Chicken Joe Quotes

Saddling another person with a book he did not ask for has always seemed to me like a huge psychological imposition, like forcing someone to eat a chicken biryani without so much as inquiring whether they like cilantro.

Tenways showed his rotten teeth. ‘Fucking make me.’ ‘I’ll give it a try.’ A man came strolling out of the dark, just his sharp jaw showing in the shadows of his hood, boots crunching heedless through the corner of the fire and sending a flurry of sparks up around his legs. Very tall, very lean and he looked like he was carved out of wood. He was chewing meat from a chicken bone in one greasy hand and in the other, held loose under the crosspiece, he had the biggest sword Beck had ever seen, shoulder-high maybe from point to pommel, its sheath scuffed as a beggar’s boot but the wire on its hilt glinting with the colours of the fire-pit. He sucked the last shred of meat off his bone with a noisy slurp, and he poked at all the drawn steel with the pommel of his sword, long grip clattering against all those blades. ‘Tell me you lot weren’t working up to a fight without me. You know how much I love killing folk. I shouldn’t, but a man has to stick to what he’s good at. So how’s this for a recipe…’ He worked the bone around between finger and thumb, then flicked it at Tenways so it bounced off his chain mail coat. ‘You go back to fucking sheep and I’ll fill the graves.’ Tenways licked his bloody top lip. ‘My fight ain’t with you, Whirrun.’ And it all came together. Beck had heard songs enough about Whirrun of Bligh, and even hummed a few himself as he fought his way through the logpile. Cracknut Whirrun. How he’d been given the Father of Swords. How he’d killed his five brothers. How he’d hunted the Shimbul Wolf in the endless winter of the utmost North, held a pass against the countless Shanka with only two boys and a woman for company, bested the sorcerer Daroum-ap-Yaught in a battle of wits and bound him to a rock for the eagles. How he’d done all the tasks worthy of a hero in the valleys, and so come south to seek his destiny on the battlefield. Songs to make the blood run hot, and cold too. Might be his was the hardest name in the whole North these days, and standing right there in front of Beck, close enough to lay a hand on. Though that probably weren’t a good idea. ‘Your fight ain’t with me?’ Whirrun glanced about like he was looking for who it might be with. ‘You sure? Fights are twisty little bastards, you draw steel it’s always hard to say where they’ll lead you. You drew on Calder, but when you drew on Calder you drew on Curnden Craw, and when you drew on Craw you drew on me, and Jolly Yon Cumber, and Wonderful there, and Flood – though he’s gone for a wee, I think, and also this lad here whose name I’ve forgotten.’ Sticking his thumb over his shoulder at Beck. ‘You should’ve seen it coming. No excuse for it, a proper War Chief fumbling about in the dark like you’ve nothing in your head but shit. So my fight ain’t with you either, Brodd Tenways, but I’ll still kill you if it’s called for, and add your name to my songs, and I’ll still laugh afterwards. So?’ ‘So what?’ ‘So shall I draw?

Eating dinner with conservation biologists was like walking through a minefield of ethical decisions: grasslands have been overgrazed by steer raised for beef, and all cattle emit greenhouse gases though enteric fermentation; the poop from industrially raised chickens poisons the Chesapeake; the Amazon has been slashed and burned for soy--and don't even mention seafood. To this bunch of herpetologists, the sin of ordering shrimp lay in the bycatch--young fish, and especially sea turtles, caught in the nets and discarded, dead or dying.

With the mistaken premise that my stay-at-home work and his accomplished career required equal emotional energy, I couldn’t understand where he got the vigor to worry about his ego being rejected or his sex drive being ignored. For me, it was all hands on deck, between our kids and our house and our work. Sex, passion, romance, I thought, could certainly wait. And maybe some part of me reasoned that when I had suffered a loss, he had been too busy to support me. So what could he possibly ask of me now? But now, in the fresh mental air of my momspringa, I start to understand the kind of neglect John must have felt when I fell asleep in one of the kids’ beds every night or stopped kissing him hello and instead threw a preschooler into his arms the minute he walked in the door. At the moment I’m walking in his shoes: my children are cared for by someone else, my days are spent in rich mental exercise, I get plenty of sleep, and I go to the gym every day. In other words, I have the emotional energy to think about desire and how good it feels to be wanted. Yes, John had clean pressed shirts without having to ask, and yes, we had family dinners together that looked perfect and tasted as good, and yes, he never had to be on call when Joe started getting bullied for the first time or when Cori’s tampon leaked at a diving tournament. Yet while I was bending over backward to meet his children’s every need, his own were going ignored. And was it the chicken or the egg that started that ball rolling? If he had, only once, driven the carpool in my place, would I have suddenly wanted to greet him at the door in Saran Wrap? Or was I so incredibly consumed with the worry-work of motherhood that no contribution from him would have made me look up from my kids? I don’t know. I only know that in this month, when I have gotten time with friends, time for myself, positive attention from men, and yep, a couple of nice new bras, parts of me that were asleep for far too long are starting to wake up. I am seeing my children with a new, longer lens and seeing how grown up they are, how capable. I am seeing John as the lonely, troubled man he was when he walked out on us and understanding, for the first time, what part I played in that. I am seeing Talia’s lifestyle choices—singlehood, careerism, passionate pursuits—as less outrageous and more reasonable than ever before. And most startling of all, I am seeing myself looking down the barrel of another six years of single parenting, martyrdom, and self-neglect and feeling very, very conflicted.

It was because there was a certain amount of faith one must have to be able to get along in this world, maybe in any world. You had to have faith that the food you bought, the water that poured so easily and thoughtlessly from your faucets, the home you built around you was, well, good. The chicken breast you picked up at the supermarket would not poison you. The water from the magical faucets would not kill you. The walls and floors and ceilings you called home would not suddenly collapse in on you and become a prison of your doom. When you flicked a switch, the light would come on. When you arose in the morning, the sun will have risen with you. Faith.

The moment started moving, thick and painful, sweet like honey, and Casey closed the door to his car and walked around it, spotting Joe in the window. For a moment he waved and smiled, as natural as the two of them had been over the past six years, and then he stopped. He looked directly at Joe, his eyes narrowing as he tried to figure out what was different, what was wrong, and Joe was simply caught in the moment, a fly caught in honey, and Casey sighted him and looked him in the eyes… And knew him. Joe flushed, feeling young and vulnerable, and the smile that played at the corners of Casey’s mouth was… was not saintly in the least. His eyes were narrow, and one corner of his mouth was higher than the other; his easy slouch straightened up, and he moved sinuously, arrogantly, like one of the cats who knew that rat in the chicken feed was his for the taking. Joe just sat there, still caught, not sure what to do with this sight of Casey as adult, and beautiful, making his blood sing under his skin, making him shiver, making him ache, just by smiling in the sun.

Whoever orders chicken cordon bleu at Chonchy Joe’s Gasoline and Beef Jerky Emporium is asking for the intestinal challenge that they will soon face.

I'll play with you later, okay, Em?" Michael said. "But I have a shirt. And you said..." Michael looked at Joe. "Maybe we could put her in the field. With Weasel. Just for a couple of outs?" "Have you ever seen a girl play?" Joe said. "They can't catch. They scream when they see a fly ball coming. And they can't throw. They've got arms like chicken wings." Joe flapped his elbows and squawked. Emma stared at her sneakers. "She's not that bad," Michael said. "And they're bad luck," Joe said. "Everybody knows that. I'm not playing on any team with some dumb girl. And it's my bat, remember? So beat it, Pee-wee!" He shouldered the equipment bag and turned away. "I guess you'd better go home," Michael said. Emma went slowly back up the walk to the house. It wasn't fair. She knew she threw better than a chicken. She threw almost as well as Joe and a lot better than Weasel Malloy. Why hadn't Michael told Joe that? He should have made Joe let her play. He'd promised. He should have stood up for her. She kicked a stone into the flower bed. Then she sat down on the front steps with her chin in her hands. She wished the sun would stop shining. She wished a big black thundercloud would zap right over the Bombers' heads and rain their stupid ball game out.

Strike one!" Joe yelled. Emma stepped away from the plate. She wondered if anyone in history had ever struck out nine times in a row. Joe threw the ball back. "You're never going to get a hit," he said. "Swinging like that." "Like what?" As soon as she said it, Emma was sorry she'd asked. She knew he was going to say, "Like a chicken." Joe went into his crouch again. "You're swinging too early," he muttered. "What?" "You're way out in front of the ball." Joe's voice was so low Emma could hardly hear him. "Wait till it gets to you. But don't say I told you.

Nandos, KFC & Chicken Licken can co-exists and thrive in the same mall trading in the same commodity. You know why? Because they are different.

My brain is in pain with none of the gain what’s happening in my mind I can’t quantify or justify my lifestyle eatin’ me alive like Bug on a chicken thigh, my sex drive in a nose dive off the high board, don’t need the awards I’m prerecorded, exploited, I need to be Sigmund Freuded Bobby

Reaching Elm Street, Frank garaged the car and they went into the house. Aunt Gertrude was testing a roast chicken in the oven. “Humph! About time you three were getting home!” she said severely. “I was beginning to think this bird might go to waste.” “No danger.” Fenton Hardy grinned. “If the boys aren’t hungry, I’ll eat it all myself.” “Who said we aren’t hungry?” Joe retorted, sniffing the delicious aroma. “Mmm! Aunt Gertrude, you sure know how to cook poultry.” “Never mind buttering me up,” she said. “You boys had a phone call, by the way.

In the yard, I was startled by one of the free-ranging hogs that came around the side of the house and grunted at me, perhaps hoping I had an apple or something. It was the big black-and-white one. I started to reach out and pet it, but since it was gonna be eaten in the fall, I hesitated. It never set well with me to get friendly with something I planned to have on a plate with a side of new potatoes and collard greens. I felt it was proper to have a solid understanding between person and hog that no friendship was involved, though if the hog had known the true nature of its arrangement, I’m sure it would have found reason to depart for parts unknown, maybe taking the other hog and chickens with him. Besides, petting a wet hog, be it friend or supper, is stinky business.

She had always known life was hard in these slums, but if she had thought about it at all, she had pictured a romantic version. A version that was easy to live with. Pretty children, giggling as they frolicked in the gutters. Old women cackling as they boiled bones in a pot. Strapping men slapping one another on the back, singing good old work songs in harmony as they sat around a fire made from their last sticks of furniture. Oh, the sisterhood, the spirit, the nobility of poverty! It turned out there was nothing romantic about shitting in a bucket while someone else watched. Nothing spirited about hoarding the bones from the chicken for tomorrow’s dinner. Nothing sisterly about the women who tore at each other over scraps scavenged on the great rubbish heaps. Nothing noble in the cramps you got from rotten water at the pump, or the lice you picked from your armpits, or being endlessly cold, endlessly hungry, endlessly scared.

Chicken fingers are a messed-up dish because chickens don’t have fingers. You’re eating a chicken and mocking it for a lack of appendages.

The group picked up the picnic hamper from the Queen and strolled down a narrow path through the woods leading to Willow River. “Here’s a good spot.” Callie pointed to a shaded level area along the bank. “We haven’t been in this section before.” Soon everyone was enjoying the delicious lunch the girls had prepared: chicken sandwiches, potato salad, chocolate cake, and lemonade. While they were eating, the girls were the targets of good-natured kidding. “Boy!” Joe exclaimed as he finished his piece of cake. “This is almost as good as my mother and Aunt Gertrude make.” “That’s a compliment!” Chet said emphatically. Callie’s eyes twinkled. “I know it is. Joe’s mother and aunt are the best cooks ever!” Iola sniffed. “I don’t know about this compliment stuff. There’s something on your mind, Joe Hardy!” Joe grinned. “How are you on apple pie and cream puffs and—?” “Oh, stop it!” Iola commanded. “Otherwise, you won’t get a second piece of cake!” “I give up.” Joe handed over his paper plate.

Aman folded his arms and stubbornly stood his ground. After a while, he finally sat down, but his scowl wouldn’t go away. “This is nice,” Adli murmured. “It’s kind of like having a picnic, you know? Speaking of picnics, I could really use a bowl of ais kacang right now. And nasi lemak. With chicken rendang. What about you guys? What do you want?” “Freedom,” Joe answered. “A cigarette,” Zurin replied.

Kevin's mother opted to call the old man at the dog pound as her curiosity was overwhelmingly piqued. “Hello,” the old man responded on the other end of the phone, “Corbin County dog pound. My name is Joe and how can we help you today?”   “Hi Joe, I came in a month or so ago with my son and we got the dog you named 'Fire'.   “Yes ma'am”, he replied happily, “I'm glad you called...been wondering how old 'Fire' has been doing. How can I help you?”  She took a deep breath and asked, “Well Joe, I'm curious about just one  thing and thought you might know the answer. What kind of mutt is 'Fire'?” The old man softly chuckled before replying. “Ma'am, 'Fire' isn't a mutt.” Confused she continued, “If she's not a mutt, what kind of dog is she?” He chuckled again and replied, “Fire's momma' and daddy are both show dogs.  Fire is a full-bred Collie.

oat soup recipe. Ah, heck. I’ll give you the recipe anyway. Bring twelve cups of chicken stock to a boil. Add six sliced carrots, three sliced parsley roots, one cup of peas, one cup of diced onion, two tablespoons of canola oil, two tablespoons of soy sauce, two mashed garlic cloves, and two cups of rolled oats. Simmer for forty minutes and add salt and pepper to taste. I bet even Baby Bear would love it.