Buff Guy Quotes

Going back to the basis, the phrase ‘Fight Like A Girl’, and we’ve all heard that growing up. And by that they mean that you’re some kind of weakling and have no skills as a male. It’s said to little boys when they can’t fight yet, and it ridicules us. By the time we were born, the most of us hear things which program you to accept and know that you are less than your male counter part. It comes apparent in the way you’re paid for your job, it comes apparent when yóu are not allowed to go outside after a certain hour because you stand a good chance of getting raped while no one says that to your boyfriend. While women, anywhere, live in some kind of fear, there is no equality and that is mathematically impossible. We cannot see that change or solved in our lifetimes, but we have to do everything that we can. We should remind ourselves that we are fifty-one percent. Everyone should know that fighting like a girl is a positive thing and that there is not inherently anything wrong with us by the fact that we are born like ladies. That is a beautiful thing that we should never be put down because of. Being compared to a woman should only make a man feel stronger. It should be a compliment. In this world we’re creating it actually is. I remember this one guy who came to our show in Texas or something and he had painted his shirt “real men fight like a girl”, and I cried, because he was going away in the army next day. He bought my book because he wanted something he could read over there. I just hoped that this men, fully straight and fully male can maintain and retain all of those things that make him understand us, and what makes him so beautiful. A lot of military training is step one: you take all those guys and put them in front of bunch of hardcore videogames where you kill a bunch of people and become desensitised. But that is NOT power! I will not do that. I will not become less of a human being and I refuse to give up my femininity because that’s bullshit. I’m not going to have to shave my head and become all buff and all that to be able to say “now I’m powerful” because that’s bullshit. All of this, all of us, we are power. You don’t have to change anything to be strong.

I’m the same guy, yeah,” Zack says. “I just got really hot and buff all of a sudden. I would never abandon my gorgeous, stunning, slightly scary date.

I’ll leave you guys to get acquainted. Somebody show Leo to dinner when it’s time?” “I got it,” one of the girls said. Nyssa, Leo remembered. She wore camo pants, a tank top that showed off her buff arms, and a red bandanna over her mop of dark hair. Except for the smiley-face Band-Aid on her chin, she looked like one of those female action heroes, like any second she was going to grab a machine gun and start mowing down evil aliens. “Cool,” Leo said. “I always wanted a sister who could beat me up.

I started to fire back, but Tink suddenly appeared in the open doorway, and what the? He had one of those skillets just large enough to cook an egg in, and he was holding it over his head like a battle-axe. I was kind of surprised that he could carry the pan, but Tink was buff for a little guy. He had a six-pack—a brownie six-pack. His face was contorted in a silent battle cry as he started into the room. Wide-eyed, I shook my head. As much as I appreciated the effort, his interference would not end well. That small as hell frying panwas not going to do any damage. Thankfully, Tink froze and lowered the pan. A second passed then he zoomed out of the doorway.

NOTHING was as discouraging as seeing the buff guy in the kilt coming toward me along the top of that hotel bar. His skin was spray-tanned to a shade of orange that matched the leather of his sporran. He’d leapt onto the bar like it was nothing, and strode the full length in a cloud of baby oil scent so thick it even cut through the smell of beer in the air. He wore nothing but a tiny kilt that I’m quite sure no self-respecting Scotsman would blow his nose into, and a plaid tam atop a vivid orange wig. I think my heart broke a little at the sight of that wig. The stripper pranced down the bar, jig-stepping over glasses to the sound of an electro-bagpipe drone.

EVEN BEFORE HE GOT ELECTROCUTED, Jason was having a rotten day. He woke in the backseat of a school bus, not sure where he was, holding hands with a girl he didn’t know. That wasn’t necessarily the rotten part. The girl was cute, but he couldn’t figure out who she was or what he was doing there. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, trying to think. A few dozen kids sprawled in the seats in front of him, listening to iPods, talking, or sleeping. They all looked around his age…fifteen? Sixteen? Okay, that was scary. He didn’t know his own age. The bus rumbled along a bumpy road. Out the windows, desert rolled by under a bright blue sky. Jason was pretty sure he didn’t live in the desert. He tried to think back…the last thing he remembered… The girl squeezed his hand. “Jason, you okay?” She wore faded jeans, hiking boots, and a fleece snowboarding jacket. Her chocolate brown hair was cut choppy and uneven, with thin strands braided down the sides. She wore no makeup like she was trying not to draw attention to herself, but it didn’t work. She was seriously pretty. Her eyes seemed to change color like a kaleidoscope—brown, blue, and green. Jason let go of her hand. “Um, I don’t—” In the front of the bus, a teacher shouted, “All right, cupcakes, listen up!” The guy was obviously a coach. His baseball cap was pulled low over his hair, so you could just see his beady eyes. He had a wispy goatee and a sour face, like he’d eaten something moldy. His buff arms and chest pushed against a bright orange polo shirt. His nylon workout pants and Nikes were spotless white. A whistle hung from his neck, and a megaphone was clipped to his belt. He would’ve looked pretty scary if he hadn’t been five feet zero. When he stood up in the aisle, one of the students called, “Stand up, Coach Hedge!” “I heard that!” The coach scanned the bus for the offender. Then his eyes fixed on Jason, and his scowl deepened. A jolt went down Jason’s spine. He was sure the coach knew he didn’t belong there. He was going to call Jason out, demand to know what he was doing on the bus—and Jason wouldn’t have a clue what to say. But Coach Hedge looked away and cleared his throat. “We’ll arrive in five minutes! Stay with your partner. Don’t lose your worksheet. And if any of you precious little cupcakes causes any trouble on this trip, I will personally send you back to campus the hard way.

Claire started to unbutton her blouse and looked over her shoulder at Sam, who tried to discreetly sneak a peek at her. She reached down to the bed and picked up the nightshirt the hotel staff provided, per Lacy's request, an extra-large white cotton T-shirt sporting the hotel's name and logo in classy gray lettering. They also provided a pair of gray cotton boxers for Sam. He picked them up. "Not bad. They really thought of everything, huh?" "Yes, it was very thoughtful of Lacy. We won't have to sleep in our clothes," Claire agreed on her way to the bathroom to change. "Or in the buff, which wouldn't be such a bad thing," Sam said in a low voice. "I heard that, Sam," Claire yelled from the bathroom. "Wouldn't be such a bad thing." Sam called back. "That remains to be seen." She giggled. "Yeah, well you can't blame a guy for trying.

How many buff Asian faces do you see at a white party? It is pretty apropos that they call a party like that, since only white guys are allowed there!

Holy Goshness! She gasped mentally, quickly averting her eyes. For Being such a private and antisocial guy in normal everyday life, zonked out Harley sure didn't have a problem with wandering around in the buff.

EVEN BEFORE HE GOT ELECTROCUTED, Jason was having a rotten day. He woke in the backseat of a school bus, not sure where he was, holding hands with a girl he didn’t know. That wasn’t necessarily the rotten part. The girl was cute, but he couldn’t figure out who she was or what he was doing there. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, trying to think. A few dozen kids sprawled in the seats in front of him, listening to iPods, talking, or sleeping. They all looked around his age…fifteen? Sixteen? Okay, that was scary. He didn’t know his own age. The bus rumbled along a bumpy road. Out the windows, desert rolled by under a bright blue sky. Jason was pretty sure he didn’t live in the desert. He tried to think back…the last thing he remembered… The girl squeezed his hand. “Jason, you okay?” She wore faded jeans, hiking boots, and a fleece snowboarding jacket. Her chocolate brown hair was cut choppy and uneven, with thin strands braided down the sides. She wore no makeup like she was trying not to draw attention to herself, but it didn’t work. She was seriously pretty. Her eyes seemed to change color like a kaleidoscope—brown, blue, and green. Jason let go of her hand. “Um, I don’t—” In the front of the bus, a teacher shouted, “All right, cupcakes, listen up!” The guy was obviously a coach. His baseball cap was pulled low over his hair, so you could just see his beady eyes. He had a wispy goatee and a sour face, like he’d eaten something moldy. His buff arms and chest pushed against a bright orange polo shirt. His nylon workout pants and Nikes were spotless white. A whistle hung from his neck, and a megaphone was clipped to his belt. He would’ve looked pretty scary if he hadn’t been five feet zero. When he stood up in the aisle, one of the students called, “Stand up, Coach Hedge!” “I heard that!” The coach scanned the bus for the offender. Then his eyes fixed on Jason, and his scowl deepened. A jolt went down Jason’s spine. He was sure the coach knew he didn’t belong there. He was going to call Jason out, demand to know what he was doing on the bus—and Jason wouldn’t have a clue what to say. But Coach Hedge looked away and cleared his throat. “We’ll arrive in five minutes! Stay with your partner. Don’t lose your worksheet. And if any of you precious little cupcakes causes any trouble on this trip, I will personally send you

The three of them tested each other’s accounts by referring to a birthmark, then went on to further details of James’s buff physique. “Hey! There are little guys around,” I said. “Dial it back, sluts.” Inside a fort of blankets, Jack was reading George and Martha One Fine Day. Jen changed the subject, clearly miffed she’d been left out of the James sex club. Especially since—if you believed Dee, and I wasn’t sure I did, for she had been known to lie—even an uptight mouth virgin had made the cut.

Why do people bother putting themselves through this rigmarole in the first place? Because we are told that—to become who we want to be—we need to. To get in shape, we need gym membership. To get chiseled abs, we need the flashy gadgets. To get big pecs, we need the expensive, scientifically engineered training machine. To work out safely and in comfort, we need the designer training shoes. To get buff, we need all these protein pills, shakes and other supplements. Why are we told this? It’s all down to money, folks. The “experts” on the infomercials telling you that you need this kind of gadget, or that kind of equipment to develop your pecs or abs or whatever—they are the guys selling that stuff! The

What a quandary. You have seven hot guys lusting after your body, who want to turn your life into the porn version of Snow White and the Seven Buff Dwarfs. My heart bleeds for you.

And you shouldn't be---" I say, looking up and taking in his appearance. So damn hot. My throat catches. Words do not form. He's sexier than the ceviche I'm planning on making---slick and smooth, cool and hot. Confession: I may have a problem binge-watching rom-coms and steamy romances, hoping for my own meet-cute. If they happen in the movies, why not in real life? When I'm not in the kitchen, I watch them all, inhaling the happy endings---from Sleepless in Seattle to Pretty Woman to Sixteen Candles, the latter so politically incorrect and cringe-worthy today but made up for with the drool-worthy hotness that is Jake Ryan. Something about this guy reminds me of Keanu Reeves, with his razor-sharp cheekbones, mildly unkempt black hair that nearly touches his shoulders, two-day scruff, penetrating hazel eyes, and, from what I can tell---dressed in a casual but elegant fitted black suit---a buff body. I may have developed a slight Keanu obsession after I saw him in Always Be My Maybe, the story of him being the temporary love interest of an ambitious chef. Even though he played a douchebag version of himself, he was funny and hot as hell. Normally, I only salivate over recipes, but this feast for the eyes is clearly an exception.

After the show Humphrey Barclay, a highly talented Harrovian Head Boy who could act, direct, and draw cartoons, introduced me to John Cleese, a very tall man with black hair and piercing dark eyes. They were very complimentary and encouraged me to audition for the Footlights. I had never heard of this University Revue Club, founded in 1883 to perform sketches and comedy shows, but it seemed like a fun thing to do, and a month later Jonathan Lynn and I were voted in by the Committee, after performing to a packed crowd of comedy buffs in the Footlights’ Club Room. Jonathan, a talented actor, writer, and jazz drummer, would go on to direct Pass the Butler, my first play in the West End, and also write and direct Nuns on the Run, a movie with me and Robbie Coltrane. The audition sketch I had written for us played surprisingly well and, strange details, in the front row, lounging on a sofa, laughing with some Senior Fellows, was the author Kingsley Amis, next to the brother of the soon-to-be-infamous Guy Burgess, who would shortly flee the country, outed as perhaps the most flamboyant of all the Cambridge spies—for whenever he was outrageously drunk in Washington, which was every night, he would announce loudly to everybody that he was a KGB spy. Nobody believed him

didn’t mind the fencing. Maybe even liked it. “It’s like Darwin’s law got repealed. Call it the rule of the weak.” “Okay.” “You think women can tell which men are the fittest anymore? They can’t. You see a guy who’s really cut and buff and wearing a muscle shirt to show it off, and you can figure he spends all his time in the gym, but you know something? Odds are he’s a faggot.” “Or a WrestleMania champ.” Another flash of annoyance; I’d gone too far. “I mean, look at these guys.” He waved at the wall, at the hostages on the other side. “This country was made by guys like

A rustle of movement drew her attention to the open condo door. A tousled blonde head peered in. “Everything okay?” “I think so.” Amber eyes followed the destructive path of the combatants. “Men. Can’t train them to behave inside and can’t teach them to not piss on the furniture.” Arabella’s mouth rounded in an O of surprise. Surely she’d misheard. “Pee?” “Only my ex-boyfriend ever actually did that. He’s the reason why I moved. Fucker would get drunk, break in through the window by the fire escape, and pee on my stuff. I’d get mad. He’d apologize. We’d have wild jungle sex, and then I’d kick him out and tell him to never talk to me again.” Still couldn’t fathom the logic. “You had sex with a guy who peed on your couch?” “Less the couch, more like the kitchen chair, so nothing I couldn’t wipe up. And the worst part is the bastard would wait for me to wake up. I’d wander into the kitchen all oblivious like, totally in the buff, usually to find him munching one of my homemade cookies.” The crazy blonde’s brows shot up in an Aha moment. “Hey, wait a second. I wonder if that’s why he got wasted so often?” She’d just clued in. “He was after no-strings sex.” “I was actually talking about the cookies, but I think your explanation is more plausible.” -Luna & Arabella

Ten minutes later, Alex’s spare phone gave a beep. We all turned to look at it. I grabbed the phone and read the message aloud. “‘You’re most welcome, Aubrey. Keep sharing!’” Aubrey. That was such a distinctive name. “I know I’ve heard that name before, I just can’t remember where or how. Sound familiar to you guys?” They both shook their heads. I started pacing again as I tried to squeeze my brain for the memory. Alex sat down at his computer. He started to read off the screen. “Aubrey, Aubrey . . . wow, lots of girls named Aubrey.” Michelle watched me. “Was it during this case?” I nodded. “Maybe you heard it in court?” I shook my head. “No, I know I didn’t hear it in court.” I might not remember my own phone number, but I never forgot what anyone said in court. “Did it have something to do with this case?” Michelle asked. I stopped and stared at the floor. “No, I don’t think so.” Alex read from the screen again. “Aubrey Plaza, Allison Aubrey, there’s a town in France.” I stared at him. “You’re not helping, you know.” He glanced up. “Sorry.” But he kept scanning the monitor. “What about outside court?” Michelle asked. “I mean, when you were talking to reporters?” Something tickled the back of my brain. I had that frustrating feeling that it was hovering just out of reach. I tried to grasp it. And failed. “Damn it!” “Okay, let it go,” Michelle said. “You can’t force it. Talk about something else.” But I couldn’t. I kept pacing. Alex picked up their empty bowls. “That guy Marc was a lot smaller than this Aubrey dude. I thought models were supposed to be buff.” I’d noticed that, too. “At least more buff than Marc was. But as I recall, Golden said the agency was trying to get him to buff up.” Alex

Meanwhile, on Raghav’s wish list was a film company. He was a Hindi film buff, but he was not in any way star-struck. He simply thought it was a good business idea, and that the time was right. Vandana, who had a lot of connections in the film industry, was to be a part of the venture. Raghav launched the film company as a personal venture, though TV18 was a minority investor, with a holding of 20 per cent. In June, the Indian Film Company raised Rs 400 crore at London’s Alternative Investment Market, much to Raghav’s amazement. ‘Almost any guy with even half a track record and a gleam of new economy, media or technology in his eye could go to London, float a company which hardly did anything, probably even if revenues were zero, and pick up equity. We did exactly that with our film fund. We had no track record in the film business. Zero.’ But investors were more than willing to throw money around in 2007.