove and Sonja moved in. At that time Rune drove a Volvo, but later he bought a BMW. You just couldn’t reason with a person who behaved like that

He was at that dangerous age when men suddenly notice that they’re going to die eventually, inevitably, and there isn’t a damn thing they can do about it, but that doesn’t stop them from trying, whether it’s shagging anything that moves or listening to early Bruce Springsteen and buying a top-of-the-range motorbike (a BMW K 1200 LT usually, thus considerably upping their chances of meeting death even earlier than anticipated).

Declan couldn't believe that Ronan had left him in the lurch again. His BMW has been parked in front of the town house where Jordan dropped Declan off (no point pretending she didn't know where he lived now), but by the time Declan got up a few hours later, it was gone. Declan texted him You leaving me to deal with Matthew today? and Ronan answered with only Dad's working, sweetie. Declan could've put his fist through the wall.

God entered the yellow church on the disabled ramp. He was in a wheelchair too; He had once lost a woman too. He was silvery. Not the cheap, glittery silver of a banker’s BMW, but a muted, matte silver. Once, as He was gliding among the silvery stars with his silvery beloved, a gang of golden gods attacked them. When they were kids, God had once beaten one of them up, a short, skinny golden god who had now grown up and returned with his friends. The golden gods beat Him with golden clubs of sunlight and didn’t stop until they’d broken every bone in His divine body. It took Him years to recuperate. His beloved never did. She remained a vegetable. She could see and hear everything, but she couldn’t say a word. The silvery God decided to create a species in His own image so she could watch it to pass the time. That species really did resemble Him: battered and victimized like Him. And His silvery beloved stared wide-eyed at the members of that species for hours, stared and didn’t even shed a tear. 'What do you think,' the silvery God asked the yellow priest in frustration, 'that I created all of you like this because it's what I wanted? Because I'm some kind of pervert or sadist who enjoys all this suffering? I created you like this because this is what I know. It's the best I can do.

And then something hit the BMW with such force that Alex cried out, his whole body caught in a massive shock wave that tore him away from the steering-wheel and threw him helplessly into the back. At the same time, the roof buckled and three huge metal fingers tore through the skin of the car like a fork through an eggshell, trailing dust and sunlight. One of the fingers grazed the side of his head – any closer and it would have cracked his skull. Alex yelled as blood trickled over his eye. He tried to move, then was jerked back a second time as the car was yanked off the ground and tilted high up in the air. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t move. But his stomach lurched as the car swung in an arc, the metal grinding and the light spinning. It had been picked up by the crane. It was going to be put inside the crusher. With him inside. He tried to raise himself up, to

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Blake.” Ayden tried not to laugh while he latched his keys to his pocket chain. “Put her down.” A sleek black BMW screeched into the drive and Matthias leapt out, not bothering to shut the door before he strode up full of quivering tension. “You called Matthias?” Ayden said. Blake pointed at the blond. “Tristan panicked.” “I didn’t—okay, I panicked.” A & E Kirk (2012-01-07). Demons at Deadnight (Divinicus Nex Chronicles series Book 1) (p. 222). A&E Kirk. Kindle Edition.

Misero un segugio esplosivo sulle tracce di Turner a Nuova Delhi, sintonizzato sui suoi feromoni e sul colore dei capelli. Lo raggiunse in una strada chiamata Chandni Chauk, e si lanciò verso la sua BMW noleggiata, fra una selva di gambe nude e brune e ruote di tassì a pedale. Il nucleo era costituito da un chilogrammo di esogene ricristallizzato e TNT in scaglie. Turner non lo vide arrivare. L'ultima cosa che vide dell'India fu la facciata rosa di un posto che si chiamava Khush-Oil Hotel.

Ronan hefted a gas can from the trunk, making little effort to keep the greasy container from contacting his clothing. Like Gansey, he wore the Aglionby uniform, but, as always, he managed to make it look as disreputable as possible. His tie was knotted with a method best described as contempt and his shirt-tails were ragged beneath the bottom of his sweater. His smile was thin and sharp. If his BMW was shark-like, it had learned how from him. “Declan’s latest. We’re meant to look pretty for her.

I pulled out, making the driver in the battered BMW coming up behind me gesture in my direction with an angry scowl. Now, now. He had plenty of room to slow down. I reckon that anyone who gets irritated by something like that needs to sort their life out. If you’re getting stressed out by having to brake slightly, what happens to your equilibrium when your pipes burst or your kid gets suspended from school or your mum is diagnosed with cancer? It simply isn’t worth the effort to sweat the small stuff.

The people who have got this spectacularly right so far are the guys at Amazon. You go to their site because it’s awash with shared information. The more information there is, the more people go there, and the more people go there, the more information they generate, and the more books Amazon sells. Of course, they are not afraid of open debate because, unlike BMW, they are not responsible for the product they sell. It will take BMW and British Airways a long time and a big deep breath to realise that they are part of the community they sell to.

Amsterdam, vanmorgen vroeg. Het duurde lang voor een stoplicht op groen sprong. In mijn achteruitkijkspiegel zag ik Samarinde zitten achter het stuur van haar stokoude BMW. Ze zwaaide naar me. Onze karavaan was op weg naar Schiphol en hier stonden we aan het einde van de nacht in een verlaten landschap te wachten tot we verder mochten trekken. Zonder dat daar aanleiding voor was trapte ik mijn rempedaal in, terwijl ik in mijn spiegel bleef kijken. In de rode gloed werd Samarinde nog mooier. Ik liet het pedaal los en de gloed verdween. Weer trapte ik de rem in. Een warme glans op Samarindes witte tanden. Haar glimlach vaag als het schilderij Extase van Mathijs Maris. Er is een Japanse uitdrukking die mukushoh heet, lachen met de ogen (heeft Samarinde me verteld). Samarinde mukushohde naar mij. Naast Samarinde zat Meija, die zich even vooroverboog om iets uit het dashboard te pakken. Ook zij kwam in mijn fantasmagorische gloed te zitten. Meija lachte naar me, niet met haar modellenlach, maar puur en oprecht. Ik dacht: in remlicht is ieder meisje mooi. En daarna dacht ik, van mijn hand een vuist makend: wat een geweldige openingszin voor een roman die ik waarschijnlijk nooit zal schrijven.

Girişim sermayederi bir kadın, bir akşam babasını otopark servisi olan şık bir restorana yemeğe götürüyor. Yolda giderlerken, babası, gösterişli bir BMW aldığı için kızını azarlıyor. Kadın, restoranın önünde duruyor ve inip içeri giriyorlar. Birkaç saat sonra baba kız restorandan çıktıklarında, otomobilin hâlâ park ettikleri yerde durduğunu görüyorlar. Fırsatı kaçırmayan kadın, babasına dönüp şöyle diyor: "Şimdi anladın mı? Restoranlar, gösterişli otomobilleri kapının önüne bırakırlar, çıkınca getirilmesini beklemek zorunda kalmazsın!" O anda otoparkçı kadının yanına yaklaşıp "Hanımefendi," diyor, "anahtarları vermemişsiniz. Otomobilinizi parka çekemedik.

Jane, how do you feel about doing something slightly illegal and definitely distasteful?" Gansey asked. Ronan's back was already sticky with the heat. The bird man's corpse was in the BMW's trunk, and undoubtedly a dreadful scientific process was happening to it. Ronan was certain it was a process that was going to only get more odiferous as the day grew warmer. "It depends on if it involves a helicopter," Blue replied, standing in the doorway of 300 Fox Way. She scratched her calf with her bare foot. She wore a dress Ronan thought looked like a lampshade. Whatever sort of lamp it belonged on, Gansey clearly wished he had one. Ronan wasn't a fan of lamps.

The difference between envy and jealousy is subtle but distinct, once you know the flavors and contours of both. Jealousy is wanting what someone else has, like for example, wanting the same kind of car or house as a neighbor. (Or wanting to be the man who owns your girlfriend’s heart rather than some WASP-y asshole who probably has a drawer just for all of his cuff links.) Envy is hating the fact that someone else has something you don’t, and hating them for having it, like wanting to slash your neighbor’s tires because he doesn’t fucking deserve a BMW and everyone fucking knows it, and if you can’t have it, then it’s no fucking fair that he gets to have one either.

Whenever Shirley was away, Mark and I would take full advantage. One day, we “borrowed” her BMW X5 and took it for a joyride. We thought we got away with it, till some store clerk remarked to her, “I didn’t know your boys drove! I saw them driving around yesterday.” Shirley came home and was determined to get to the bottom of it. She knew better than to ask us--we’d have some lame excuse. So she went right to Julianne. She knew she could crack her. “Did Derek and Mark take my car?” she asked. Jules didn’t even hesitate. “Yes! And they were smoking, too!” Mark and I stood there, our mouths hanging open. Not only had she told on us, she’d offered more details than were even asked!

The front door of the BMW opened, and a man slid out from the driver’s seat. Elijah recognised him immediately. Risky Bizness was tall and slender, a good deal over six feet, his already impressive height accentuated by an unruly afro that added another three or four inches. His face was striking rather than handsome: his nose was crooked, his forehead a little too large, his skin marked with acne scars. His eyebrows, straight and manicured, sat above cold and impenetrable black eyes. He was wearing a thin designer windcheater, black fingerless gloves, and his white Nike hi-tops were pristine. He wore two chunky gold rings on his fingers, diamond earrings through the lobes of both ears, and a heavy gold chain swung low around his neck.

When it passes us, the driver tips his cap our way, eying us as if he thinks we're up to no good-the kind of no good he might call the cops on. I wave to him and smile, wondering if I look as guilty as I feel. Better make this the quickest lesson in driving history. It's not like she needs to pass the state exam. If she can keep the car straight for ten seconds in a row, I've upheld my end of the deal. I turn off the ignition and look at her. "So, how are you and Toraf doing?" She cocks her head at me. "What does that have to do with driving?" Aside from delaying it? "Nothing," I say, shrugging. "Just wondering." She pulls down the visor and flips open the mirror. Using her index finger, she unsmudges the mascara Rachel put on her. "Not that it's your business, but we're fine. We were always fine." "He didn't seem to think so." She shoots me a look. "He can be oversensitive sometimes. I explained that to him." Oversensitive? No way. She's not getting off that easy. "He's a good kisser," I tell her, bracing myself. She turns in her seat, eyes narrowed to slits. "You might as well forget about that kiss, Emma. He's mine, and if you put your nasty Half-Breed lips on him again-" "Now who's being oversensitive?" I say, grinning. She does love him. "Switch places with me," she snarls. But I'm too happy for Toraf to return the animosity. Once she's in the driver's seat, her attitude changes. She bounces up and down like she's mattress shopping, getting so much air that she'd puncture the top if I hadn't put it down already. She reaches for the keys in the ignition. I grab her hand. "Nope. Buckle up first." It's almost cliché for her to roll her eyes now, but she does. When she's finished dramatizing the act of buckling her seat belt-complete with tugging on it to make sure it won't unclick-she turns to me in pouty expectation. I nod. She wrenches the key and the engine fires up. The distant look in her eyes makes me nervous. Or maybe it's the guilt swirling around in my stomach. Galen might not like this car, but it still feels like sacrilege to put the fate of a BMW in Rayna's novice hands. As she grips the gear stick so hard her knuckles turn white, I thank God this is an automatic. "D is for drive, right?" she says. "Yes. The right pedal is to go. The left pedal is to stop. You have to step on the left one to change into drive." "I know. I saw you do it." She mashes down on the brake, then throws us into drive. But we don't move. "Okay, now you'll want to step on the right pedal, which is the gas-" The tires start spinning-and so do we. Rayna stares at me wide-eyed and mouth ajar, which isn't a good thing since her hands are on the wheel. It occurs to me that she's screaming, but I can't hear her over my own screeching. The dust wall we've created whirls around us, blocking our view of the trees and the road and life as we knew it. "Take your foot off the right one!" I yell. We stop so hard my teeth feel rattled. "Are you trying to get us killed?" she howls, holding her hand to her cheek as if I've slapped her. Her eyes are wild and glassy; she just might cry. "Are you freaking kidding me? You're the one driving!

The story of the Lynch family was this: Once upon a time, a man named Niall Lynch had three sons, one of whom loved his father more than the others. Niall Lynch was handsome and charismatic and rich and mysterious, and one day, he was dragged from his charcoal-gray BMW and beaten to death with a tire iron. It was a Wednesday. On Thursday, his son Ronan found his body in the driveway. On Friday, their mother stopped speaking and never spoke again. On Saturday, the Lynch brothers found that their father’s death left them rich and homeless. The will forbade them to touch anything in the house — their clothing, the furniture. Their silent mother. The will demanded they immediately move into Aglionby housing. Declan, the eldest, was meant to control the funds and their lives until his brothers reached eighteen. On Sunday, Ronan stole his deceased father’s car. On Monday, the Lynch brothers stopped being friends.

For myself, I wouldn't have lifted a finger to own a Rolex, a pair of Nikes or a BMW Z3; in fact, I had never succeeded in identifying the slightest difference between designer goods and non-designer goods. In the eyes of the world, I was clearly wrong. I was aware of this: I was in a minority, and consequently in the wrong. There had to be a difference between Yves Saint-Laurent shirts and other shirts, between Gucci moccasins and Andre moccasins. I was alone in not perceiving this difference; it was an infirmity which I could not cite as grounds for condemning the world. Does one ask a blind man to set himself up as an expert on post-impressionist painting? Through my blindness, however involuntary, I set myself apart from a living human reality powerful enough to incite both devotion and crime. These youths, through their half-savage instincts, undoubtedly discerned the presence of beauty; their desire was laudable, and perfectly in keeping with social norms; it was merely a question of rectifying the inappropriate way in which it was expressed.

We'd reached the parking lot. Alex stopped. "You drive to school?" I demanded. He gestured me ahead of him through the break in the chain fence. "We don't all live five blocks away," he shot back. "It's eight, actually." "Fine,eight. And sometimes I walk." I pictured the stretch between Willing and Society Hill, where I knew he lived somewhere near Sadie. It was quite a distance, and not a particularly scenic one, especially at seven thirty in the morning. "Yeah? When was the last time?" He didn't answer immediately, leading the way now between the parked cars. He passed a big Jeep that still had its dealer plates, a low-slung-two-door Lexus, and a sick black BMW that all looked like just the sort of cars he would own. "April of last year," he admitted finally. "But it pissed rain on me the whole time, so that's gotta count for something." He stopped by the dented passenger door of an old green Mustang. "Your carriage, my lady." "Really? This is your car?" The door made a very scary sound when he opened it. "It's clean," he snapped, and I realized he'd totally missed my point. "It's amazing.

The automobile, like the all-important domestic façade, is another mechanism for outdoor class display. Or class lack of display we'd have to say, if we focus on the usages of the upper class, who, on the principle of archaism, affect to regard the automobile as very nouveau and underplay it consistently. Class understatement describes the technique: if your money and freedom and carelessness of censure allow you to buy any kind of car, you provide yourself with the meanest and most common to indicate that you're not taking seriously so easily purchasable and thus vulgar a class totem. You have a Chevy, Ford, Plymouth, or Dodge, and in the least interesting style and color. It may be clean, although slightly dirty is best. But it should be boring. The next best thing is to have a "good" car, like a Jaguar or BMW, but to be sure it's old and beat-up. You may not have a Rolls, a Cadillac, or a Mercedes. Especially a Mercedes, a car, Joseph Epstein reports in The American Scholar (Winter 1981-82), which the intelligent young in West Germany regard, quite correctly, as "a sign of vulgarity, a car of the kind owned by Beverly Hills dentists or African cabinet ministers.

По правде, Эмили была чудесная девушка, очень красивая, если это так важно, но с ней-то я и потерял невинность, а ни один разумный человек не женится на женщине, с которой он стал мужчиной. Это все равно как научиться вождению на раздолбанной колымаге и потом всю жизнь на ней ездить, хотя уже приобрел навык в час пик рассекать по оживленной магистрали на BMW. Из уважения к памяти Эмили я почти две недели ни с кем не спал. Вот оно как, Сирил. И будь у меня родной сын, я бы ему втемяшил: моногамия неестественна для человека, а под словом «человек» я подразумеваю и мужчину, и женщину. Что толку на пятьдесят-шестьдесят лет приковывать себя к плоти одного человека, когда ваши отношения станут гораздо лучше, если вы дадите друг другу свободу проникать в ту или быть пронзенной тем, кто вам приглянулся. В супружестве главное – дружба и партнерство, но никак не постель. В смысле, какой мужчина в здравом уме возжелает свою жену? Только не надо приписывать мне политические взгляды моего отца. У него их полно, а у меня, знаете ли, нет вообще. – Почему нас так ненавидят? – после долгой паузы спросил я. – Кому какое дело, если кто-то голубой? Миссис Гоггин пожала плечами. – Помню, один мой приятель как-то сказал: мы ненавидим то, что боимся найти в себе. Не валяй дурака. В нашей сволочной стране вообще нет нормальных людей. Приятно слышать. Хуже нет, когда взрослый человек винит родителей, среду и прочее в том, что все в его жизни пошло не так. В шумной толпе я задыхался от зловония спиртного, духов и табачного дыма. Я себя чувствовал малышом, безнадежно заплутавшим на карнавале, сердце мое пыталось выпрыгнуть из груди. – Вы не считаете, что институт брака себя изжил? – Райан окинул нас с Алисой таким взглядом, словно вдруг узрел две говешки в человечьем облике. Обладай я прозорливостью, я бы все это разглядел, но я не видел ничего, потому что всю свою жизнь был слеп, глух, нем и дремуч, был лишен всех чувств, кроме одного, которое управляло моими плотскими желаниями и привело меня к этому страшному месту, откуда, я знал, нет возврата. – Что вы за народ, ирландцы? – Он смотрел на меня как на клинического идиота. – Что у вас за страна такая? Вы там совсем с ума съехали, что ли? Не хотите, чтобы все были счастливы? – Наверное, не хотим. – Я не умел объяснить суть своей родины. – С вашей страной мне все понятно, – продолжила Эдда. – Я про нее читала и кое-что слышала. Дремучее, похоже, государство. Никто никому не сочувствует. Почему вы позволяете священникам все за вас решать? – Наверное, потому, что так было всегда. Он обнялся с родителями, что было выражением неведомой мне семейной любви, и посмотрел на меня с улыбкой, говорившей, что больше всех на свете он рад мне. Позже, когда я перешагнул на третий десяток и отличительными чертами моей жизни стали глубинное одиночество и угнетающая фальшь, я умышленно игнорировал все, что могло напомнить о непростых годах моего детства. Запомни накрепко... – он подался вперед и выставил палец, – в этой сволочной стране никогда ничего не изменится. Ирландия – поганая дыра, там правят порочные церковники-изуверы, которые держат правительство на коротком поводке. – Видали? – сказал я. – Эта сволочная страна ничуть не меняется. Всё тайком да украдкой. Ведь именно этого он и хотел – вытурить меня и вновь страдать из-за того, что все его бросили. Иногда мы даже делили молодого человека. Ох, не делай такое лицо, Сирил! Люди тридцатых годов были весьма раскрепощенные, не в пример нынешним. За семь лет я так и не смог полюбить этот город (мысли мои остались в Амстердаме, а душа – в Дублине), но в иные моменты, вот как сейчас, я понимал, за что его любят другие. Он всегда был красив и возраст его не портил, что характерно для тех, кто этого вовсе не заслуживает. Я по нему тоскую. Очень. Перед нами открывалось большое будущее, но его украли. Я уже примирился. Жизнь одна, и смерть одна.

I glance up and nearly squeal in shock as the same hunky mechanic stares down at me. How did he see me back here? This spot is super secluded, and no one ever sits here. “Can I help you?” I ask, pulling my earbuds out and taking in the broad width of his shoulders. Today, Mr. Book Boyfriend is wearing blue jeans and a black, fitted Tire Depot T-shirt. He’s much cleaner than he was yesterday in his dirty coveralls that made me reconsider the profession of my current book hero. “You’re back,” he states knowingly, his stunning blue eyes drinking in my yoga pants, T-shirt, and a baseball cap. “I, um…had an issue with one of my tires. The guys are fixing it.” “Which guys?” he asks, crossing his tan, sculpted arms over his chest. I have to crane my neck back completely to even reach his face he’s so tall. “I’m not really sure.” “Okay, well, which car?” he inquires, running a hand through his trim black hair. Damn, he’s really got that tall, dark, and handsome thing down to a T. He looks almost Mediterranean. Le swoon! I swallow slowly. “Um…I drive a Cadillac SRX.” “A Cadillac?” He barks out a small laugh. “Isn’t that kind of an old lady car?” My brows furrow. “It’s not an old lady car. It’s a luxury SUV. It’s wonderful. I have heating and cooling seats.” “Well, if you have that kind of money to spend on a vehicle, you should look at a Lexus or a BMW. Much more sexy feel to the body. You’d look pretty damn hot driving a Lexus LX.” “Maybe I’m not trying to look hot. Maybe I like looking like an old lady.” That was a really unhot thing to say, but Book Boyfriend booms with laughter and squats down next to me.

Algunos cristianos quizá objeten: ¿Acaso la Biblia no promete que Dios va a prosperar a su pueblo? ¡Claro que sí! Dios aumenta nuestra producción para que al dar seamos capaces de probar que nuestro dios no es la producción. Dios no prospera a un hombre de negocios para que cambie su Ford por un BMW. Dios lo prospera a fin de que miles de personas sin evangelizar logren escuchar el evangelio. Lo prospera para que veinte por ciento de la población mundial retroceda un paso del precipicio de la muerte que viene por inanición.

The truth is that our material possessions, rather than helping us understand our limits and our place in the world, regularly distort out perspective. Put a Coach purse or the key to a BMW M series or the latest Nokia gadget in our hands and it's not uncommon for humility, respect for other people, and appreciation of our environment to drain from out brains.

Jackie was sitting behind the wheel of her black BMW convertible when Kristen turned off Kessler Boulevard onto Winthrop Avenue. Her house, a small red brick bungalow, was the third one from the corner. She pulled her mini-van into the driveway behind Jackie’s car and shut off the motor. Jackie had already slid from behind the wheel and was hurrying toward her when Kristen opened her door. “What’s going on, Sis?” Jackie asked, wearing a semi-worried look on her face. “You sounded stressed on the phone.” “I wanted to talk to you before the girls got home from school,

We have to decide how to start our research,” Ashley said. “Like, should we look for information on the whole town, or just one specific area. Roo and I decided we should all focus on the Brickway.” “You decided we should all focus on the Brickway,” Roo mumbled, popping the tab on her can. Gage nodded. “Ashley’s right. If this is a walking tour, some kids in our class might not want to walk very far.” “If, in fact, anybody wants to walk on this tour at all,” Parker couldn’t help adding. “Come on…we’re not really going to do this ghost stuff, are we?” Ashley rolled her eyes. “Well then, maybe we should have transportation. Maybe we could use our cars?” “Our cars? Etienne and I are the only ones with wheels.” “What a perfectly brilliant idea, Ash.” Roo shot her sister a bland look. “Ghost BMW. No…wait. Ghost Truck. I’m all tingly with dread.” “Or Ghost SUV?” Despite Ashley’s wounded expression, Parker clasped his hands beseechingly at Gage. “Oh, pretty please, can we use your mom’s minivan?” Ashley’s lips tightened. “Parker, this is serious!” “Look, I know it’s half our grade.” Easing back down, he took a swig of beer and tried to reason with her. “But let’s face it--the whole thing’s pretty stupid. And impossible.” “It’s not stupid. And why is it impossible? All we have to do is research old places that might be haunted.” “And just how do you propose we do that? Oh wait, I know--let’s just knock on people’s doors. Excuse me, we’re doing a survey--are there any creepy ghosts living in your house? Ash, come on. We can’t force things to be haunted just so they can be close enough to walk to.” A disappointed silence fell. For several minutes everyone seemed lost in thought, till Etienne unfolded himself from the tree. “Don’t y’all know anything about your own town?” He walked over to the cooler and pulled out a beer. To Miranda, who watched him, he moved with all the grace and stealth of a predatory cat. “Well, I’m not going to flunk this project,” Ashley said crossly, “just because Parker’s an idiot.” Roo promptly frowned. “Where’s your compassion? Parker can’t help being an idiot.

I’m going to be so nervous tomorrow,” Ashley confessed, linking her arm through Miranda’s. “What if our whole class hates it?” “Then I’ll say I told you so,” Parker replied. Roo, Gage, and Etienne had moved several feet ahead to argue something about the script. Hanging back, Parker tried to swallow, but winced at the effort. “Anybody got anything stronger than cough syrup?” When no one responded, he pointed to his BMW parked along the opposite curb. “You know what? As sad as I know this will make you, ladies, I’m going home and to bed. Alone.” “Parker--” “Oh, yeah, right--I’ve got that stupid article in my car. Go on ahead. I’ll give it to Miranda.” “Parker, do you really feel that terrible?” “Christ, Ashley, my throat’s like raw hamburger. Is that terrible enough for you believe me?” The suspicion on Ashley’s face turned to guilt, and Miranda felt just as bad. They both knew Parker had gotten sick trying to save them. Maybe he wasn’t faking so much after all.

BMW means Brexit Made Wonderful.