Buddy Daddies Quotes

Alec tugged at the front of Max’s sailor suit. “That’s a lot of ribbons there, buddy.” Max nodded sadly. “Too much ribbons.” “What happened to your sweater?” “That’s a fine question, Alexander. Allow me to unfold to you the tale. Max rolled his sweater in the cat litter,” Magnus related. “So he could ‘look like Daddy.’ Thus he must wear the sailor suit of shame. I don’t make the rules. Oh, wait, yes, I do.” He waved a reproving finger at Max, who laughed again and tried to grab for the glitter of rings.

Whenever I think of all the people we've baptized over the years, I always recall a conversation Jep had with on of his buddies in the backseat of our car when he was really young. Jep's friend Harvey asked him what it meant to be a christian. "Well, when you get to be about thirteen or fourteen years old, my daddy will sit you down and study the Bible with you," Jep told him. "He'll make sure you know what he's talking about. And then he'll tell you that Jesus is going to be your Lord and when that happens, you can't act bad anymore. If you say yes, we're all going down to the river. We'll be so excited that we'll be skipping down there. My daddy will put you under the water, but he won't drown you. He'll bring you back up and everybody will be clapping and smiling. That's what he'll do.

Jack took two steps towards the couch and then heard his daughter’s distressed wails, wincing. “Oh, right. The munchkin.” He instead turned and headed for the stairs, yawning and scratching his messy brown hair, calling out, “Hang on, chubby monkey, Daddy’s coming.” Jack reached the top of the stairs. And stopped dead. There was a dragon standing in the darkened hallway. At first, Jack swore he was still asleep. He had to be. He couldn’t possibly be seeing correctly. And yet the icy fear slipping down his spine said differently. The dragon stood at roughly five feet tall once its head rose upon sighting Jack at the other end of the hallway. It was lean and had dirty brown scales with an off-white belly. Its black, hooked claws kneaded the carpet as its yellow eyes stared out at Jack, its pupils dilating to drink him in from head to toe. Its wings rustled along its back on either side of the sharp spines protruding down its body to the thin, whip-like tail. A single horn glinted sharp and deadly under the small, motion-activated hallway light. The only thing more noticeable than that were the many long, jagged scars scored across the creature’s stomach, limbs, and neck. It had been hunted recently. Judging from the depth and extent of the scars, it had certainly killed a hunter or two to have survived with so many marks. “Okay,” Jack whispered hoarsely. “Five bucks says you’re not the Easter Bunny.” The dragon’s nostrils flared. It adjusted its body, feet apart, lips sliding away from sharp, gleaming white teeth in a warning hiss. Mercifully, Naila had quieted and no longer drew the creature’s attention. Jack swallowed hard and held out one hand, bending slightly so his six-foot-two-inch frame was less threatening. “Look at me, buddy. Just keep looking at me. It’s alright. I’m not going to hurt you. Why don’t you just come this way, huh?” He took a single step down and the creature crept forward towards him, hissing louder. “That’s right. This way. Come on.” Jack eased backwards one stair at a time. The dragon let out a warning bark and followed him, its saliva leaving damp patches on the cream-colored carpet. Along the way, Jack had slipped his phone out of his pocket and dialed 9-1-1, hoping he had just enough seconds left in the reptile’s waning patience. “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” “Listen to me carefully,” Jack said, not letting his eyes stray from the dragon as he fumbled behind him for the handle to the sliding glass door. He then quickly gave her his address before continuing. “There is an Appalachian forest dragon in my house. Get someone over here as fast as you can.” “We’re contacting a retrieval team now, sir. Please stay calm and try not to make any loud noises or sudden movements–“ Jack had one barefoot on the cool stone of his patio when his daughter Naila cried for him again. The dragon’s head turned towards the direction of upstairs. Jack dropped his cell phone, grabbed a patio chair, and slammed it down on top of the dragon’s head as hard as he could.

Unlike some of his buddies, Truely had never been afraid of books. Following his daddy's example, he had read the newspaper every day of his life since the sixth grade, starting with the sports page. He had a vague idea what was going on in the world. It was true that Truely could generally nail a test, took a certain pride in it, but he was also a guy who like to dance all night to throbbing music in makeshift clubs off unlit country roads. He liked to drink a cold beer on a hot day, maybe a flask of Jack Daniel's on special occasions. He wore his baseball cap backwards, his jeans ripped and torn--because they were old and practically worn-out, not because he bought them that way. His hair was a little too long, his boots a little too big, his aspirations modest. He preferred listening to talking--and wasn't all that great at either. He like barbecue joints more than restaurants. Catfish and hush puppies or hot dogs burned black over a campfire were his favorites. He preferred simple food dished out in large helpings. He liked to serve himself and go for seconds.

If you kill yourself, then every minute of your life has been wasted.” “I don’t know how,” he said. “How to live anymore.” “When I got stuck or confused, you used to say, ‘We'll figure it out.’ I love you, Daddy. My mom did, too, and Gramma. I hate to admit it, but Trish does, your buddies do. With so many people loving you, I know we'll figure it out.

It belonged to my daddy,” Buddy Lee said. He didn’t offer any other explanation than those five words. Ike didn’t need one. The knife had belonged to Buddy Lee’s father. That explained it all.

Thanks, Buddy,” DADDIE said. “I’m glad we had this little chat.” “You’re welcome, Daddy. Say, who is decanting next? I had Martha on my scorecard, but with, yours truly, up and running, I figured you’d probably have changed the order around.” “Yes, Martha’s next. I figure it is fifty-fifty odds that you’ll probably break something on that shell of yours, and she’ll need to fix it.” “Sweet,” Jason said. “She gives me all the cool space bandages when I get boo-boos.” DADDIE smiled. “Well, I’m using your roster, so be prepared. Li Mei will decant after that, and she’s gunning for your job.” Jason smiled and flexed. “Bring it. No one can match my awesomeness.” DADDIE nodded and said, “Good, that’s what I want to hear. If everyone has that attitude, we’ll do just fine, never mind what Lloyd’s of London said.

How do you answer, “Daddy, why are you a stand-up chameleon?” or “Why don’t dogs get the chicken pops?” When my son Jack was four, he pointed to a car antenna and said, “Look, Daddy, stick.” I clarified: “Actually, that is an antenna.” Jack then asked, “What’s an antenna?” After realizing I had no idea how an antenna worked, I explained, “It’s a … stick. A metal stick. You nailed it, buddy.” Even

After emotionally scarring the fourth college student with this shame tactic, I sat Zion down and explained: “Son, let me be more clear about our rule: You can’t say the word ‘stupid.’ Other people can.” This simply didn’t compute in my rule-following, cautious firstborn. So I made another run at it: “It’s like this, buddy. Do Mommy and Daddy let you play with knives?” He shook his head with furrowed brow. “No,” I continued, “because they’re sharp and they could hurt you. But one day, you’ll be old enough where you’ll be able to use a knife without hurting yourself and without Mommy and Daddy’s permission. It’s just right now, you can’t handle a knife. It could hurt you or you could hurt other people with it. But one day, you’ll be able to handle it.” He nodded. So I continued: “Words are the same way, buddy. They’re sharp, powerful. And there are just some words that you’re not ready to handle yet. Like the word ‘stupid.’ But one day, when you’re older, you’ll know exactly how to use words like ‘stupid’ in a way that doesn’t hurt you or anyone around you. But that day isn’t today.” I think God’s command in Genesis 2 is the same. It’s not that Adam and Eve could never eat from the tree, but not today. They just couldn’t handle it. And God knew it. So he forbade it.

Last year I caught Mark copying Jack Connelly’s homework on the bus. He pretended like it was no big deal in front of his buddies, but when I threatened to tell his mama, Mrs. Findley, he started boohooing like a little baby. The dumbest part is that Jack Connelly is easily the least smart person in our grade. If Mark’s a troglodyte, Jack is king of the troglodytes. Mark gapes at me and shakes his head disgustedly. “Geez, Annemarie, why’d you have to bring that up? You started it.” “I was just foolin’, and if you weren’t so dense, you’d know better than to criticize a girl’s looks. It’s degrading, and it’s, well, it’s sexist.” I raise my eyebrows high and dare him to disagree. “What a load of crap. You can say whatever you want to me, and I can’t say jack to you?” Mark says, shaking his head again. “That’s dumb.” “That’s the way it goes,” I say. “And anyway, you didn’t have to rub it in about Celia. I know she’s prettier than me.” My sister Celia is the kind of girl whose hair curls just right in a ponytail. She is smaller than me, the kind of small that boys want to scoop up and hold on to real tight. I am too tall for even my daddy to scoop up anymore, much less a sixth grade boy. Boys like Celia; they go crazy

Yes. Fell in love with JB Peterson. Fell in love. You know, that manly kind of love. Bromance. He kinda looks like Jeremy Irons. And he says he liked to drink a lot, at least a few decades ago. And he even says the right words, too. He says, tell the truth, listen to your conscience, face your fears. He says he HAS a conscience. But follow through? No. Not much follow through. He starts talking shit about Marxists, and then a real academic wants to debate him, and what does he do? What does Peterson do? He goes back to his fucking Pinocchio cartoons and talking shit about Marxists with some dumb cunt in Madrid instead of facing the dude (Wolff) in Idaho. My heart is broken. Another fucking coward. Reminds me of my daddy. And now this dumb cunt (Peterson) is in a Russian rehab. Hopefully they’ll talk some sense into him there. I could probably debate him in my sleep, and possibly drunk, simultaneously. Grow up, buddy. And stop doing drugs.

When my son Jack was four, he pointed to a car antenna and said, “Look, Daddy, stick.” I clarified: “Actually, that is an antenna.” Jack then asked, “What’s an antenna?” After realizing I had no idea how an antenna worked, I explained, “It’s a … stick. A metal stick. You nailed it, buddy.

Thank you, Liam.” His almost innocent gesture is so tender it makes me shudder. I have to blink a few times to remind myself this is a job. Thinking about emotions is pointless. “You’re welcome.” I give him my most charming beam and a wink. “Book me again if you had a good time, yeah?” His grin makes the crow’s feet that are just appearing at the corners of his eyes more obvious. I like them on the man, though. I don’t think I have a type, but a ‘daddy’ is definitely not one I’d normally go for. But then, he’s probably only ten, fifteen years older than me. Hell, shut up, Liam. Quit over-analysing. It’s not like this hot guy is going to be interested in you beyond paid-for sex. I’m probably horny, missing a lover or a regular fuck buddy who would be better than nobody. I miss one person most but he’s gone, found his true love and he’s doing well. I am happy for him despite the ache inside me when I think back to the hard times I shared with Sasha and the love I felt for him. Some days I wish I could turn back the clock. By the time I told Sasha I loved him, it was too late, but regrets are a luxury for someone like me.

Was it something I said?” Roth mused. “I was just pointing out the obvious.” Slowly, I lifted my head and looked at him. “What?” He grinned impishly. “Come on. You don’t look like the type of girl who watches football, hangs out with the cool crowd and ends up deflowered by the senior jock in the back of his daddy’s Beamer.” “Deflowered?” “Yeah, you know. Losing that pesky thing called virginity.” Fire swept over my skin. I pivoted around, heading toward the gym doors. Wasn’t like I didn’t know what deflowered meant. I just couldn’t believe he’d actually used that word in the twenty-first century. Or that I was even having a conversation about virginity with him. Roth caught my arm. “Hey. That’s a compliment. Trust me. He’s on the fast track to Hell anyway. Just like his daddy.” “Good to know,” I managed to respond coolly, “but would you please let go of my arm? I have to get to class.” “I’ve got a better idea.” Roth leaned in. Dark locks of hair fell into those golden eyes. “You and I are going to have some fun.” My teeth hurt from how hard I was grinding them. “Not in this lifetime, buddy.” He looked offended. “What do you think I’m suggesting? I wasn’t planning on getting you drunk and having my way with you in the back of a Beamer like Gareth is. Then again, I guess it could be worse. He could be planning it in the back of a Kia.” I blinked. “What?

Yeaaaaaaaa!” That was Lindsey. She slid down the bannister. Madeleine ran downstairs next. Then Buddy and Taylor came up from the basement. “Daddy! Pick me up!

don’t have a dog no more since Buddy got hit by that bookmobile last year.