Bmw Sayings And Quotes

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.

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.

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,

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

The vulnerability in her eyes warned him he’d better be very, very careful. One wrong move and she’d jump in that little BMW and shake the dust of Virgin River off the soles of her shoes, the town’s medical needs notwithstanding. He reminded himself constantly that this was one reason he hadn’t sprung the cabin on her yet. Walking away from her last week after Joy’s party had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done. He had wanted nothing so much as to crush her to him and say, It’s going to be all right—I can make it all right, all good. Give me a chance. Doc

crossed her arms and stared back at him. “I really don’t have to tell you anything.” “No, you really don’t.” He pointed to the cops and detectives. “But those guys you do. And I’d have a better story prepared than the bullshit you just tried to feed me.” Myers rose. “I need to attend to some things.” “I’m sure. Calling a really good lawyer should be first on the list.” She hurried from the room and disappeared down the hall to her office. On a hunch Puller went over to the bar where one of the waiters was sitting looking exhausted. He held up his set of keys and said, “Ms. Myers asked me to get something from her car, but she was so distraught she forgot to tell me what make and model.” The man said, “Oh, it’s the blue BMW 750. License plate says ‘Grunt.’ She parks it in the back lot.” “Thanks.

Test-drive employees Interviews are only worth so much. Some people sound like pros but don’t work like pros. You need to evaluate the work they can do now, not the work they say they did in the past. The best way to do that is to actually see them work. Hire them for a miniproject, even if it’s for just twenty or forty hours. You’ll see how they make decisions. You’ll see if you get along. You’ll see what kind of questions they ask. You’ll get to judge them by their actions instead of just their words. You can even make up a fake project. In a factory in South Carolina, BMW built a simulated assembly line where job candidates get ninety minutes to perform a variety of work-related tasks.* Cessna, the airplane manufacturer, has a role-playing exercise for prospective managers that simulates the day of an executive. Candidates work through memos, deal with (phony) irate customers, and handle other problems. Cessna has hired more than a hundred people using this simulation.† These companies have realized that when you get into a real work environment, the truth comes out. It’s one thing to look at a portfolio, read a resumé, or conduct an interview. It’s another to actually work with someone.

BMW’s Chris Bangle says, “We don’t make ‘automobiles.’” BMW makes “moving works of art that express the driver’s love of quality.

I wasn’t simply coming up with an easy excuse when I mentioned procrastination. There were all sorts of minor and not-so-minor chores I really had been putting off, including taking clothes to the dry cleaner, catching up with some of the routine housework, getting some essentials from the drug store, working with the gardener to change some plants, and scheduling routine car maintenance for my BMW that had indicated it needed to be done nearly ten days ago. I had no legitimate excuse for not doing any of this. Thankfully, I was well. I had no job at the moment, and there was nothing else more important cramming my attention. No one had to explain to me that my lack of enthusiasm was characteristic of deepening depression either. I had read enough about it and the symptomatic behavior which usually centered around obsessive eating or drinking as well as sleeping too much. But as the song says, Along came Jones and – voila! – my depression, although not completely gone, had dissipated considerably.

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.