Cky Quotes

It was clear just how much Tommy loved the city. New York City. The CKY Grocery on Amsterdam had giant, bright red Spartan apples every day of the year, even if it wasn’t the right season. He loved that grocery, and the old, shaky Persian man who owned it. Tommy emphatically, yet erroneously believed that the CKY Grocery was the genuine heart of the great city. All five boroughs embodied distinct feelings for him, but there was only one that he’d ever truly romanticized. To him, Manhattan was the entire world. He loved everything between the East River and the Hudson; from the Financial District up to Harlem; from Avenue A to Zabar’s. He loved the four seasons, although autumn was easily the most anticipated. To Tommy, Central Park’s bright, almost copper hues in the fall were the epitome of orange. He loved the unique perfume of deli meats and subway steam. He loved the rain with such verve that every time it so much as drizzled, he would turn to the sky so he could feel the drops sprinkle onto his teeth. Because every raindrop that hit him had already experienced that much envied journey from the tips of the skyscrapers all the way down to the cracked and foot-stamped sidewalks. He believed every inch of the city had its own predetermined genre of music that suited it to a tee. The modal jazz of Miles Davis and Wayne Shorter was absolutely meant for the Upper East Side, north of 61st Street. Precisely between Gershwin and gospel. He loved the view from his apartment, even if it was just the leaves of the tree outside in July or the thin shadows of its bare branches crawling along the plain brick wall in January. Tommy loved his career. He loved his friends. And he loved that first big bite of apple I watched him take each and every morning. Everything was perfect in the city, and as long as things remained the way he wanted them to, Tommy would continue to love the city forever. Which is exactly why his jaw dropped when he opened the letter he found in his mailbox that morning. The first bite of still un-chewed apple fell out of his mouth and firmly planted itself within the crack of that 113th Street sidewalk.

Tell me, Ella,” he says, “when is the last time a man laid some pipe in you?

Pamja Sot u pame-e sot u ndame Dhe nuk thame njeze fjale; Kur u ndame vame-e qame, Qame shpejt ca lot me vale. Edhe shpejt kur me te dale, Vame-u pame-e shume thame, Thame fjale, fjale, fjale, Pastaj kurre me s'u ndame. Nuk u ndame-e vete thame: C'keto fjale? c'keto lote? C'ky vajtim q'u vrame-e rame Shkrumb e pluhur nene bote? Ah kur rame, kur u dhembme, Ndritej dhembja drite-e arte... Kur u dhembme, kur u shembme, Shkrepej yll ne qjell te larte... Yll e drite bukurija, Qjell i larte perendija, C'vjen e shkon e vjen si hija, Plas e s'plas kjo dashurija.

There’s a word. Five letters. Kind of… like… a penis?