Buchanan Bad Quotes

I was deep in a dream about photography-walking through a strange city with buildings that stretched so high they disappeared into the clouds. And every time I took a picture of one, it shivered and changed into something else. A sound came from a building behind me-a soft song. I started to walk toward it's open doors, but they closed. I would have to climb in a window- and then I woke up.

My momma always said bossy was good for a deputy and bad for everything else.

(...) I'm my very best self when I'm with him, but every day, I want him more than I need him. He taught me that love is patient, love is kind, love is calm and quiet. It's not a music video of big hair, big tears and erotic, electrical storms. It's two people pottering about a small flat making each other coffee. It's waking up every morning and feeling quietly delighted as you smell the sleep on his skin and observe the the way his tufty hair is framed by the pillow. It's sly hands sneaking up jumpers to stroke the silky skin underneath and wanting to share all your big news, bad news and pictures of especially adorable dogs. It's knowing that there's nothing that can't be talked over and solved by a walk to the park or a trip to the pub.

But I am scared. Everybody's scared." "You know what I mean, like scared scared. Like coward scared, like if you never went to begin with. But with everything you've done nobody's going to doubt you." Then she made a somewhat frantic speech about a website she found that listed how certain people had avoided Vietnam. Cheney, Four education deferments, then a hardship 3-A. Limbaugh,4-F thanks to a cyst on his ass. Pat Buchanan, 4-F. Newt Gingrich, grad school deferment. Karl Rove, did not serve. Bill O'Reilly, did not serve. John Ashcroft, did not serve. Bush, AWOL from the Air National Guard, with a check mark in the "do not volunteer" box as to service overseas. "You see where I'm going with this?' "Well, yeah." "I'm just saying, those people want a war so bad, they can fight it themselves. Billy Lynn's done his part.

You can always tell when a town has gone bad. People gather in little groups, talking in low voices. Their postures are taut and awkward. They have the look of those who have been brushed by brutality and do not know how to cope with it—a look of shame, as if they had somehow caused the violence that frightens them.

It’s harder than you think to admit your even occasional dissatisfaction as a mother without feeling instant guilt, an immediate sensation of shame for even suggesting you might not be happy when you’ve got a wonderful healthy child in this world who depends on you and loves you no matter what. It’s almost impossible to separate your “bad” feelings about the normal frustrations of post-baby life from your “good” feelings about the very baby who instigated the transformation. But it’s not realistic or healthy to deny the fact that a mother is a complicated person—or to deny that a mother is a person at all.

Last Sunday, our dear pastor informed the congregation that the peril for our community is far greater than homelessness. It’s these horrid voting requirements for colored men, only colored men. If a negro must prove his residency for three years at a freehold estate worth at least $250, how many black voters would we have left after the destruction of Seneca Village? One might say it matters little; as it stands the numbers are deplorable, merely 91 of 13,000 negro New Yorkers having the franchise. But we must start somewhere, and an appropriation of our village by the authorities would subtract 10 from that already pitiable colored voter roll. Ambrose, you voted for Senator Frémont of California, the first Republican on the presidential ticket! It may be your last chance to ever cast your ballot against slavery. Speaking of which—that defender of the curséd Fugitive Slave Act Buchanan was sworn in Wednesday! And now the Supreme Court has at long last handed down a decision for poor Mr. Dred Scott, the ramifications much worse than we had imagined. All in all, I would have to say this has been a very bad week for black folks. I can find hope only in the prospect that such severe reactionary measures may very well be evidence of the Court’s own sense of threat—that times are changing. I

Yes, I do. I think I'm very observant. I observe that the rash on your left hand isn't going to get better if you continue to use the same ointment. You're allergic to it. I observe that the gentleman in the third row on the left has a bad case of conjunctivitis-pinkeye, in the layman's terms. And the woman in the second row has a bag of candies in her purse, and she's trying to figure out away to eat them without making noise. They're M&M's. I also observe that your associate attorney at the defense table keeps looking at his watch and is very anxious to get out of here because he appears to have something going on with the court reporter. And I observe you're unzipped.

The Call of the Lord By Sue Buchanan, Tennessee Grits My young daughter Dana often visited her grandparents in a small Southern town where every day a siren blew to mark the noon hour. It was so loud that it terrified the poor girl and left her screaming. In order to soothe her and held her understand, her preacher grandpa (my daddy) told her the horn was to let the children know it was time to go home for lunch. He even suggested that Dana say the words “Go home and get your lunch” each time the whistle blew, which she would do at the top of her little lungs, albeit with the fear of god written all over her face. One Sunday, our entire family was packed into the second row of the church, listening to Dad deliver his sermon. He was pretty wound up that day, if I remember correctly. It was breezy and all the church windows were open. Well, right in the middle of his railing, and before we realized what was happening, darn it if that noon whistle didn’t blow. Dana stood up in the pew, turned toward the three hundred people in the congregation, and shouted, “Go home and get your lunch!” Do I have to tell you what happened? Church was over at that very moment. No benediction and no sevenfold amen! Later my preacher daddy, who had the world’s best sense of humor, admitted: “It wouldn’t have been so bad if half the congregation hadn’t shouted amen!

stopped after the sirens blared past him. Milo raised his head. Seeing no one, he darted from the garbage heap and raced down the road to his car. As he drove away from the abandoned building, he held tight to the steering wheel to keep his hands from shaking. Lyra had barely escaped being shot by her attackers, and he felt an overwhelming sense of guilt. He had put his love in terrible danger. This was all his fault. He never should have told Mr. Merriam about her. Tears flooded his eyes. Letting her go was the only way Milo could save her. TWENTY-THREE The good news was that the two men trying to kill Sam and Lyra were now in handcuffs. The bad news was that they weren’t the two men who had broken into her apartment. Sam drove her to the police station where the men were being processed. She stood in a tiny room behind a one-way mirror and waited while Sam stepped out into the hall to talk to two other agents. Ed, the man who had delivered the car, saw her and came in. “I looked at the car, and not a single bullet touched it. The perps were either lousy shots or Agent Kincaid was too fast for them.” Shaking his head, he repeated, “Not a single bullet.” Sam walked up behind Lyra and put his hands on her shoulders. “They’re bringing them up. Ready?” “Yes,” she answered. “Have they said anything?” “Yes. They want lawyers.” Two men were led into the interrogation room. They hadn’t even taken their seats when Lyra said, “They aren’t

I’m still eleven years old and still a scrawny dude. As much as I want to say being a ninja bulked me up a bunch, it hasn’t, but that’s a good thing since a beefy ninja would be weird looking. Buchanan School has been good to me. I was the new kid at the start of the year, but nobody really gave me gruff about it. Cool kids and sports stars fill the hallways between classes, and I do my best to stay off everyone’s radar. I’m what some people might call a “comic book nerd,” but I prefer the term “aficionado,” which means I’m more of an expert in comics and less of a nerd. It’s a term I learned from my cousin, Zoe. She’s the coolest cousin in the world, but don’t tell her I said that. I’ve become better friends with Brayden, the werewolf hunter, but I wouldn’t say we’re “best friends.” We’ve hung out a couple times outside of school to watch bad horror movies and make fun of them. Trust me when I say it’s a lot more fun than it sounds. Zoe came over once and even she laughed a couple times. About

Time and again, history has proved a very bad predictor of future events. This is because history never repeats itself; nothing in human society…ever happens twice under exactly the same conditions or in exactly the same way.17 So it is also with earthquakes. There are no cycles, no warnings, no signals, no precursors. The Earth starts shaking whenever it wants to.

...this book germinated in a dark season. It started not on some Norwegian height but in a deep and lonely valley. A winter, is how I describe it. I am not, now that I've been there, fool enough to romanticize that place and season. I am not masochistic enough to wish its return. But all the same, I met Christ there in ways I hadn't before. I stumbled into the fellowship of sharing in Christ's sufferings, as Paul calls it, and until I'd joined that fellowship I had no idea, really, what he was talking about. I'm not sure I know now. But what I do know is that Jesus is enough. He has been a good companion all the way through. I have no reason to doubt he will be a good companion for all that lies ahead. I hope there are still many springs and summers and autumns for me. I know other winters will come, and at some point settle in. Alas and amen. Too bad and so be it. The Man for All Seasons is here, and there. With him by my side, all is well, and all manner of things are well.