Chicks Rule Quotes

Rule Number One in the India Savage Life Code: When in doubt or possible trouble, lie.

You'll get fired if anyone finds out about us!" "So many rules in this century," Vane muttered.

The first rule of Bi Club is that you can talk about Bi Club all you want, because most people won't believe it's real anyway.

So Nash and I went out and there were redheads and there were brunettes and there was even a super-hot chick that looked kinda like Pink but you think any of them did it for me?   No, Shaw not one because they weren’t fucking you and ever since you walked out on Sunday all I’ve been thinking of is you.   Now why is that?

We ordered food a few hours ago and worked through dinner. I had pasta with chicken, while Kate preferred a turkey club with fries on the side. Much as I hate to admit it, I’m impressed. Obviously, she doesn’t subscribe to the “I can only eat salads in front of the opposite sex” rule of thumb a lot of chicks swear by. Who gave women that idea? Like a guy’s going to say to his friend, “Dude, she was one fugly chick, but once I saw her chomping that romaine, I just had to nail her.

One peek and I melted. “Aww,” I said, cooing to the chick with the fluffy head. “It’s so cute.” Then it shit in my hand. “Ew, gross. Take this nasty thing.

New Rule: You're never going to pick up women at a coffee shop pretending to be working on your laptop. You don't look like you're sensitive, you look like you're homeless.The last guy to pick up a chick with an Apple was Adam. And when you sit across from another dateless loser with a laptop, it still doesn't look like you're working--it looks like you're playing Battleship.

Shaw is Shaw. She's so freaking beautiful it hurts to look at her sometimes, but she doesn't even know it. She's still untouchable because she's always going to be richer and smarter than we are, but she doesn't care about any of that. She's cool, she doesn't care that you're just you, and honestly, Rule, any chick who can put up with the headache that is you, well I'd put a goddamn diamond on her finger

ou know chicks before dicks. Never choose a guy over a friend. It's one of the most important rules of feminism.

Fuck buddies don’t have rules. It’s like being in a fight club. The first rule of fuck buddies is… there are no rules.” I was making this up as I went along. I had no idea if fuck buddies had rules. I’d never had a fuck buddy. I’d never even wanted one. Hell, I didn’t want one now!

...there were redheads and there were brunettes and there was even a super-hot chick that looked kinda like Pink but you think any of them did it for me?  No, Shaw not one because they weren’t fucking you and ever since you walked out on Sunday all I’ve been thinking of is you.

It was my bad luck (considering Lee's moral code was a bit sketchy) that I fell into Liam Nightingale's Ethical Rule Book at Rule Number Two (with Rule Number One being "Thou shalt not nail your brother's girlfriend"), I was "Thou shalt not nail your little sister's best friend.

Two must rule together, one for the night and one for the day. this is the way it has always been done.

That boy is a badass motherfucker. Badass motherfuckers get their coffee first. It's a rule at Fortnum's.

Eric Harris wanted a prom date. Eric was a senior, about to leave Columbine High School forever. He was not about to be left out of the prime social event of his life. He really wanted a date. Dates were not generally a problem. Eric was a brain, but an uncommon subcategory: cool brain. He smoked, he drank, he dated. He got invited to parties. He got high. He worked his look hard: military chic hair— short and spiked with plenty of product—plus black T-shirts and baggy cargo pants. He blasted hard-core German industrial rock from his Honda. He enjoyed firing off bottle rockets and road-tripping to Wyoming to replenish the stash. He broke the rules, tagged himself with the nickname Reb, but did his homework and earned himself a slew of A’s. He shot cool videos and got them airplay on the closed-circuit system at school. And he got chicks. Lots and lots of chicks. On the ultimate high school scorecard, Eric outscored much of the football team. He was a little charmer. He walked right up to hotties at the mall. He won them over with quick wit, dazzling dimples, and a disarming smile.

New Rule: Just because a country elects a smart president doesn't make it a smart country. A couple of weeks ago, I was asked on CNN if I thought Sarah Palin could get elected president, and I said I hope not, but I wouldn't put anything past this stupid country. Well, the station was flooded with emails, and the twits hit the fan. And you could tell that these people were really mad, because they wrote entirely in CAPITAL LETTERS!!! Worst of all, Bill O'Reilly refuted my contention that this is a stupid country by calling me a pinhead, which (a) proves my point, and (b) is really funny coming from a doody-face like him. Now, before I go about demonstration how, sadly, easy it is to prove the dumbness that's dragging us down, let me just say that ignorance has life-and-death consequences. On the eve of the Iraq War, seventy percent of Americans thought Saddam Hussein was personally involved in 9/11. Six years later, thirty-four percent still do. Or look at the health-care debate: At a recent town hall meeting in South Carolina, a man stood up and told his congressman to "keep your government hands off my Medicare," which is kind of like driving cross-country to protest highways. This country is like a college chick after two Long Island iced teas: We can be talked into anything, like wars, and we can be talked out of anything, like health care. We should forget the town halls, and replace them with study halls. Listen to some of these stats: A majority of Americans cannot name a single branch of government, or explain what the Bill of Rights is. Twenty-four percent could not name the country America fought in the Revolutionary War. More than two-thirds of Americans don't know what's in Roe v. Wade. Two-thirds don't know what the Food and Drug Administration does. Some of this stuff you should be able to pick up simply by being alive. You know, like the way the Slumdog kid knew about cricket. Not here. Nearly half of Americans don't know that states have two senators, and more than half can't name their congressman. And among Republican governors, only three got their wife's name right on the first try. People bitch and moan about taxes and spending, but they have no idea what their government spends money on. The average voter thinks foreign aid consumes more twenty-four percent of our budget. It's actually less than one percent. A third of Republicans believe Obama is not a citizen ad a third of Democrats believe that George Bush had prior knowledge of the 9/11 attacks, which is an absurd sentence, because it contains the words "Bush" and "knowledge." Sarah Palin says she would never apologize for America. Even though a Gallup poll say eighteen percent of us think the sun revolves around the earth. No, they're not stupid. They're interplanetary mavericks. And I haven't even brought up religion. But here's one fun fact I'll leave you with: Did you know only about half of Americans are aware that Judaism is an older religion than Christianity? That's right, half of America looks at books called the Old Testament and the New Testament and cannot figure out which came first. I rest my case.

Let me say something about that word: miracle. For too long it's been used to characterize things or events that, though pleasant, are entirely normal. Peeping chicks at Easter time, spring generally, a clear sunrise after an overcast week - a miracle, people say, as if they've been educated from greeting cards. I'm sorry, but nope. Such things are worth our notice every day of the week, but to call them miracles evaporates the strength of the word. Real miracles bother people, like strange sudden pains unknown in medical literature. It's true: They rebut every rule all we good citizens take comfort in. Lazarus obeying order and climbing up out of the grave - now there's a miracle, and you can bet it upset a lot of folks who were standing around at the time When a person dies, the earth is generally unwilling to cough him back up. A miracle contradicts the will of the earth. My sister, Swede, who often sees to the nub, offered this: People fear mirales because they fear being changed - though ignoring them will change you also. Swede said another thing, too, and it rang in me like a bell: No miracle happens without a witness. Someone to declare, Here's what I saw. Here's how it went. Make of it what you will.

And on the point-zero-five percent chance that I do lose, it'll get her on my bike, spreading her legs to straddle the leather and steel. No matter how much I've stuck to my self-imposed rule of "no chicks on the bike," that alone might be worth the small risk.

Girl’s Night Out still on for tonight?” Kitty Sue asked me. “Yep,” I said. “I’ll take some of that action,” Tex said. We all looked at him. “It’s Girl’s Night Out, Tex,” I explained. “So? What? Are there rules?” Tex asked. “Yes. The rule is, it’s a night out, for girls,” I answered. “Woman, you think I’m missin’ another bar fight or quick draw, you’re crazy. I’m comin’ out with you tonight.

Obviously, she doesn't subscribe to the "I can only eat salads in front of the opposite sex" rule of thumb a lot of chicks swear by. Who gave women that idea? Like a guy's going to say to his friend, "Dude, she was one fugly chick, but once I saw her chomping that romaine, I just had to nail her.

Trina and her consultants will be here by four to start setting up.” “Joy and—what? Who? Trina? Why? What have you done?” “You said no silly games, and no strippers,” Peabody reminded her. “We’re doing the full-out girl party. Champagne, decadent food, body, hair, face treatments. Chick-vids, presents, gooey desserts. Big girl slumber party, followed by champagne brunch tomorrow.” “You mean . . .” The shock was sharp and cruel, a stunner blast against the heart. “Overnight? All night into tomorrow?” “Yeah.” Peabody grinned around her carrot. “Didn’t I mention that?” “I have to kill you now.” “Uh-uh. No games, no strippers. Those were your only rules.” “I’ll find a way to hurt you for this.

Let me say something about that word: miracle. For too long it’s been used to characterize things or events that, though pleasant, are entirely normal. Peeping chicks at Easter time, spring generally, a clear sunrise after an overcast week—a miracle, people say, as if they’ve been educated from greeting cards. I’m sorry, but nope. Such things are worth our notice every day of the week, but to call them miracles evaporates the strength of the word. Real miracles bother people, like strange sudden pains unknown in medical literature. It’s true: They rebut every rule all we good citizens take comfort in. Lazarus obeying orders and climbing up out of the grave—now there’s a miracle, and you can bet it upset a lot of folks who were standing around at the time. When a person dies, the earth is generally unwilling to cough him back up. A miracle contradicts the will of earth.

I don't understand these rules. Writing rules. Eating rules. Studying rules. Loving rules. Everything in life seems to be governed by rules. Is that the only way to keep a person grounded? Does it really instil self-restraint or is it just a fear tactic that's used so that no one can fly to the highest realms of glory?

He was hungry, and his first thought was to collect a dozen or two gulls’ eggs to make a meal. But embryo chicks were forming in all of them. So he rowed out to do some fishing and was more succesful. He lived on fish from day to day and sang and whiled the time away and ruled over the island. When it rained he too shelter beneath a splendid overhangig rock. At night he slept on a patch of grass and the sun never set.

I worry about you too,” I said softly as I caressed her head resting against my chest. “You look tired.” Lark didn’t speak for a minute. When she finally looked at me, I saw a lot of different emotions swirling in those bright green eyes. “I feel like shit. I’m tired and dizzy. I can’t eat ninety percent of the food I used to eat. I feel awful, but I’m afraid to complain.” “Why?” “Maddy just had her baby and she was so tough about the whole thing. I’m surprised she didn’t give birth in the middle of the grocery store then go back to picking up things for dinner. Next to her, I’m a weakling. Also, Farah is going to be all brave and awesome too. I don’t want to be the whiner.” “First of all, Maddy’s got that natural breeder look about her. Some chicks are like that and you can’t let the exception be your rule. Besides, you’re having twins. You have more baby cooking to do than she did, so screw comparisons.” “I just don’t want people to think less of me.” “By people, do you mean Aaron?” “We barely met and got married and now I’m getting fat and I’m tired all the time. I don’t want him to lose interest.” “Oh, Lark, you’re so fucking stupid sometimes.” “Yeah, I know,” she said, grinning. “We have that in common.” “So true.” “Mom said that I’m like her and she had a guy like Aaron and she suffocated him and he ditched her. I know Mom sucks, but what if she’s right and I wear down Aaron and he stops loving me?” “Any man who would want Mom must be shit. Aaron isn’t shit.” “I know, but I get scared of messing up everything I have.” Kissing her forehead, I stood up and walked to the bedroom door. “Hey, Mister Clean, get over here.” Laughing, Lark followed me into the hallway where Aaron appeared, clearly loving his new nickname. “Listen up, Yul Brynner,” I said, sending Lark into giggles. “My sister is cooking up two kids that you stuck inside her. She needs more damn love than you’re giving. If you don’t do a better job of babying her, I’m going to have to replace you. Hmm, I just saw this guy Jake that I knew from high school. He’s ripped and works at the gym. The gym, Aaron.” My brother-in-law stared unaffected until I finished then he gazed down at his wife. Lark must have known what was coming because she started giggling. “My sweet muse,” he murmured and she laughed harder, “do you need more love than I’m giving?” Aaron swept Lark into his arms and cradled her like a kid. “Poor thing. I’ll just need to pay more attention.” As he kissed all over her, Lark stopped giggling and began moaning affirmations. “Good thing you obeyed because I think Jake might be gay.” After giving me a wink, Aaron gestured for me to go away. I was the one to obey this time. Leaving them to cuddle and more in the bedroom, I watched television and finished the popcorn. Professor joined me, but Pollack was wary. I think it was because I was always barking at her. In my defense, she started it.

Ramana Maharshi’s message was clear—we must first seek to understand ourselves. Without knowledge of our superior spiritual nature, we will remain tied to the trivial and mundane. In our present bodily consciousness, our situation is like the eagle in the story below. An eagle’s egg was placed amid a brood of chickens. Thinking it to be one of their own, the hens lovingly hatched it along with their own eggs. Consequently, the baby eagle which emerged from it grew up in the company of little chicks. The result was ‘monkey see, monkey do’. The chicks would say, ‘Cluck, cluck, cluck’, and the baby eagle would also cackle along. The chicks would flutter their wings and hop clumsily on the ground. The eagle would do the same, unaware of its God-given ability to fly at altitudes of 10,000 feet above the ground. One day, an adult eagle flew by. The baby eagle looked at it with amazement, and exclaimed, ‘Wow, what a majestic bird! How is it flying at such a glorious height with so much elegance?’ ‘That is an eagle’, replied the chickens. ‘It is the king of birds; naturally, its abilities are far greater. We cannot do what it can do.’ The baby eagle believed the chickens’ sermon, and it continued its pathetic life, fluttering and cackling like them. What a pity! It was born to rule the skies but had become conditioned to flutter on the ground. Like the eagle, we too were fashioned to sparkle in the magnificence of our spirit but became illusioned to wallow in the mediocrity of bodily conceptions. As a poet said: phūla chunane āye the bāge-hayāt meṅ, khāra jhāra meṅ dāmana ulaphā kara raha gaye ‘We had come to pluck flowers from the garden of life, but in the ensuing hustle and bustle of human existence, we ended up entangled in thorns.’ On realizing our soul nature, what becomes our potential? The next section provides the answer. The

Party guests, the very rich and their friends, had broken off into special little subcommittees of twos and threes. I saw a couple kissing on a Persian rug next to a coffee table full of red plastic cups, having reached a moment of perfect invisibility. Nobody cared that they were there. The party had reached the point at which the rules weren’t in effect anymore.

I seriously don’t give a crap how I get the pants; just that I get ‘em before my next class. A wet crotch is not the way to show Brittany I’m a stud. I wait at the tree while other kids throw away their lunches and head back inside. Before I know it, music starts playing through the loudspeakers and Paco is nowhere in sight. Great. Now I have five minutes to get to Peterson’s class. Gritting my teeth, I walk to chemistry with my books strategically placed in front of my crotch, with two minutes to spare. I slide onto the stool and push it as close to the lab table as possible, hiding the stain. Brittany walks into the room, her sunshine hair falling down the front of her chest, ending in perfect little curls that bounce when she walks. Instead of that perfection turning me on, it makes me want to mess it all up. I wink at her when she glances at me. She huffs and pulls her stool as far away from me as possible. Remembering Mrs. Peterson’s zero-tolerance rule, I pull my bandana off and place it in my lap directly over the stain. Then I turn to the pom-pom chick sitting next to me. “You’re gonna have to talk to me at some point.” “So your girlfriend can have a reason to beat me up? No thanks, Alex. I’d rather keep my face the way it is.” “I don’t have a girlfriend. You want to interview for the position?” I scan her from top to bottom, focusing on the parts she relies on so heavily. She curls her pink-frosted top lip and sneers at me. “Not on your life.” “Mujer, you wouldn’t know what to do with all this testosterone if you had it in your hands.” That’s it, Alex. Tease her into wanting you. She’ll take the bait. She turns away from me. “You’re disgusting.” “What if I said we’d make a great couple?” “I’d say you were an idiot.

What the hell was I thinking?  I’m an idiot. A moron. A dumbass. Weak and stupid and ruled by lust. You think it’s only guys that think with their dicks? Ha, no. I’m proof positive that chicks are just as susceptible to thinking with their pussies. I mean, look at me. On my knees in front of a man I literally just met a few hours ago.

Just my luck: one of the hottest chicks I’d ever met hated my guts. Or was she hot because she hated me? Maybe it was a bit of both. I didn’t want to examine that too closely. But it was probably both.

kissing, clawing at one another while a group of men watch and laugh, like these two women are an inside joke among the men. These images feel designed specifically for men who hate women. I gape at the computer as a paralyzing understanding washes over me: I was wrong. I was wrong I was wrong I am wrong. I thought the rules were different in my family, in this little world I’d made. I thought I was safe here. But the rules are the same as they’ve always been. I am back on the laundry room floor. I am back in line looking at a NO FAT CHICKS sign. I am sitting on the shoulders of a frat boy holding up my beer, singing,

Hawks do not play by our rules. You can never assume that a hawk, even one you raised from a chick, will forgive your mistakes—sometimes a single error ruptures the relationship forever. A hawk will not come to your rescue if you’re in trouble. A hawk will not comfort you if you are sad. What a falconry hawk will do, if you do everything right, is allow you to be their hunting partner—“the junior partner,” Nancy is quick to point out, for the hawk, with its exquisite vision and lightening responses, is always the superior hunter. “It’s a funny kind of relationship you have with a hawk,” Henry tells me weeks later. We are walking through the forest, and Mahood is keeping pace with us, flying overhead, then perching on tree limbs, looking down and keeping track of us below, what falconers call “following on.” Mahood is still immature, and Henry is well aware of the responsibility he bears for nurturing this young soul. But what is the nature of the bond you can share with a raptor? “It’s confusing,” says Henry. “It’s love, but all mixed up with nerves and hunger and the hunt. Humans love trying to keep up with superhuman things. It’s not like any other relationship you have with anyone else.” If you do everything right, a hawk will allow you to act as its servant. And for this, the falconer is profoundly grateful.

I bit my lip, pondering a dozen sinister possibilities as we walked into the family room. Maybe he’d kidnap them and drive over the border? No, he couldn’t troll for chicks with two kids in the backseat. Plus he hated Canadians. Maybe he’d drop them off at Jesus Camp and bring them back to me as little evangelicals? No, Richard and church didn’t mix. Too many rules about monogamy. So try as I might, I couldn’t come up with anything. Except that maybe, just maybe, he was being sincere.

I make a rule not to do chicks with fake boobs. I mean, who’s to say they are not men?

A failing economy, a surplus of dudes who can’t find chicks, and a brittle commie ruling class,” said Turnbull. “Oh, this is going to end well.

If you know this as a woman, you will be his peace: Men were made in the image and glory of God to subdue and rule over the world. Women were made from the glory of Man for the man to be his companion, help meet and peace in times of distress. This makes the woman answerable to one man and it's expected that a man is contended with one woman for this reason, a man will leave his family and cleave to his wife. WHY? The day a woman is married away from her father's house, she cease to remain a part of her house house without inheritance and identification. She takes cover and upon herself inheritance of her husband's house and name of her husband's family. Check yourself, if you are still unmarried, please leave witches alone, they are only good and killing. What is responsible for your inability to marry might be responsible for your inability to keep a husband. It could be the way you dress, the smell of your dirtiness, the way your tongue is unbridled, your commitment to people maybe the way you where brought up by your parents. The world created and changed gradually not by leaders or governments or religion but by the family. And the reason we have rivals is the woman. A man will love all of his children equally, but a woman will love one than the other. These rivalry creates turbulence in the subconscious minds of out children and they end up been social vices, bad politicians, untrained husbands, and disrespectful wives. If my errors in marriage can not be a lesson then I am failed person, hence I can boldly say I have experience in marriage. A young lady may respond to this post, saying "I am happy in my marriage and my husband loves me" well I will say no. Cause if you are truly a wife example you agree with all I have said above because that is the yarning of your husbands expectations. You are happy in your marriage because a Side-chick is giving him the peace you can not. Look, when you win every argument with your husband, just know someone else is losing argument with him.