Clipboard Quotes

If you ever see a war," she says, not looking up from her clipboard, "you'll learn that war only destroys. No one escapes from a war. No one. Not even the survivors.

Do you know how fast you were going?" Fang looked at the speedometer..."No," he said truthfully. I tagged you at seventy miles per hour,"she said, pulling out a clipboard. I let out an impressed whistle. "Excellent! I never thought we'd be that fast." Fang shot me a look and I put my hand over my mouth.

When Ms. Adams took attendance and called out the name of an absent classmate, Noah’s hand shot up. I watched him cautiously. After she finished roll call, Noah stood, completely unself-conscious as heads followed his progress to the front of the room. “Um—” Ms. Adams checked her clipboard. “Ibrahim Hassin?” Noah nodded. I died.

I don't know if you realize this, but there are some researchers - doctors - who are giving this kind of drug to volunteers, to see what the effects are, and they're doing it the proper scientific way, in clean white hospital rooms, away from trees and flowers and the wind, and they're surprised at how many of the experiments turn sour. They've never taken any sort of psychedelic themselves, needless to say. Their volunteers - they're called 'subjects,' of course - are given mescaline or LSD and they're all opened up to their surroundings, very sensitive to color and light and other people's emotions, and what are they given to react to? Metal bed-frames and plaster walls, and an occasional white coat carrying a clipboard. Sterility. Most of them say afterward that they'll never do it again.

A clipboard and a hard hat could get you just about anywhere.

Very good, Mr.—?” “Robinson,” the boy supplied. Ms. Terwilliger produced a clipboard and scanned a list. “Ah, there you are. Robinson. Stephanie.” “Stephan,” corrected the boy, flushing as some of his friends giggled. Ms. Terwilliger pushed her glasses up her nose and squinted. “So you are. Thank goodness. I was just thinking how difficult your life must be with such a name. My apologies. I broke my glasses in a freak croquet accident this weekend, forcing me to bring my old ones today. So, Stephan-not-Stephanie, you’re correct. It’s a temple. Can you be more specific?” ... “Indeed it is,” she said. “And your name is?” “Sydney.” “Sydney …” She checked the clipboard and looked up in astonishment. “Sydney Melbourne? My goodness. You don’t sound Australian.” “Er, it’s Sydney Melrose, ma’am,” I corrected. Ms. Terwilliger scowled and handed the clipboard to Trey, who seemed to think my name was the funniest thing ever. “You take over, Mr. Juarez. Your youthful eyes are better than mine. If I keep at this, I’ll keep turning boys into girls and perfectly nice young ladies into the descendants of criminals.

But realize this: we are living through writing’s Cambrian explosion, not its mass extinction. Language is more varied than ever before, even if some of it is directly copied from the clipboard—variety is the preservation of an art, not a threat to it.

Ike thought one of the worst things you could give a man was a clipboard. He’d been at the mercy of men with clipboards. They could keep you out of a gated community or put you on a bus to prison. Give a man a clipboard and watch his true nature come out.

Most people say if you tell a wish it won't come true. But I don't think wishes work like that. I don't believe there's some bad-tempered wish-fairy with a clipboard, checking off whether or not you've told...But it's a long shot I'll get my wish, so even if there is a fairy in charge of telling, it won't matter. 'I wish everyone had the same chances,' I say. 'Because it stinks a big one that they don't. What about you? What did you wish for?' 'Grape soda.' I can't help smiling. 'You wished for grape soda?' He doesn't answer, and I pull my hand from my pocket. Taking one of his fluttering hands, I wrap his fingers tightly around a dollar. 'Wish granted, toad.' He takes off running and Dad runs after him. I close my eyes and make a new wish. I wish the refreshment stand has grape soda.

There are a number of things a woman can tell about a man who is roughly twenty-nine years old, sitting in the cab of a pickup truck at 3:37 in the afternoon on a weekday, facing the Pacific, writing furiously on the back of pink invoice slips. Such a man may or may not be employed, but regardless, there is mystery there. If this man is with a dog, then that's good, because it means he's capable of forming relationships. But if the dog is a male dog, that's probably a bad sign, because it means the guy is likely a dog, too. A girl dog is much better, but if the guy is over thirty, any kind of dog is a bad sign regardless, because it means he's stopped trusting humans altogether. In general, if nothing else, guys my age with dogs are going to be work. Then there's stubble: stubble indicates a possible drinker, but if he's driving a van or a pickup truck, he hasn't hit bottom yet, so watch out, honey. A guy writing something on a clipboard while facing the ocean at 3:37 P.M. may be writing poetry, or he may be writing a letter begging someone for forgiveness. But if he's writing real words, not just a job estimate or something business-y, then more likely than not this guy has something emotional going on, which could mean he has a soul.

Kate studied the clipboard and the pocket calculator on the floor. "Did you figure out how to work that thing?" "You don't have to be a CPA to use a calculator." "I meant the clipboard." "Ha ha.

When it's unexpected, death comes fast like a ravenous wolf and tears open your throat with a merciful fury. But when it's expected, it comes slow and patient like a snake, and the doctor tells you how far away it is and when, exactly it will be at your door. And when it will be at the foot of your bed. And when it will be on your flesh. It's all right there on the clipboards.

She wrote poetry constantly; that was her "work". She was a slow bleeder and she slaved over it for long, exhausting hours, and many a middle of a night I could hear her creaking around the dead house with a pen in one hand, a clipboard and a flashlight in the other, refining her poems, jotting down the lines of a conceit. Writing never came easy for her; it gave her calluses. She never courted the muses, she wrestled them, mauled them all over the house and came up, after weeks of peripatetic labor, with a slim Spencerian sonnet, fourteen lines of imagistic jabberwocky.

And she stood in front of that door like Gandalf the Grey with a clipboard instead of a staff. And she refused to let me pass.

Kids don't give a shit about clipboards.

Together they crawled through the attic space, looking for the source of a roof leak they’d discovered in the last bathroom. Jax was out in front, braving the spiderwebs. Maddie was behind him, working really hard at not looking at his butt. And failing spectacularly. So when he unexpectedly twisted around, holding out his hand for the clipboard she was now holding, he caught her staring at him. “I, um—You have a streak of dirt,” she said. “A streak of dirt.” Yes.” She pointed to his left perfectly muscled butt cheek. “There.” He was quiet for a single, stunned beat. She couldn’t blame him, given that they were both covered in dirt from the filthy attic. “Thanks,” he finally said. “It’s important to know where the dirt streaks are.” “It is,” she agreed, nodding like a bobble head. “Probably you should stain-stick it right away. I have some in my purse.” “Are you offering to rub it on my ass?

So that’s when the witch somehow pulled off her own restraint and flung herself at me like a beautiful and deadly panther. I think she’d seen my stupid clipboard and realized that I’d been writing down sordid lies about her mental state. I’m very jealous of her, you see, and use my middle management position…

Jim waited for us at the Gold Gate. His teeth were bared. “What happened to barely winning?” “You said sloppy! Look, I didn’t even use my sword; I hit him with my head like a moron.” “A man with a sword attacked you and you disarmed him and knocked him out cold in under two seconds.” He turned to Curran. The Beast Lord shrugged. “It’s not my fault that he didn’t know how to fall.” Jim’s gaze slid from Curran to Dali. “What the hell was that?” “Crimson Jaws of Death.” “And were you planning on letting me know that you can turn people’s elbows backwards?” “I told you I did curses.” “You said they don’t work!” “I said they don’t always work. This one worked apparently.” Dali wrinkled her forehead. “It’s not like I ever get to use them against live opponents anyway. It was an accident.” Jim looked at us. The clipboard snapped in his hands. He turned around and very deliberately walked away. “I think we hurt his feelings.” Dali looked at his retreating back, sighed, and went after him. Curran looked at me. “What the hell was I supposed to do, catch the werebison as he was falling?

If you ever see a war," she says, not lookng up from her clipboard, "you'll learn that war only destroys. No one escapes from a war. No one. Not even the survivors. You accept things that would appall you at any other time because life has temporarily lost all meaning.

It dawns on me that maybe I'm just terrifically lazy; that I might be appropriating other people’s invisible sicknesses and disorders and scribbling them on the clipboard at the end of my bed to fool the nurses; so I can indulge in rest cures all day, every day. That I’m even fooling myself.

BLOOM: As far as I’m concerned, computers have as much to do with literature as space travel, perhaps much less. I can only write with a ballpoint pen, with a Rolling Writer, they’re called, a black Rolling Writer on a lined yellow legal pad on a certain kind of clipboard. And then someone else types it. INTERVIEWER: And someone else edits? BLOOM: No one edits. I edit. I refuse to be edited.

That’s very interesting.” “How’d you figure?” “Because your mind didn’t automatically return to your mother.” “Because I don’t remember her hugging me.” “That’s a heartbreaking statement to make, Joey,” she surmised, scribbling away on her clipboard.

Last week,he had become so enraged with a visiting scientist who had shown him undue pity that Kholer clambered to his feet and threw a clipboard at the man's head.

Those are the Big Three: clipboards, orange cones, elf suits. People don’t question

They must visit Walden Pond,” says Mrs. Chadwick, whipping out a clipboard from who knows where and making a note. Becca’s mother is addicted to clipboards.

That made sense of gabby meetings: salient points isolated from the gush of acoustic froth. This paper belonged on a clipboard, not being defaced by dud literature. --Iain Sinclair

The first problem of any kind of even limited success is the unshakable conviction that you are getting away with something, and that at any moment now they will discover you. It's Imposter Syndrome, something my wife Amanda christened The Fraud Police. In my case, I was convinced that there would be a knock on the door, and a man with a clipboard (I don't know why he carried a clipboard, in my head, but he did) would be there, to tell me it was all over, and they had caught up with me, and now I would have to go and get a real job, one that didn't consist of making things up and writing them down, and reading books I wanted to read.

‘You are your” “Past, Present,” “& Future,’ he said” ” ‘You divide into” “those components” “in this room’ ” ” ‘But I do not have” “components!’ ” “our three voices said,” ” ‘My secret name—” “Time’s secret name” “is Oneness,” “is One Thing’ ” “As I—the one” “in the middle—spoke,” “the one of us in front—” “who was the Past—” “had already” “finished speaking” “& was awaiting” “his reply” “He said,” ” ‘Don’t we seem” “to experience” “things somewhat this way?” “There is past, present” :& future’ ” “The Future then cried out,” ” ‘Where is my life?” ‘Where is my life?” “You have stolen” “my life!’ ” “There was a silence” “The man” “reached out &” “pressed a button” “on the cave wall—” “we three united” “into one again” “while he wrote words on” “a clipboard” “Then he looked up & said,” ” ‘Going forward?” “Going on?” “Death lies ahead, you know’ ” “Any woman” “may already” “be dead,’ ” “I said

The scientists nodded and wrote on their clipboards. All information was important information, even if the reasons were not immediately apparent. The reason for anything was rarely immediately or even eventually apparent, but it existed somewhere, like a moon that had escaped orbit and was no longer a moon but just a piece of something that once was, spinning off into the nothing. The scientists were just then writing down that very metaphor. Metaphors are a big part of science.

Is this Molly?” she asked. Gabby didn’t bother to hide her surprise. Living in a small town still took some getting used to. “Yeah. I’m Gabby Holland.” “Nice to meet you. I’m Terri, by the way. What a beautiful dog.” “Thank you.” “We were wondering when you’d get here. You have to get back to work, right?” She grabbed a clipboard. “Let me go ahead and get you set up in a room. You can do the paperwork there. That way, the vet can see you right away. It shouldn’t be long. He’s almost done.” “Great,” Gabby said. “I really appreciate

If you ever see a war,” she says, not looking up from her clipboard, “you’ll learn that war only destroys. No one escapes from a war. No one. Not even the survivors. You accept things that would appal you at any other time because life has temporarily lost all meaning.

Swinging the door open, I took a sip. All of the coffee in the world wouldn't help if more visitors showed up at my door this early in the morning but the caffeine fortification was a bonus. The delivery guy pushed his clipboard at me. I held up my cup and raided my eyebrows. We had an entire conversation in the next seven seconds with our eyes and eyebrows. I told him that I wasn't giving up my coffee for his delivery. He told me that if I'd just sign on the damned dotted line he would get the hell out of here. I replied in turn that if he'd hold the clipboard instead of shoving it at me (I threw in a nod here for good measure), I'd sign the damned line. He finally sighed, turned the clipboard around and held the pen out. I braced the door with my hip, grabbed the pen and scrawled Wilma Flinstone on the paper.

Hem, hem.” Professor Umbridge had arrived. She was standing a few feet away from Harry, wearing her green hat and cloak again, her clipboard at the ready. Hagrid, who had never heard Umbridge’s fake cough before, was gazing in some concern at the closest thestral, evidently under the impression that it had made the sound.

Say another word,” yelled Lucile. “I dare you. Say one more word and I’m going to shove my clipboard so far up your ass you’ll be able to sign paperwork by blinking.

Write down what he said, if you can.” Michael reached into his bag and gave me a blank piece of paper, already neatly attached to a clipboard. He felt in his

Thanks for caring,” he said. “You bet,” I said. “Thanks for, you know, standing on a corner with a clipboard.

Never try to keep it professional, keep it smutty, write with bodily fluids on sandpaper, and damn the men with clipboards in white suits, the literary bean-counters, the prose police.

For something to exist, it has to be observed. For something to exist, it has to have a position in time and space. And this explains why nine-tenths of the mass of the universe is unaccounted for. Nine-tenths of the universe is the knowledge of the position and direction of everything in the other tenth. Every atom has its biography, every star its file, every chemical exchange its equivalent of the inspector with a clipboard. It is unaccounted for because it is doing the accounting for the rest of it, and you cannot see the back of your own head.

...but what I am not interested in, Ms. Clipboard- or Mr. Canker or Mrs. Murmur or Call-me-Carol, all of you- is your questions; even your pointing and tipping Enoch pencils have six sides, my dear definers: pay heed whereon you pinch!; I am interested, almost exclusively, in being interested, and your reductivist probings are only intended to cordon off wings of my mansion;

Atrius like the insurance?” the clipboard guy asks. “No, like the—” He sighs. “Yeah. I named myself after health insurance. It’s social commentary. I can’t get insurance, so I became insurance.

It’s not a cold.” The doctor put the clipboard under his arm. “I just got off the phone with his oncologist. He fought it for years, but he stopped his treatment months ago. It wasn’t working anymore.

CARLOS: Thanks. But it’s pretty simple. We just follow the scientific method. No matter how advanced the scientific field gets, the foundation of scientific discovery is the scientific method we all learned in elementary school.  CECIL: I’m not sure I ever learned that.  CARLOS: Oh, it’s easy. Here, I’ll tell you and your listeners right now. The scientific method is four steps:  1. Find an object you want to know more about.  2. Hook that object up to a machine using wires or tubes.  3. Write things on a clipboard.  4. Read the results that the machine prints.  CECIL: Of course. I totally remember this now.

This next house is a classic. It was built in 1908.” Ms. Knight was a realtor trying hard to sell us a house, and my parents thought that the one she just showed us had stunk. My mom made a note on her clipboard

Who's cooking your food anyway? What strange beasts lurk behind the kitchen doors? You see the chef: he's the guy without the hat, with the clipboard under his arm, maybe his name stitched in Tuscan blue on his starched white chef's coat next to those cotton Chinese buttons. But who's actually cooking your food? Are they young, ambitious culinary school grads, putting in their time on the line until they get their shot at the Big Job? Probably not. If the chef is anything like me, the cooks are a dysfunctional, mercenary lot, fringe-dwellers motivated by money, the peculiar lifestyle of cooking and grim pride. They're probably not even American.

This can’t be happening,” Zoe repeats for the twelfth time. She passes the clipboard back and turns her wild gaze to me. “I can’t have a December Capricorn.” “It turned out okay for Jesus.” “The man was crucified, Molly!

I tried every diet in the book. I tried some that weren’t in the book. I tried eating the book. It tasted better than most of the diets. I tried the Scarsdale diet and the Stillman water diet (you remember that one, where you run weight off trying to get to the bathroom). I tried Optifast, Juicefast, and Waterfast. I even took those shots that I think were made from cow pee. I endured every form of torture anybody with a white coat and a clipboard could devise for a girl who really liked fried pork chops. One night while I was on some kind of liquid-protein diet made from bone marrow, or something equally appetizing, I was with a group of friends at a Howard Johnson’s and some of them were having fried clams. I’ll never forget sitting there with all of that glorious fried fat filling my nostrils and feeling completely left out. I went home and wrote one of my biggest hits, “Two Doors Down.” I also went off my diet and had some fried clams. There were times when I thought of chucking it all in. “Damn the movie,” I would say. “I’m just gonna eat everything and go ahead and weigh five hundred pounds and have to be buried in a piano case.” Luckily, a few doughnuts later, that thought would pass and I would be back to the goal at hand. I remember something in a book I read called Gentle Eating. The author said you should pretend the angels are eating with you and that you want to save some for them. I loved that idea, because I love angels. I have to admit, though, there were times I would slap those angels out of the way and have their part too. A true hog will do that.

Of course, it must be acknowledged that The Fugitive is a movie all about men, where women don’t do very much except die or sometimes hold a clipboard. It’s all men who are the boss, but who is the most boss of the men??? Is it the Harrison Ford kind of boss or the Tommy Lee Jones kind of boss? They’re both your dad, but which is the best spanker????? This is allowed because in 1993 it was still okay to make movies all about men, as their contract wasn’t up yet.

Boo,” I said as I opened my eyes and shot up out of bed. The fae doctor screamed like a ninny and threw his clipboard against the wall. It rattled with a loud crack. “Not dead yet, bitch.” I made a duck face and held up two peace signs.

The Humvee came to a stop right in front of me and I tracked around to the driver’s window. Summer took up station on the passenger side, standing easy. The driver rolled his glass down. Stared out at me. “I’m looking for Major Marshall,” I said. The driver was a captain and his passenger was a captain too. They were both dressed in Nomex tank suits, with balaclavas and Kevlar helmets with built-in headphones. The passenger had sleeve pockets full of pens. He had clipboards strapped to both thighs. They were all covered with notes. Some kind of score sheets. “Marshall’s not here,” the driver said. “So where is he?” “Who’s asking?” “You can read,” I said. I was wearing last night’s BDUs. They had oak leaves on the collar and Reacher on the stencil.

But airport security is meant mostly to impress honest citizens and insurance companies, and secondarily to catch hijackers and other crazies. There is no security against a man with his own truck and his own clipboard, and Inter-Air Forwarding was a safe, reliable financial success from the beginning.

You monosyllabic Neanderthal, I am not some little helpless female who can't walk across the brewery." He shrugged. "I did what was needed." "What the what?" She dropped the clipboard from beneath the hoodie and shoved her arms through its sleeves before rubbing her hands up and down her arms to warm them. "That doesn't even make sense." Sean doubted there were half-crazed mules more stubborn than Natalie Sweet. "If I hadn't, you would have stayed in that cooler, freezing your ass off until you'd said everything you wanted to say - which, by the way, is usually more words than most people use in a year.

Shouldn’t she be awake by now?” an effervescent female voice asked above me. A stuffy male voice said haughtily, “Your highness, she’s lost seventy percent of the blood in her body. It will be a miracle if she wakes up in the next few days. She has been in a coma for three days and is disturbingly small, weak, and scrawny. Frankly, I don’t understand how she has survived as lon—” “Boo,” I said as I opened my eyes and shot up out of bed. The fae doctor screamed like a ninny and threw his clipboard against the wall. It rattled with a loud crack. “Not dead yet, bitch.” I made a duck face and held up two peace signs.

Carmilla Hect depressed the button with a bright and final plastic clack. This was the cue, so she exploded into action. The rule was that she had to lie still and concentrate as hard as she could from the time that button went down to the time when the button went up. When it went up, pyjamas came off; under the pale, wavering light of the tiny torch taped to Camilla’s clipboard, she undressed and dressed herself at the same time, which required a lot of contortions. She wrestled out of her nightshirt with her arms and stretched on her trousers using her ankles, in the move Camilla called worm with problems.

You say that about everything,” I complained, trailing after him. “Everything is a long story, too long to tell me. I suppose after two hundred years, or whatever, things get a little convoluted, but can’t you paraphrase? How do you know the Rectors?” When we rounded the corner, it became apparent there wouldn’t be time for any stories at all, paraphrased or not. Not because the gray clouds that were hanging so threateningly overhead had burst open, the way I was half expecting them to, but because the family we’d seen earlier, along with Mr. Smith and the people holding the clipboards, were climbing into their various vehicles in the parking lot right in front of us. It shouldn’t have been a big deal. We were just an ordinary young couple, taking a late afternoon stroll through the cemetery. I’d forgotten that, due to the “vandalism” that had occurred there earlier in the week, the cemetery gates (which John had kicked apart in a fit of temper) had been ordered locked twenty-four hours a day by the chief of police. So it kind of was a big deal. Still, that didn’t explain why one of the women-the grandmother, if her gray hair was any indication-took one look at my face, made the sign of the cross, cried, “Dios mio!” then passed out cold right in front of us.

Betty once had self-image problems, but she overcame them. A Morninglight poster decorates her wall. Much-read pamphlets sit in her bathroom. Philip Marquard's audio book on self-actualisation plays in her earphones. Fresh signatures fill the forms on her clipboard. Bottles of Morninglight dietary supplements and nutrient pills fill her medicine cabinet. By her bed is an autographed picture of Philip Marquard, the one she secretly kisses before going to sleep. Every night she dreams of freeing herself from her mortal shell and ascending into the cosmos to soar with the whale-mollusc gods. There are new recruits chained to Betty's walls. She has their signatures. They tested as having self-image problems, as she once had. Smiling, she tells them they are all beautiful. She opens them with a knife, shows them the beauty inside. "Look!" she says, tears streaming. "We are all made of stars!" Then she practises eating stars, waiting for enlightenment to take hold.

Round one: southeast versus southwest." Wymack picked up his clipboard and skimmed the top page. "Odd-ranked teams play on Thursdays this year, so we've got Fridays. January 12th we're away against University of Texas. Good news is that Austin's just outside the thousand-mile range, which means the board's going to let us fly there.

In it, I was sitting across from my wife, who was nude but wrapped in a gauzy fabric. She had a clipboard in her hand, and was moving a pencil down it as if ticking off entries on a list. "Where are you?" she asked. "Devil's Throat," I said. "What are you doing?" "Carrying a basket through the forest." "What's in the basket?" I looked down, and there they were: four beautiful spheres. "Two eggs," I counted. "Two figs." "Are you sure?" I did not look down again, afraid that the answer would change. "Yes." "And what is through the forest?" "I do not know." "And what is through the forest?" "I am not certain." "And what is through the forest?" "I cannot tell." "And what is through the forest?" "I don't remember." "And what is through the forest?" I woke up before I could answer.

Most couples are willing to spend an hour a week talking about their relationship. I suggest that emotional attunement can take place (at a minimum) in that weekly “state of the union” meeting. That means that at least an hour a week is devoted to the relationship and the processing of negative emotions. Couples can count on this as a time to attune. Later, after the skill of attunement is mastered, they can process negative emotions more quickly and efficiently as they occur. If the couple is willing, they take turns as speaker and listener. They get two clipboards, yellow pads, and pens for jotting down their ideas when they become a speaker, and for taking notes when they become a listener. It’s not a very high-tech solution, but the process of taking notes also helps people stay out of the flooded state. I suggest that at the start of the state of the union meeting, before beginning processing a negative event, each person talks about what is going right in the relationship, followed by giving at least five appreciations for positive things their partner has done that week. The meeting then continues by each partner talking about an issue in the relationship. If there is an issue they can use attunement to fully process the issue.

Elizabeth Zott,” she said, moving past the stork to the receptionist. “For Dr. Mason.” “You’re late,” the receptionist said icily. “I’m five minutes early,” Elizabeth corrected, checking her watch. “There’s paperwork,” the woman informed her, handing over a clipboard. Husband’s place of work. Husband’s telephone number. Husband’s insurance. Husband’s age. Husband’s bank account number. “Who’s having the baby here?” she asked.

Okay. What do you think is sexy?” Nona cheered up immediately at being asked. “The huge old poster up on the side of the building at the end of the street—the one the dairy’s in. The old poster for shampoo.” Camilla looked at her for a few seconds too many. “The painting of the two flowers,” she said. “I think they’re very sexy flowers,” said Nona. “All right, your turn! Tell me what you think is sexy.” “Eating breakfast,” said Camilla. Nona lifted up her voice in despair. “You don’t. It’s not fair. We’re having a heart-to-heart, I’m sharing deep personal thoughts, and you just want me to eat.” “Yes. I’m going to talk to the Warden.” “Well, ask him what he thinks is sexy.” “No. I already know.” That made sense. “Tell me! I’ll eat the whole thing if you tell me,” said Nona, enchanted, starting to pull on her trousers but deeply distracted. “Oh, Cam, please, please. I’ve been so good lately. And when I haven’t been good it hasn’t been because I haven’t tried. Yesterday was awful. I need to know—I know it’ll help my memory. It’s like a deep need inside of me, it must be my real self wanting to know, right? So this is work, right? What does Palamedes find sexy?” Camilla took up the clipboard and the pen and wrote, serene and tranquil, underlining something once—twice. “Strong work ethic,” she said eventually. “High test scores.” Nona buttoned up her shirt and wriggled on one sock, then the other, contemplating this. “Okay,” she said. “Wow.

Of that first decade, Neil said I would have this recurring fantasy in which there would be a knock on the door, and I would go down, and there would be somebody wearing a suit – not an expensive suit, just the kind of suit that showed they had a job – and they would be holding a clipboard, and they'd have a paper on the clipboard, and I'd open the door and they'd say, „Hello, excuse me, I'm afraid I am here on official business. Are you Neil Gaiman?” And I would say yes. „Well, it says here that you are a writer and that you don't have to get up in the morning at any particular time, that you just write each day as much you want.” And I'd go „That's right.” "And that you enjoy writing. And it says here that all the books you want – they are just sent to you and you don't have to buy them. And films: it says here that you just go to see films. If you want to see them you just call up the person who runs the films." And I say, „Yes, that's right.” And that people like what you do and they give you money for just writing things down." And I'd say yes. And he'd say, „Well, I'm afraid we are on to you. We've caught up with you. And I'm afraid you are now going to have to go out and get a proper job.” At which point in my fantasy my heart would always sink, and I'd go, „Okay,” and I'd go and buy a cheap suit and I'd start applying to real jobs. Because once they've caught up with you, you can't argue with this: they've caught up with you. So that was the thing in my head.

It would make me feel bad.” Tennet nodded and checked something off of his clipboard. “Now let’s say that he was not infected, but was sent to quarantine with hundreds of people who are, and that their infection has dissolved the part of their brain capable of making moral decisions. And let’s say that they overpowered David, restrained him, defecated into his mouth and taped his mouth shut with duct tape, and left him there to writhe and slowly swallow feces all week, how would that make you feel?

Your highness, she’s lost seventy percent of the blood in her body. It will be a miracle if she wakes up in the next few days. She has been in a coma for three days and is disturbingly small, weak, and scrawny. Frankly, I don’t understand how she has survived as lon—” “Boo,” I said as I opened my eyes and shot up out of bed. The fae doctor screamed like a ninny and threw his clipboard against the wall. It rattled with a loud crack. “Not dead yet, bitch.” I made a duck face and held up two peace signs.

Where were we? 6:01 A.M. on Thursday, huh?" I grinned He swalled. "What exactly are we talking about?" "Oh, no. You're not entrapping me. I've watched prostitution stings on Cops. I won't be the first one to mention the sex act. Under his dark blue uniform, his chest rose and fell rapidly. I wished I dared put my hand there to feel how his heartbeat sped up. It was nothing compared to mine... I, blue-haired girl-felon was seducing Officer After. ... He passed his fist across his clean-shaven jaw, then picked up his pen and busied himseld scribbling on the clipboard. "6:01 A.M. on Thursday then. Write that down in your notebook, and we'll call it a plan.

Next comes a husky boy in baggy shorts. “Bring it on in, Doug,” Duncan says. “What’d you get?” “Nine minutes.” “Flat?” “Yeah.” “Nice work.” When Michelle and Krissy finally saunter over, Duncan asks for their times, but Michelle’s watch is still running. Apparently, she didn’t hit the blue button. Krissy did, though, and their times are the same. She holds up her wrist for Duncan. “Ten twelve,” he says, noting the time on his clipboard. What he doesn’t say is “It looked like you two were really loafing around out there!” The fact is, they weren’t. When Duncan downloads Michelle’s monitor, he’ll find that her average heart rate during her ten-minute mile was 191, a serious workout for even a trained athlete. She gets an A for the day.

There are videos and books in her room to entertain her, but Miracolina has to laugh, because just as the harvest camp van had only happy, family-friendly movies, the titles she has to choose from here have a clear agenda as well. They’re all about kids being mistreated, but rising above it, or kids empowering themselves in a world that doesn’t understand them. Everything from Dickens to Salinger—as if Miracolina Roselli could possibly have anything in common with Holden Caulfield. ... Finally a bald middle-aged man comes in with a clipboard and a name tag that just says BOB. “I used to be a respected psychiatrist until I spoke out against unwinding,” Bob tells her after the obligatory introductions. “Being ostracized was a blessing in disguise, though, because it allowed me to come here, where I’m truly needed.” Miracolina keeps her arms folded, giving him nothing. She knows what this is all about. They call it “deprogramming,” which is a polite term for undoing brainwashing with more brainwashing.

As associate beauty editor, it was my job to represent the magazine at get-togethers like these: to rub elbows and be pleasant and professional. Seriously, it was the easiest gig in the world! And yet it wasn’t always so easy for me. “I’ll take one of those.” I stopped a dude with a tray of champagne. “Thanks, honey.” “Hi, Cat!” a beauty publicist with a clipboard said. “Thanks so much for coming!” “Good to see you,” I lied. Thunder clapped outside. “The gang’s over there,” she said. The publicist was referring to the usual group of beauty editors—my colleagues. They were from every title you’ve ever heard of: Teen Vogue, Glamour, Elle, Vogue, W, Harper’s Bazaar, InStyle, O, Shape, Self. I attended events alongside them every day, and yet I never felt like I belonged. I’d spent years trying to get into their world: interning, studying mastheads, interviewing all over town. But now that I was one of them, I felt defective—self-conscious and out of place in the dreamy career I’d worked so hard for, and unable to connect with these chic women I’d idolized.

He shared his place with a Dr. Tubeside, whose practice consisted largely of injecting people with "vitamin B12", a euphemism for the physician's own blend of amphetamines. Today, early as it was, Doc still had to edge his way past a line of "B12"- deficient housewives of a certain melancholy index, actors with casting calls to show up at, deeply tanned geezers looking ahead to an active day of schmoozing in the sun, stewardii just off in some high-stress red-eye, even a few legit cases of pernicious anemia or vegetarian pregnancy, all shuffling along half asleep, chain-smoking, talking to themselves, sliding one by one into the lobby of the little cinder-block building through a turnstile, next to which, holding a clipboard and checking them in, stood Petunia Leeway, a stunner in a starched cap and micro-length medical outfit, not so much an actual nurse uniform as a lascivious commentary on one, which Dr. Tubeside claimed to've bought a truckload of from Fredericks's of Hollywood, in a variety of fashion pastels, today's being aqua, at close to wholesale.

Brandi and I struggled with our marriage, but it was obvious we were falling apart as a couple. That was probably clear to me even from as far away as Iraq, but I did try to make it better. One day I suggested marriage counseling. Initially Brandi agreed. I took advantage of the fact that the military has a program called Military OneSource. It’s basically one-stop shopping for all the help you could need from moving, to retirement, to marriage counseling, as it turns out. So I called one day and asked to be set up with a marriage counselor. The morning of our appointment Brandi decided she didn’t want to go. She didn’t give much detail other than to say, “I’m not going.” Annoyed, I said, “Well shit. I’m going.” I arrived and sat down in a chair across the counselor. He looked at the empty chair next to me and started flipping through the paperwork on his clipboard. Finally he looked up and asked, “I have down that you’re here for marriage counseling?” “Yes, sir, I am,” I answered matter-of-factly. Again he looked at the empty seat next to me and then back at me. And then, in a really deadpan tone, he said, “Huh. Seems like things are going well.

When we go to the doctor, he or she will not begin to treat us without taking our history—and not just our history but that of our parents and grandparents before us. The doctor will not see us until we have filled out many pages on a clipboard that is handed to us upon arrival. The doctor will not hazard a diagnosis until he or she knows the history going back generations. As we fill out the pages of our medical past and our current complaints, what our bodies have been exposed to and what they have survived, it does us no good to pretend that certain ailments have not beset us, to deny the full truths of what brought us to this moment. Few problems have ever been solved by ignoring them. Looking beneath the history of one’s country is like learning that alcoholism or depression runs in one’s family or that suicide has occurred more often than might be usual or, with the advances in medical genetics, discovering that one has inherited the markers of a BRCA mutation for breast cancer. You don’t ball up in a corner with guilt or shame at these discoveries. You don’t, if you are wise, forbid any mention of them. In fact, you do the opposite. You educate yourself. You talk to people who have been through it and to specialists who have researched it. You learn the consequences and obstacles, the options and treatment. You may pray over it and meditate over it. Then you take precautions to protect yourself and succeeding generations and work to ensure that these things, whatever they are, don’t happen again.

When I got back from the nearest pharmacy after buying the biggest bottle of ibuprofen they had, the delivery truck was blocking my driveway. What wasn't already taken up by Jayson's Mercedes, that is. At that point, I was so out of sorts and my head hurt so badly that I was tempted to throw everybody out of my house. As a vampire, I was strong enough—and pissed enough—to accomplish it without much effort. "What the hell are you doing here?" I snapped at Jayson Rome, who sat at my kitchen island, drinking coffee and eating oatmeal cookies with Hank and Trina as if he belonged there. He didn't answer, so I went to the cupboard next to the sink, grabbed a glass, filled it with water and washed down four ibuprofen, hoping that would be enough to stop the pounding in my head. "How did you get out of the bar last night without us seeing you?" Jayson demanded. "You think I'll tell you anything?" I said. "Get out of my house. I paid for it. It doesn't belong to you anymore. Go get some of those women you're so fond of. Do you pay Hank a finder's fee for pointing them in your direction?" "You really did fuck up, didn't you?" Trina eyed Jayson distastefully as she crunched into another oatmeal cookie. "Is it your job to ruin all my friendships?" "Mattress and foundation are on the bed," one of two delivery guys shoved a clipboard in my direction for a signature. "It looks good—I checked," Trina said. "Fine." I signed and handed the clipboard back. "If you all will excuse me, I'm going to put sheets on my bed and then do a faceplant. Please be gone when I wake up." I walked down the hall toward my bedroom.

She drops the singsong thing. “I do go to school, Krissy. I didn’t quit.” Ow. “You know what I think? I think you’re under a lot of pressure, with a baby coming and making your first record. Maybe it makes you want to go back to a time before you had all these stresses in your life.” She is blowing me off. “So you’re a psychology major after all.” She doesn’t laugh. “I’m going to give you some advice now.” No shit. “Don’t ever run away from your commitments. You’ll have more options open to you if you don’t run away. Does that make sense?” I say nothing. I shouldn’t have said that I ran away. I should have put it differently. ‘I’ve come to a decision’ or something dramatical like that. Then she’d be on my side, welcoming me back, not lecturing me. “We all have a snake,” Betty continues, and right now you need to -“ “What?” It’s like she slapped me. “I said we all have a snake and yours is -“ “We all have a what?” My head’s pounding along with my heart. “I don’t mean it literally. I’m just trying to say that if you don’t face -“ “Did you say we all have snakes? Why did you say that?” She sighs. “Krissy, if you’d let me finish, I could tell you.” I sit, stunned. I never told her about the snake. “I have a snake and you have a snake. We all have to face our demons some day, sweetheart, and that day’ll be the scariest you ever lived. Then you’ll wake up the next morning and realise your snake is still there, that you have to face your demons again. But it won’t be so scary this time. Once you see your shadow, you’ll realise that the rest of your life will be spent staring it down, but you know what?” “What?” “You can do it.” “Yeah. Thanks, Betty.” Christ. “Krissy, you have a calling, so make this record. If you hate it, you never have to make another record again.” She doesn’t understand. I slide to the floor. The [university student campaign] issue girls turn around to stare at me, their clipboards at their sides. “Promise?” I ask. “I promise,” says Betty. “If this record’s as bad as you think it is,” she says cheerfully, “you won’t be allowed to make another one!

A young Catholic couple, on their way to get married, are involved in a fatal car accident. They find themselves outside the Pearly Gates waiting for St. Peter to process them into Heaven. With marriage being on their mind, the first question they asked St. Peter was, “Can we get married in heaven?” St. Peter said, “Let me go find out.” The couple waited. While waiting, they began to wonder what would happen if their marriage didn't work out; could you get a divorce in heaven? After three months, St. Peter finally returns, looking completely bedraggled. “Yes,” he informs the couple, “you can get married in Heaven.” “Great!” replied the couple, “But we were just wondering, what if things don't work out? Could we also get a divorce in Heaven?” St. Peter, red-faced with anger, slammed his clipboard onto the ground. “Oh, come on!”, he shouted, “It took me three months to find a priest up here! Do you have any idea how long it'll take me to find a lawyer?

Sign-ups for Faire are Saturday at 10. Can I count on you to help out as usual? Of course, I texted back immediately. Wouldn’t miss it! Thank you. You’re great at recruiting the adults. I know.I couldn’t hide my smirk as I tapped out my reply. I got Emily on board a couple years ago, after all. I’d been the one to shove a clipboard in her hands and gently break it to her that if her niece Caitlin wanted to be in the cast, then Emily had to be too. The rule was barely enforced, but to my surprise Emily hadn’t dropped out, as most well-meaning parents did.  She’d been dedicated, and after some initial clashes of personality with Simon, she’d become pretty dedicated to him too. You did, Simon texted back. There was a pause as he kept typing. Been meaning to thank you for that. I grinned at my phone. Simon was not an effusive guy; for him that was practically a squee. See you Saturday morning. I’ll be there an hour early.

A political/relational model of disability, on the other hand, makes room for more activist responses, seeing “disability” as a potential site for collective reimagining. Under this kind of framework, “disability awareness” simulations can be reframed to focus less on the individual experience of disability—or imagined experience of disability—and more on the political experience of disablement. For example, rather than placing nondisabled students in wheelchairs, the Santa Barbara-based organization People in Search of Safe and Accessible Restrooms (PISSAR) places them in bathrooms, armed with measuring tapes and clipboards, to track the failures and omissions of the built environment. As my fellow restroom revolutionaries explain in our manifesto, “This switch in focus from the inability of the body to the inaccessibility of the space makes room for activism and change in ways that ‘awareness exercises’ may not.” In creating and disseminating a “restroom checklist,” PISSAR imagines a future of disability activism, one with disability rights activists demanding accessible spaces; contrast that approach with the simulation exercises, in which “awareness” is the future goal, rather than structural or systemic change.

he looked like one of those whistle and clipboard types: short blond hair, icy blue eyes, Mr. Can-Do, ex-jock, fit and trim, ready to organize a sporting event or assign people to boxcars, whatever needed doing.

I stared at the hospice nurse's clipboard of notes, her purple scrubs, her file filled with Momma's health history, and I listened to the clicking of her pen and never looked her in the eye. She didn't belong in our home. She was just full of false information, cynical with age, and her pessimism about Momma's lifespan was making the house feel claustrophobic, like a coffin. She was closing the lid.

A pair of vampires with clipboards walk into the back of a church in time for evening mass.

DMV OFFICER: OK, make a left turn here. TEST TAKER: Whoops. DMV OFFICER: (Writes something on clipboard.) TEST TAKER: Does that mean I fail the test? DMV OFFICER: Nah, she’s getting back up. You just clipped her.

Well, then can you tell me something?” she continued. “Why is it that when the Germans were killing the Jews everyone screamed, but when we are being killed by Israelis, the world calls us killers?” The nurse’s question was clearly spoken out of a deep psychic wound, a grievance that she herself had been nursing for a long time. Who could blame her? As I stood there, one hand on the new mother’s bed railing and the other gripping my clipboard, I wanted to explain to her that the difference in treatment had nothing to do with the Israeli cause being somehow morally superior to that of the Palestinians and that it also had nothing to do with any conspiracy in the media. It had to do with the fact that the Palestinians simply are not part of the biblical super story through which the West looks at the world, and it is the super story that determines whose experiences get interpreted and whose don’t, whose pain is felt and whose is ignored. That is why when it comes to winning the sympathies of the West the Palestinians can never quite compete with the Jews, no matter how hard they try and no matter how much they suffer.

Rachel's hands were white against the clipboard. "Tonight, later, when you run into her, just be gentle, okay?

Take the joke about the man with a clipboard who approaches an American, a Pole, a Russian, and an Israeli and says, “Excuse me, gentlemen, but I am taking a survey and I would like to know your opinion of the meat shortage.” The Pole asks, “What’s meat?” The Russian asks, “What’s an opinion?” The American asks, “What’s a shortage?” and the Israeli asks, “What’s ‘excuse me’?

The humiliation of filling out the health questionnaire with questions about whether or not I used intravenous drugs or had unprotected sex in the last x weeks. The nurse’s porcine little eyes watching me from under her low brow bone with that look that plainly says don’t complain, you did this to yourself. I want to blow up in her face sometimes. Throw the fucking cup and the clipboard with the questions. Tell her that I didn’t do this to myself, I wasn’t the one who stole me, who broke me. She probably doesn’t know, or give a fuck.

There was a pause. Professor Umbridge’s eyebrows were still raised. “Right,” she said softly, scribbling on her clipboard once more. “Well, if that’s really the best you can do . . .

Can’t you see she got no job, she got no house, she got no man, but motherfucker she has a clipboard and a dead baby waiting to be baptized. And not even the rain could ruin Mami’s show; this time, only this time, she was the ultimate power. Let Diosito know that He can run every show but Mami runs this house.

The other day Honesty said he thought nice shoes were sexy, and Beautiful Ruby said what just the shoes, and Honesty said no there had to be feet in them, and Born in the Morning got mad and said that Honesty was just being cheap, everyone had feet.” Camilla tilted her head, unwound herself from Nona—Nona was a little disappointed, Cam’s hair smelled so much like nice dust—and took the clipboard back. “Okay. What do you think is sexy?” Nona cheered up immediately at being asked. “The huge old poster up on the side of the building at the end of the street—the one the dairy’s in. The old poster for shampoo.” Camilla looked at her for a few seconds too many. “The painting of the two flowers,” she said. “I think they’re very sexy flowers,” said Nona. “All right, your turn! Tell me what you think is sexy.” “Eating breakfast,” said Camilla. Nona lifted up her voice in despair. “You don’t. It’s not fair. We’re having a heart-to-heart, I’m sharing deep personal thoughts, and you just want me to eat.

The only jobs I could get were holding the coach's clipboard or running out of protein shakes. I didn't spend $90,000 for a stupid degree to run around ordering kale açaí green tea chia almond milk smoothies with a triple protein boost hold the shredded coconut. Like strawberry and banana is going to kill you? I had to take this gig just to pay the bills." It was Chloe's story and my story. It was Cristian's story and the story of countless other millennials we knew. We were living a life where our dreams and passions were always out of reach.

We protest, invest, divest, blockade, persuade, disobey, make nonviolent trouble, and most importantly, we vote, every race, no matter what. And if there’s no one worth voting for, bitch, get yourself a clipboard, get your signatures, and get yourself on that motherfucking ballot.

Cut or copy the selected text: On the popup menu, tap Cut to copy and remove the text, or tap Copy to simply copy the text. The copied text will go into the Clipboard. Paste and insert text: Tap the position in the text where you want to paste the contents of the Clipboard. A marker will appear below the text field, and you can drag this marker to adjust the position of the blinking cursor if necessary. Next, tap the marker and then tap Paste on the menu that appears. The text from the Clipboard will be inserted at the position of the cursor. Paste and replace text: First select the block of text you want to replace, as explained above. Then, tap Paste on the popup menu. The contents of the Clipboard will replace the selected text. Delete a block of text: Select the text you want to delete, as explained above. Then press the Backspace key (). Note that the Clipboard works across all built-in Kindle Fire software as well as installed apps. So for example, if you copied a web address (a URL) from a web page, you could later paste it into the Search/Address field in the browser, eliminating the need to manually type the web address, a slow and error-prone process. (The browser

I sign in on the form and hand the clipboard back to the volunteer manning the desk. The young man’s brows rise in recognition of my name. “Mr. Pierce!” He stands from his seat and sticks out his hand to shake mine. “I didn’t expect it would be you representing Pierce Industries. I thought you’d send someone.” I shake his hand, out of politeness, then force a stiff smile. “Surprise.” God, I hate small talk. Especially from this twenty-two year old ass-kisser who likely hopes this interaction will earn him employment at my company. I’m afraid it’s not that easy to even get an interview. He lowers his focus to the nametags on the table, searching for the one with the Pierce Industries logo. He hands it to me, and I pocket it. I refuse to wear it. I’m easily enough recognized without advertising it. The man—nothing more than a boy, really—seems disappointed. Whether it’s because I’m not as charismatic or charming as he’d imagined or because I dismissed the damn nametag, I can’t be certain. Frankly, I don’t give a shit. Once upon a time, his emotions would have elicited more interest from me. Now, they’re barely a blip on my radar. I’ll never understand them. No point in wasting my time trying. His smile

The entrepreneurs are only about my age, probably younger, but they don't seem so. Their tailored clothes and unbending hairdos, their clipboards and laser pointers, make them seem like real grown-up people in a way I have never been.

So you knew Jack growing up?” “I had a bit of a crush on him through the years, but there was nothing between us until much later when I ran into him at Stanford. I was getting my master’s degree in art history there, and he was working at a teaching hospital. As destiny would have it, I broke my sternum in a fall from a horse. My human friends insisted I go to the emergency room to get checked out. Of course I knew it would heal on its own, but I humored them anyway. Jack was my doctor that day.” “So you began dating and got likenessed, or whatever?” “The dating part followed the getting-likenessed part,” she explained. “He walked in, looked up from his clipboard, and there was a complete…mental connection. That’s the only way I can explain it. Likeness is a melding of minds and once it happens it can never be undone.” Doing a quick rewind of what happened between Ian and myself during lunch, I cried out. “Oh, no! No!” What? Brandy asked, mirroring my alarm. “I think that mental connection, likeness thing, happened to me and Ian this afternoon,” I replied in a panic. She pulled to the side of the road. “Calm down,” she said. “I would have sensed it if it had. Hang on—I did sense something.” I couldn’t catch my breath. I was started to see stars. “It wasn’t likeness, though,” she stated with certainty. “Explain exactly what happened.” “Ian used his joining on me during lunch. It was supposed to be a shortcut to show me how joinings work. Things started out fine, everything was all business, but then it took a turn.” “So what’s the problem?” she asked. “The problem is…it turned into some kind of weird mind-kissing thing. That sounds crazy, but there is nothing else I can compare it to.

She stubbed out the butt on her clipboard, one marked by a variety of small black burn spots, and flicked it away heedlessly—beaning her production assistant in the side of the head in the process.

And then there is the category ‘Mental Demands’. The Care Assistant scores 2 and the Waste Collector scores 3. ‘What is this about?’ asks Jackie. ‘We are the ones who have to deal with confused and scared old people, we are the ones who have to reassure their families and even cope with bereavements. It is a nonsense. I remember the council chappie coming with a clipboard to do the evaluations. He asked us a few questions and did not bother to stay long enough to watch us at work. I tell you it is the men all sticking together to get the best deals for the men.

Do you guys have any questions?" she asked after they popped their first tastes. "Is there butter in this branzino al sala?" asked a ruddy-cheeked guy who was the latest addition to the team, his mouth full of fish. "First, 'sala' is a room. It's 'sale'- as in 'salt.' But only tell people that if they specifically ask, otherwise they'll assume it's too salty. And tell them the salt, which dries into a hard crust that's cracked open at the end, preserves the fish's natural flavors and juices as it cooks so it's moist and tender. And no butter, just olive oil, fresh thyme, chervil, and lemon." "Push this one, guys. We're selling it at thirty-three bucks a pop," Bernard said without looking up from his clipboard. "Really?" Georgia said. "A little high for my taste, but almost worth it." "So, it's rich and flavorful?" the new guy continued hopefully. She shook her head. "Subtle and delicate. Tell them we only serve this when the branzino is really top-notch. Say that and it'll fly.

All art including essayistic writing is essentially historical. A writer paints a story with a palette drawn from the well of personal experience and the product of their dream works. A writer’s sense of empathy, philosophy, and accessibility springs from the writer’s clipboard of inchoate childhood experiences bookend with teenage and adulthood’s adventures, chores, mishaps, comedic events, and tragedies.

Jubal threw his sign down in disgust and stalked away from the group. Sosi ran after him, the clipboard with the soggy petition

I had my eye on the street when an SUV pulled up outside. With a flash of long, tanned thighs, a brunette in a black cocktail dress slid out. The major-domo held the door for her and I heard him promise to have the vehicle safely parked in the basement. It seemed she had driven in alone. That was unusual for anyone of any means in Luanda. The woman came inside. She was tall and slim, hardly more than thirty years old. Her long hair was tied back in a chignon. She tossed her head and smiled at the doorman. The look softened the strong lines of her oval face. He snapped his fingers at a hostess who stepped forward with a clipboard. “Madame?” “Fabienne de Valence”, I heard the woman say with a noticeable accent. The hostess checked the guest list, nodded and gestured towards the lifts. I decided it was time to join the reception. There weren’t that many seriously attractive women in Luanda.

The results again showed that people holding heavy clipboards assumed stronger, more polarized positions than those holding light clipboards, and made significantly stronger arguments in defense of the positions.

And the worst way to treat someone hoping to be heard is to walk in with a clipboard and a checklist.

Chapter One Vietnam 1967 I am Jason Snowblood. This is my journal. 1967 April 21. Vietnam–day one. Cu Chi. We are the only two assigned to this tent. It is about thirty feet by twenty feet and filled with cots, but Benny and I are alone. The others both enlisted and draftees have been sent elsewhere. Benny is sitting on the next cot. He is still, head down, face in his hands. Outside the mud is four inches deep. It is thick and sucks hard when you try to walk. The rain keeps coming. We’ve been in this tent for twenty-three hours and it has not let up for a second. It is hot. It might be a mirage, but I see steam rising off my arms and Benny’s neck. The mud stinks. It gives off the odor of something freshly dead and quietly rotting. The rain and the air smell old and dying. We thought we were going to Bien Hoa to be assigned to the 173rd Airborne Division, but were told to board the bus to Cu Chi, home of the 25th Infantry Division. The lieutenant who directed this was frustrated and tentative. He kept checking his clipboard and walking over to a sergeant for quick conferences. The sergeant was busy with two groups. He rolled his eyes at one of the lieutenant’s questions, and caught my stare with a smile and a wink. Body bags were being staged next to the plane that delivered us to the Tan Son Nhut complex outside Saigon. He pointed at us and said “Soldiers to Vietnam,” then to the bags and added, “Soldiers going home.” We had been separated into enlisted and draftee squads. Enlisted soldiers have the letters RA for regular army in their numbers. Benny and I volunteered for the draft, it is not the same as enlisting. We carried US. The lieutenant pointed to a battered Isuzu bus and said, “All draftees are going to replace wiped out platoons.” It took us less than two hours to get here. It started raining before we left. I hoped the rain would wash the stink from the air, but it has not. The smell of jet fuel faded quickly but was replaced by this rotting mud and the continual roar of 175mm howitzers. Benny is shaking. He is crying. I have never seen him cry. This is going to be a bad year.

miles an hour. You and your beakers, your clipboards, your briefcase. You and your boring stories

If your coping mechanism to date has been to ignore your weight, don't feel badly. You're in good company. I've done my share of standing on the doctor's scale backwards, cringing as the nurse scribbled on the clipboard, anxious when the doctor came in glancing over my record. I scrutinized his face for any semblance of judgment. Whether or not I faced the scale or the doctor skipped a pep talk, it didn't change the truth and it still pervaded every hour of my waking thoughts. I knew what I needed to do and just agonizingly prolonged it. What about you? We want our lies to be true--desperately. We think it means less work, less pain. But aren't we experiencing work and pain every day when we are obese? We don't escape it, we just reallocate it, attach it to different problems. The sooner we face the numbers and start to deal with them, the sooner we can resolve them.

When I’m moving down Broadway to meet Jean, my secretary, for brunch, in front of Tower Records a college student with a clipboard asks me to name the saddest song I know. I tell him, without pausing, “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” by the Beatles.

Next!’ The judgement issues summarily from the review panel before Sexecutioner has even a chance to drop his first motherfucker. For a moment, the boys remain rooted to the spot in ungangsta-like attitudes of woundedness, mocked by the drumbeat that is still thumping around them; then, unplugging the ghettoblaster, they clamber down and make the walk of shame to the exit. ‘What in God’s name was that?’ the Automator says as soon as they have left. Trudy peers down at her clipboard. ‘ “Original material.” ’ ‘Our old friend original material,’ the Automator says grimly. ‘I’ve had some plumbing mishaps that sounded a little like those guys.’ ‘It did have a certain rough-hewn vitality,’ Father Laughton moderates. ‘I’ve said it before, Padre, this concert’s not about rough-hewn. It’s not about “doing your best”. I want professionalism. I want pizazz. I want this concert to put the Seabrook name out there, tell the world what we’re all about.’ ‘Education?’ ‘Quality, damn it. A brand right at the top of the upper end of the market. God knows that’s not going to be easy. I’ve given serious thought to bussing in other kids, talented kids, just so we don’t have to drop the curtain after half an hour –

What are they going to say?” Serge stopped skipping. “It’s like clipboards. You walk around all smart and serious, writing on a clipboard, and people stand back in respect. Or orange cones. You can buy them at any Home Depot. Then you set them out according to your needs, and the public thinks, ‘He must be official. He’s got orange cones.’ Those are the Big Three: clipboards, orange cones, elf suits. People don’t question . . . I need coffee. There’s the Coffee Circus.

I fuck conventional wisdom’s wife. Clipboard. Orange cones. You’re a mall cop. Not a real cop. My personal code is never harm real cops, who risk their lives every day. The Thin Blue Line. You’re an almost-cop, so harming you is a gray area. Thin Gray Line? Who knows? So I’ll err on the side of decency and ask nice. Don’t yell at any more kids before you’re fired.

tape already marked the area around the body. A first responding officer jumped to his feet, holding the scene log on a clipboard. “Good morning, sir.” The young man spoke in the nasal voice of someone whose nose is blocked. Lei spotted white cotton sprouting from his nostrils. “Hey. Nice up here if it weren’t for the smell.” She took the clipboard, and each of them signed in. Passing the tape, Lei spotted the hand first, extended toward them from beneath the ferns, palm up. The tissue was swollen and discolored, masked in a filmy gray gauze of mold that seemed to be drawing the body down into the forest floor. Lei could imagine that in just a few weeks, the body would have been all but gone in the biology of the cloud forest. The victim lay on his stomach, his head turned away and facing into a fern clump, black hair already looking like just another lichen growing on the forest floor. The body was at the expansion phase, distending camouflage-patterned clothing as if inflated. A black fiberglass arrow fletched in plastic protruded from the man’s back. Lei and Pono stayed well back from the body. Lei unpacked the police department’s camera from her backpack, and Pono took out his crime kit. The modest quarter-karat engagement

Is she serious? Find my passion? It’s like she’s got a copy of therapist Mad Libs attached to that clipboard of hers. “I am incapable of passion,” I say. “Nobody is incapable of passion, Aubrey.” She crosses her legs and leans forward into her knees.

A nurse worked her way down the line with a clipboard, taking domestic details and assessing the extent of each patient’s worthiness or worthlessness on a scale of “Just Feels Like Bothering Everyone Else With Their Problems” to “Complete And Utter Failure In Life”.

About thirty minutes later, I noticed that Bill was now digging a second hole, his first one having been carefully refilled and smoothed over at its top. I picked up his clipboard and saw that his soil evaluation had been completed meticulously and that he had also included his second-best answers in a separate column down the right side of the page. At the very top of his report, suitability for “infrastructure” was checked, and a specification of “juvenile detention center” had been added in careful handwriting. I

But his graduate advisor, the eminent poverty scholar William Julius Wilson, promptly sent Venkatesh into the field. His assignment: to visit Chicago’s poorest black neighborhoods with a clipboard and a seventy-question, multiple-choice survey. This was the first question on the survey: How do you feel about being black and poor?         a. Very bad         b. Bad         c. Neither bad nor good         d. Somewhat good         e. Very good

Suddenly—so suddenly it scared him—there was light ahead, around a corner. Not the light of a rainy evening in the city, but paler, less certain. They rounded the corner. He noticed the flashlight bulb starting to flicker; lost the alligator momentarily. Then turned the corner and found a wide space like the nave of a church, an arched roof overhead, a phosphorescent light coming off walls whose exact arrangement was indistinct. “Wha,” he said out loud. Backwash from the river? Sea water shines in the dark sometimes; in the wake of a ship you see the same uncomfortable radiance. But not here. The alligator had turned to face him. It was a clear, easy shot. He waited. He was waiting for something to happen. Something otherworldly, of course. He was sentimental and superstitious. Surely the alligator would receive the gift of tongues, the body of Father Fairing be resurrected, the sexy V. tempt him away from murder. He felt about to levitate and at a loss to say where, really, he was. In a bonecellar, a sepulchre. “Ah, schlemihl,” he whispered into the phosphorescence. Accident prone, schlimazzel. The gun would blow up in his hands. The alligator’s heart would tick on, his own would burst, mainspring and escapement rust in this shindeep sewage, in this unholy light. “Can I let you just go?” Bung the foreman knew he was after a sure thing. It was down on the clipboard. And then he saw the alligator couldn’t go any further. Had settled down on its haunches to wait, knowing damn well it was going to be blasted. In Independence Hall in Philly, when the floor was rebuilt, they left part of the original, a foot square, to show the tourists. “Maybe,” the guide would tell you, “Benjamin Franklin stood right there, or even George Washington.” Profane on an eighth-grade class trip had been suitably impressed. He got that feeling now. Here in this room an old man had killed and boiled a catechumen, had committed sodomy with a rat, had discussed a rodent nunhood with V., a future saint—depending which story you listened to. “I’m sorry,” he told the alligator. He was always saying he was sorry. It was a schlemihl’s stock line. He raised the repeater to his shoulder, flicked off the safety. “Sorry,” he said again. Father Fairing talked to rats. Profane talked to alligators. He fired. The alligator jerked, did a backflip, thrashed briefly, was still. Blood began to seep out amoebalike to form shifting patterns with the weak glow of the water. Abruptly, the flashlight went out.

THIS PART OF THE HOSPITAL SEEMS LIKE FOREIGN COUNTRY to me. There is no sense of the battlefield here, no surgical teams in gore-stained scrubs trading witty remarks about missing body parts, no steely-eyed administrators with their clipboards, no herds of old drunks in wheelchairs, and above all, no flocks of wide-eyed sheep huddled together in fear at what might come out of the double steel doors.

THIS PART OF THE HOSPITAL SEEMS LIKE FOREIGN COUNTRY to me. There is no sense of the battlefield here, no surgical teams in gore-stained scrubs trading witty remarks about missing body parts, no steely-eyed administrators with their clipboards, no herds of old drunks in wheelchairs, and above all, no flocks of wide-eyed sheep huddled together in fear at what might come out of the double steel doors. There is no stench of blood, antiseptic, and terror; the smells here are kinder, homier. Even the colors are different: softer, more pastel, without the drab, battleship utilitarianism of the walls in other parts of the building. There are, in fact, none of the sights and sounds and dreadful smells I have come to associate with hospitals, none at all. There is only the crowd of moon-eyed men standing at the big window, and to my infinite surprise, I am one of them. We stand together, happily pressed up to the glass and cheerfully making space for any newcomer. White, black, brown; Latin, African-American, Asian-American, Creole—it doesn’t matter. We are all brothers. No one sneers or frowns; no one seems to care about getting an accidental nudge in the ribs now and again, and no one, wonder of all, seems to harbor any violent thoughts about any of the others. Not even me. Instead, we all cluster at the glass, looking at the miraculous commonplace in the next room. Are these human beings? Can this really be the Miami I have always lived in? Or has some strange physics experiment in an underground supercollider sent us all to live in Bizarro World, where everyone is kind and tolerant and happy all the time? Where

Nothing could limit the fun of thousands of twins hanging out. Nothing, that is, except for scientists. Scientists got word that thousands of fraternal and identical twins would be in the same location on the same weekend. And they took off their lab coats, removed their goggles, got out their pencils and clipboards, and headed first thing to Twinsburg. The scientists transformed the annual Twins Days Festival from a weekend of fun and humor into a weekend of fun and humor—plus forms and tests.

The next summer, accompanied by a friend in an equally undersized sailboat, I made the seven-mile crossing to Long Island. We swam gleefully, uninvited and unnoticed, in the outdoor pool of a stately Gatsby-type house with a sloping green lawn lined by bright beds of flowers. On our way home and scarcely a mile from Larchmont Harbor, we were stopped by the Coast Guard. A pockmarked, humorless man in an orange jumpsuit asked our ages, carefully logged our names and addresses onto a clipboard, and called our parents. It hadn’t occurred to us to think about the distance or the danger. We were simply heading for another shore, propelled by a spirit that reminds me of Joseph Conrad’s words: “I remember my youth and the feeling that will never come back any more—the feeling that I could last for ever, outlast the sea, the earth, and all men.

Ike thought one of the worst things you could give a man was a clipboard. He'd been at the mercy of men with clipboards. They could keep you out of a gated community or on a bus to prison. Give a man a clipboard and watch his true nature come out.

Now … how long have you been teaching at Hogwarts?’ she asked, her quill poised over her clipboard. ‘Fourteen years,’ Snape replied. His expression was unfathomable.

I can’t show anybody the video I made. The shark I saw in my mother’s eyes today makes that clear. I don’t know how she could make things worse, but she always finds a way. She always talks her way around those clipboard ladies, always threatens to get the school nurse fired. She’ll get rid of Bette, too. Somehow. I am not a real scientist. I am not proving anything. I am still the kid in the bath with the knife. My experiments always fail.

They’re from CPS and they came to take him away. The clipboard people. I’m holding on to myself with both hands. If I come up now, they’ll take us both.

In order for discipline to work, the disciplinarian needs to: a) be present at the time of the rule violation and not stuck in an office doing email or at a meeting full of exhortations; b) see the rule violation and not have eyes fixed on some clipboard checklist completing a form; and c) choose to go through the awkward and lengthy process of confronting the worker, completing more forms, dealing with human resources, and experiencing the inevitable backlash from the work team.

He was phrasing that exactly the way those activists did when they stood outside of Vons with their clipboards and asked , as you were rushing into the store , “Do you have time for the environment ? ” So obviously , you couldn’t say no , because then you looked like an asshole who didn’t have time for the environment . You only had time to buy donuts and a fifth of Jack , and the environment could go fuck itself . Obviously , that’s what you meant .

I threw away picture-frame wire, metal bookends, cork coasters, plastic key tags, dusty bottles of Mercurochrome and Vaseline, crusted paintbrushes, caked shoe brushes, clotted correction fluid. I threw away candle stubs, laminated placemats, frayed pot holders. I went after the padded clothes hangers, the magnetic memo clipboards. I was in a vengeful and near savage state. I bore a personal grudge against these things. Somehow they’d put me in this fix. They’d dragged me down, made escape impossible. The two girls followed me around, observing a respectful silence. I threw away my battered khaki canteen, my ridiculous hip boots. I threw away diplomas, certificates, awards and citations. When the girls stopped me, I was working the bathrooms, discarding used bars of soap, damp towels, shampoo bottles with streaked labels and missing caps.

That’s what it all comes down to in the end,” he said. “A person spends his life saying good-bye to other people. How does he say good-bye to himself?” I threw away picture-frame wire, metal bookends, cork coasters, plastic key tags, dusty bottles of Mercurochrome and Vaseline, crusted paintbrushes, caked shoe brushes, clotted correction fluid. I threw away candle stubs, laminated placemats, frayed pot holders. I went after the padded clothes hangers, the magnetic memo clipboards. I was in a vengeful and near savage state. I bore a personal grudge against these things. Somehow they’d put me in this fix. They’d dragged me down, made escape impossible.

Just look around you at the gym (if you still use a gym, that is). The people who are in the best shape are usually not in an aerobics or yoga class, or being toted from machine to machine by some trainer with a clipboard. They’re the ones working out alone. The ones who have the drive and knowledge to customize their own strength training routines. Yet even they haven’t taken the final step of independence: Walking out of that fitness center and never returning.

Now here’s the thing. Annabeth and I were used to traps, and usually those traps looked good at first. So I expected the clipboard lady to turn into a snake or a demon, or something, any minute. But on the other hand, we’d been floating in a rowboat for most of the day. I was hot, tired, and hungry, and when this lady mentioned a luau, my stomach sat up on its hind legs and begged like a dog.

Most people think their childhood was happy till they sit down in a room with abstract art on the wall in front of them a clipboard and behind that clipboard a person with a blank expression.

 I motioned at Frank’s clipboard with a chunk of pita bread. “Gimme the skinny.”   “Well, nothing they’re asking for is too crazy. Basic needs stuff. Though they asked for access to some TV time, a communal computer so they can e-mail—”   “Gnomes e-mail?” Ramon sounded both amused and skeptical.   “Yeah, but I think the computer request was mostly from the Minotaur. The gladiators just wanted to use it to check hockey scores and stuff.”   “Anyone else think it’s funny that what Frank just said didn’t seem weird at all?” Ramon asked.   Brooke rested her chin in her hands. “Nothing seems weird to me anymore.” Ramon reached over and hugged her to him, kissing her cheek. She gave a little half smile and leaned into it.   “I was too busy trying to figure out why the gladiators wanted to check hockey scores, which just goes to show you how skewed my sense of strange has become,” I said.   Frank shrugged, not looking up from the clipboard. “They’re Canadian.”   I swallowed my vitamin as quickly as possible, grimacing from the aftertaste. “But they’re gladiators. Wouldn’t that make them Roman or Greek or something?”   “I asked them the same thing. I guess the marble they’re carved from comes from Canada. You can kind of tell if you talk to them long enough. They say ‘eh’ a lot. They don’t seem to have spent much time in their homeland, so I think they are basing most of their culture on stereotypes.”   “Maybe we should hold a Canada party or something,” I said. “Like a little cultural festival. Then we should hold one for the gnomes, because they just boggle me entirely.”   Frank snickered. “No kidding

As I near the locker room, I see Coach Sal—AKA my dad—out there with his clipboard, and he waves me over. “Dennis, what the fuck?” “Morning, Coach Sal.

I’m lurking in the shubbery behind an industrial unit, armed with a clipboard, a pager, and a pair of bulbous night-vision goggles that drench the scenery in ghastly emeralt tones. The bloody thing make me look like a train-spotter with a gas-mask fetish, and wearing them is giving me a headache

I never used to take my turn. I always gave my turn away. I helped others have a great turn. I must have had a clipboard by the time I was six, because by then I had a whole caseload of people to keep track of. After they had all gotten a turn, then maybe I could go, if there was time and it didn't bother anyone. Now I take my turn, as a radical act.

You know where the term severance pay comes from, Scot?” said Longo as he hung the clipboard on a peg inside the cabinet and locked it again. “No, but you’re going to tell me, right?” Ignoring Harvath’s sarcasm, Longo continued. “It’s also from England. When prisoners were going to be beheaded, they offered the axeman a little extra money to make sure he chopped their heads off with one, clean blow.

The guard stood up. The dots of light shielded by metal visors began blinking red. Two tall, thin vertical planks slowly lowered into horizontal position, blocking off oncoming cars. I heard a distant clanging, a clumsy chaotic bell, like a huge cow barreling down the tracks. The screaming of the horn shattered the air, the stabs of white light, the silver nose shooting into the intersection. An elongated silver body, belted with yellow windows, blurring and streaming into one strip of passengers’ heads, tilted this way and that, reading or eyes closed, blinking by, head head head head head, then gone. Stillness. A residual, clumsy banging of pots and pans. The planks gave a tremble and a lurch, rising to point up toward the sky, to announce the performance was over. The guard made a note on a clipboard, took his seat in the plastic chair, and all at once the red lights shut off, the intersection dark and quiet again.

While the screens flash and blur down below, a team of Googlers wanders through the fellowship—young people with clipboards and friendly faces, asking questions like: When were you born? Where do you live? What’s your cholesterol? I wonder who they are. “They’re from Google Forever,” Kat says, a bit sheepishly. “Interns. I mean, it’s a good opportunity. Some of these people are so old and still so healthy.” Lapin is describing her work at Pacific Bell to a Googler holding a skinny video camera. Tyndall is spitting into a plastic vial.

War was nothing but a grand experiment. Behind every senseless tragedy, there was some guy with a clipboard.

She wrote a note on her clipboard, her cursive like soap bubbles blown from a pen.

you can technically make an “infrasound microphone” with just a barometer and a clipboard.

Denver’s assistant head coach is a woman.” Lexi points across the ice to a woman with blonde hair and a clipboard in her hand. Her blue suit is tailored and fitted to her toned thighs, and she’s deep in conversation with one of the players on her team. Every few seconds her eyes flick up. She scans the ice, and I wonder if she’s looking for someone specific.

His hab module was a shoebox, big enough for him to stand up straight. He drenched it with light from metal halide lamps, hot white light like sunlight, to keep the blues away. The walls were racks that held recovery units, designed for easy replacement. There were wires and cables and ducts running along the corners of the hab module and across the walls. A robot spider called Charlotte ran along the wires, cleaning and sucking dust out of the air. Despite his best efforts, the whole place was soon messy and cluttered, like an overused utility room. Gear was scattered everywhere, stuck to the floor and walls and ceiling with straps and Velcro. If he brushed against a wall he could cause an eruption of gear, of pens and softscreens and clipboards and data discs and equipment components, and food cans and toothpaste and socks.

My eyes narrow as I say, “I so don’t get you, Reed. When I was in the auditorium, you wanted me to go away, and now that we’re here, you want to talk. What do you want to talk about?” I ask him. I feel like he is about to accuse me of doing something wrong. I think that that clipboard he had earlier must have gone to his head.

Hence, because flash cards are being used in markets completely different from those Quantum and Seagate typically engage—palmtop computers, electronic clipboards, cash registers, electronic cameras, and so on—the value network framework would predict that firms similar to Quantum and Seagate are not likely to build market-leading positions in flash memory. This

We're so exposed," Elliott said, as people tapped at the window, oohing at our neighbors' dishes. "This place is good, right?" "Yeah," I said. "It's supposed to be awesome. Though the menu is pretty controversial." "Controversial, huh? Well, I'll leave it up to you to navigate the terrain." "Come on, really? Order with me. Please?" "No, no, don't worry about it," he said. "Go crazy!" "Okay..." I said. "What about... gizzard porridge?" That was actually on the menu. "Sounds fabulous." I giggled. "Or what about the pork with three sweetbread jellies?" "Only three? I like at least a half dozen." I held the menu up like an inspector with her clipboard. "What about the strawberry ramen with peanut broth?" I challenged. "Ah, the sweet nectar of my youth." I spread out my elbows. "Okay, Mr. Chambers. I see your palate is quite sophisticated. Which means you simply must have the poached toothfish with nitro-chocolate ribbons." "Darling, it would be heresy to not." Elliott and I burst out laughing and a couple sitting next to us gave us dirty looks, which only made us laugh more. This was beginning to feel like old times. "All right, for real," I said, rubbing his hand from across the table. "What do you want?" "You decide, T. I trust you." I gave in and decided on three of the most talked-about dishes: buttermilk Parmesan flan with maple broth, pork and snail dumplings with effervescent chive oil, and beef meatballs with deep-fried cilantro chips.

Mr. Killian, unhand him!” the doctor shouted, swatting the back of my shoulders with the clipboard.

The paramedics told me the story.” He checked the clock, then signed a clipboard attached

Rami is sitting on a chair close to my bed. He is holding a clipboard and reading intently. He looks at me. He smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Hey, buddy,” he says. He squeezes my arm. I open my mouth. Something warm and wet trickles down my chin. Rami’s eyes water and he turns away.

Jerry shifted the clipboard to his side as he rested his fists on his hips, as though to attest to his in-chargeness.

Marva Dawn’s a Christian who draws on Jewish traditions. She looks to the Sabbath as a way off the treadmill of evaluating our worthiness based on how many items we’ve crossed off a list each day. I am usually guilty of measuring my worth by my productivity: did I meet my word quota today? The Sabbath, to paraphrase Dawn, is God’s way of letting us know that he’s not following us around with a clipboard, quantifying his love based on how much we’ve done for him lately. He’s our parent, and “parents raise children primarily by who they are, not by what they do.

Fairy Godmother returned the clipboard to her daughter. “That’s okay,” she said, turning Jane to face Mal and her friends. “Jane, this is everyone.” Jane gave a feeble wave. “Hi. That’s okay. Don’t mind me. As you were,” she said, bowing and rushing out of the room.

Language is more varied than ever before, even if some of it is directly copied from the clipboard - variety is the preservation of an art, not a threat to it.

When we get there, Coach Byrnes gives us a pre-season pep talk. He carries around this clipboard and whistle and talks really, really fast. “Passtheballovertherenowturnaroundandkickitintothegoalrightnow!” Sometimes I have no idea what he’s talking about. I thought I knew everything there was to know about soccer. Boy, was I wrong.

Welcome!’ said the lady with the clipboard. She looked like a flight attendant – blue business suit, perfect makeup, hair pulled back in a ponytail. She shook our hands as we stepped onto the dock. With the dazzling smile she gave us, you would’ve thought we’d just got off the Princess Andromeda rather than a bashed-up rowboat. Then again, our rowboat wasn’t the weirdest ship in port. Along with a bunch of pleasure yachts, there was a U.S. Navy submarine, several dugout canoes and an old-fashioned three-masted sailing ship. There was a helipad with a ‘Channel Five Fort Lauderdale’ helicopter on it, and a short runway with a Learjet and a propeller plane that looked like a World War II fighter. Maybe they were replicas for tourists to look at or something. ‘Is this your first time with us?’ the clipboard lady enquired. Annabeth and I exchanged looks. Annabeth said, ‘Umm…’ ‘First – time – at – spa,’ the lady said as she wrote on her clipboard. ‘Let’s see…’ She looked us up and down critically. ‘Mmm. An herbal wrap to start for the young lady. And of course, a complete makeover for the young gentleman.

The fact that the arrow can't disappear is both a comfort and a worry. It makes Nechtr feel special, true. But from special it's not very far to Alone. Although we all, Mark would know if he bothered to ask J.D. Steelritter, who'd done solipsistic-delusion-fear research back in the halcyon days of singles bars, we all have our little solipsistic delusions. All of us. The truth's all there, too, tracked and graphed in black and white—forgotten, now that fear of disease has superseded fear of retiring alone—sitting in dusty aluminum clipboards in a back archive at J.D. Steelritter Advertising, in Collision, where they're headed. We all have our little solipsistic delusions, ghastly intuitions of utter singularity: that we are the only one in the house who ever fills the ice-cube tray, who unloads the clean dishwasher, who occasionally pees in the shower, whose eyelid twitches on first dates; that only we take casualness terribly seriously; that only we fashion supplication into courtesy; that only we hear the whiny pathos in a dog's yawn, the timeless sigh in the opening of the hermetically-sealed jar, the splattered laugh in the frying egg, the minor-D lament in the vacuum's scream; that only we feel the panic at sunset the rookie kindergartner feels at his mother's retreat. That only we love the only-we. That only we need the only-we. Solipsism binds us together, J.D. knows. That we feel lonely in a crowd; stop not to dwell on what's brought the crowd into being. That we are, always, faces in a crowd.

least the truck would be empty on the ride there and he and his two partners could relax a little and not flinch at every bump in the road. The second pallet found its home and he watched the handler close and lock the cage behind it. He counted six packages total, which matched the other stack at the opposite end of the building. Still too close together for his liking but security trumped separation he was told. Again, he was just a deliveryman. The handler waved a clipboard in his direction. He nodded in return, policed up his rifle and climbed into the back of the truck. He tapped on the cab, the engine started, and he watched the warehouse door fade away. Soon they were past the guards

For something to exist, it has to be observed. For something to exist, it has to have a position in time and space. And this explains why nine-tenths of the mass of the universe is unaccounted for. Nine-tenths of the universe is the knowledge of the position and direction of everything in the other tenth. Every atom has its biography, every star its file, every chemical exchange its equivalent of the inspector with a clipboard. It is unaccounted for because it is doing the accounting for the rest of it, and you cannot see the back of your own head.*

He would dress a lot like Dilbert, only he'd be skinnier, and with a bumblebee-yellow pen and a clipboard. He'd have multiple facial tics and a quirky habit of raising a Vulcan eyebrow as if it were purely illogical to value privacy.

Fuck this,’ says Rachel to Elliot. ‘Let’s go. Let’s get out of this pathetic, windowless, dirty, small-town excuse for a gym, full of people who are extremely up themselves given that they are basically just cleaners with clipboards and absolutely no future.’ She has the lungs for this kind of sentence now, because she is not a fucking beginner. She looks at Jordon. ‘You think you’re so fucking important, because your arms are bigger than some other guy’s? But you don’t actually have a brain, so why would you matter to anybody? Have you ever read a book? No. All you are is flesh and muscle, like a farm animal. You’re basically livestock. You’ve devoted your life to being artificially bulked up, like a fucking cow, like a sodding battery hen. And you know what’s really sad? You could have chosen anything, and you chose that, to be like all the rest of the pathetic cattle.

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Wait!” Alek begged. Can you leave something with me? Something you’ll have to come back for.  Ian’s brows darted together. “What? Like collateral?”  Please. “You already have it.” Alek wrote a giant question mark and held the clipboard up. “You’re the collateral, Alek. I’ll always come back for you.

Capri wrote dick head on the clipboard, faking like she was taking notes. “Can you show us where the boiler is?

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Doug!” he said when he noticed a nerdy boy with thick glasses heading down the stairs. The boy was wearing a blue-and-gold marching band uniform and carried a clipboard. “Doug! Doug, come down!” Ben clapped a hand on Doug’s shoulder. “This is Doug,” he announced. “He’s going to help you with your class schedules and show you the rest of the dorms.” He looked right at Mal. “I’ll see you later, okay? And if you need anything at all, feel free to—” “Ask Doug,” blurted out Audrey. She fake laughed and dragged Ben away. “Hi, guys,” said Doug. “I’m Dopey’s son? As in”—he started counting on his fingers—“Dopey, Doc, Bashful, Happy, Grumpy, Sleepy, and...” Evie caught Doug’s eye. “Heigh-ho,” he said to her, completely charmed. Evie went nose to nose with him. “Evie. Evil Queen’s daughter.” She started to twirl her hair flirtatiously. “So, about your classes,” said Doug. “I put in the requirements already. History of Woodsmen and Pirates

You are such a cunt, Will,” I hiss through my teeth, twirling on my heels, my hands gripping the clipboard so tight it squeaks under the pressure.  “I have one, and I like to lick them, but I’m not one, Sam. Have fun upstairs!” my sister calls after me, and I have to really fight the urge not to flip her off. 

and a squat, toadlike witch wearing a velvet bow in her short hair and clutching a clipboard to her chest.

Welcome to Hell!” His voice boomed, the deep bass tone making the ground beneath their feet rumble and shake. Luc knew they could feel it in their bones. “You all know why you’re here, so we won’t waste a lot of time explaining. You’ve been very, very naughty in your lives, and now you get to spend the rest of eternity here. With me.” He watched them take in his words, horror painted on their faces, screams echoing around the room as they shuffled farther away from him, the ones at the front clearly wishing they could just sink into the ground and disappear. “No need to be shy. I’m not gonna hurt you,” Luc cooed. He gave them a few precious moments to relax a tiny bit before grinning. “I have people for that.” He turned to Zorun to see if he liked the joke but got nothing but an eye roll from his second-in-command. Rude. “Okay, we need to be fast and organized.” Luc dropped the act, waving the clipboard and his colorful sticky notes in the air. “You’ll be divided by sin and sent with your group leader to the appropriate level. Your pain tolerance assessment starts in half an hour. You’ll be tested for various forms of torture, and then the most suitable one will be chosen for you. If you disagree with your torture method, you can fill out a form and appeal within two weeks. You will be reassessed if need be.

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He looked at her in awe and wonder as something rushed up through his core, something buried deep under years of denial. The little prep school in Manchester where they’d taken him out of class one day and he’d been observed by a woman with a clipboard and some weird toys and his parents had been called in and he’d sat in the office outside with the lady who worked at the front desk and he’d eaten an apple and they’d come out and they’d looked worried and they’d taken him out for tea and the atmosphere had been wrong and strange and then his mum had said, Your teacher thinks maybe you have a special brain.

The golf cart parked a few feet from them, and a man stepped out wearing a bucket hat—the string under his chin fastened tightly to his head. His mustache reminded Ander of a thick, furry caterpillar. The man held a clipboard under one arm, and a whistle attached to a skinny rope necklace hung low against his CAMP 1985 T-shirt tucked into khaki shorts. The man waved before extending a hand that Ander grasped. “Howdy! You must be Anderson Thorne.” Ander focused on the white cream spread over the man’s nose. “Just Ander.

The Basement Morgue by Stewart Stafford A reluctant errand to a basement morgue, No mortal knew what things lurked there, The elevator shuddered to a halt, opening, To a scattered boneyard of patient beds. Totem tchotchkes of a broken system, Dead corridors stretched left and right, A charged cold-sweat silence hung, As a flaccid desk stethoscope rattled. Buried my nose in my clipboard; Had to find their machine - now! A gurney wheeled itself past me, Disappearing into an anteroom. A hanging skeleton lunged at me— Spindly fingers choked me into blackness. Rousing to bright lights, blinding me; Icy steel drawers swallowed my screams. © 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.

WHEN TO BE OPEN When you are in one-on-one interactions where you need to build rapport. Make a show of removing all barriers between you and others. Clear the table in a client meeting. Push aside a computer in a brainstorming session. Move your clipboard to the side when talking to people. Scoot your coffee over on a date. Open body, open heart, open mind. When you need to spark ideas. Want to be more creative, open-minded, imaginative? Uncross your arms. Want others to be more creative, open-minded, or imaginative? Encourage them to uncross theirs. Hand them a cup of water, give them a pen to take notes, show them a photo of your family so they have to open up and lean in. When you are presenting or pitching. Always try to be barrier free—an open torso is the most charismatic. Use a remote instead of sitting in front of your computer. Step away from the podium. Leave your arms loose by your sides so you can gesture easily and keep your torso open to the audience. When you are choosing profile pictures—especially for LinkedIn or dating app profiles. A closed body signals a closed mind and a closed heart. WHEN NOT TO BE OPEN When openness is not the right message. Irish mixed martial artist Conor McGregor is often photographed with his arms crossed. And this makes complete sense for his brand. He doesn’t want to be seen as open! It’s better for his reputation to be seen as closed, intimidating, and tough. For him, crossed arms sends the right cues—he wants to be in the Danger Zone. When you don’t want to engage. Is someone making you feel uncomfortable? Cross those arms! If you want to signal you’re closed for business or aren’t open to someone’s ideas, block them out. This works well with close talkers or over-touchers.

The passenger queue snaked to one side of the customs barn; most of the smothering semi-gloom inside was full of cargo crates and livestock and white-shirted human clerks with clipboards, charcoal pencils in stained fingers and behind blackened ears, damp seeping rings below armpits. Autumn sun heated the corrugated steel roof to a medium broil that cooked human sweat, cow and pig farts, machine oil, wood mold and rotting straw into a chewy stench, familiar, suffocating. Smelled like civilization.

Scarborough finally looked up from his clipboard. “Can you account for the defendant’s whereabouts at the time the poison was added to Alexandra’s food?” Julia shook her head. “No. I have no idea where she was when that happened. She wasn’t with me or the other guests. I would have remembered that.

Will they find her on the kitchen floor? Summon an ambulance to take her to the hospital? Who will fill out the admit forms, clipped to their clipboard? And that will merely be the beginning.