Comeback Sayings And Quotes

Hey, look—your girlfriend is saying something." Artemis had a vast mental reserve of scathing comebacks at his disposal, but none of them covered girlfriend insults. He wasn't even sure if it was an insult. And if it was, who was being insulted? Him or the girl?

That calls for a witty comeback. "Whatever," I say.

LADY LAZARUS I have done it again. One year in every ten I manage it-- A sort of walking miracle, my skin Bright as a Nazi lampshade, My right foot A paperweight, My face a featureless, fine Jew linen. Peel off the napkin O my enemy. Do I terrify?-- The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth? The sour breath Will vanish in a day. Soon, soon the flesh The grave cave ate will be At home on me And I a smiling woman. I am only thirty. And like the cat I have nine times to die. This is Number Three. What a trash To annihilate each decade. What a million filaments. The peanut-crunching crowd Shoves in to see Them unwrap me hand and foot-- The big strip tease. Gentlemen, ladies These are my hands My knees. I may be skin and bone, Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman. The first time it happened I was ten. It was an accident. The second time I meant To last it out and not come back at all. I rocked shut As a seashell. They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls. Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I've a call. It's easy enough to do it in a cell. It's easy enough to do it and stay put. It's the theatrical Comeback in broad day To the same place, the same face, the same brute Amused shout: 'A miracle!' That knocks me out. There is a charge For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart-- It really goes. And there is a charge, a very large charge For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair or my clothes. So, so, Herr Doktor. So, Herr Enemy. I am your opus, I am your valuable, The pure gold baby That melts to a shriek. I turn and burn. Do not think I underestimate your great concern. Ash, ash-- You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there-- A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling. Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air. -- written 23-29 October 1962

I'm trying to think of a witty comeback, when Boggs says brusquely, “Well, don't expect us to be too impressed. We just saw Finnick Odair in his underwear.” I decide to go ahead and like Boggs.

Finnik?” I say. “Maybe some pants?”
He looks down at his legs as if noticing them for the first time. Then he whips of his hospital gown, leaving him in just is underwear. “Why? Do you find this”-he strikes a ridiculously proactive pose-“distracting?”
I can’t help laughing because it’s funny, and it’s extra funny because Boggs looks so uncomfortable, and I’m happy because Finnik actually sounds like the guy I met at the Quarter Quell.
“I’m only human, Odair.” I get in before the elevator doors close. “Sorry,” I say to Boggs.
“Don’t be. I thought you… handled that well,” He says. “Better than my having to arrest him, anyway.”
 
Fulvia Cardew hustles over an makes a sound of frustration when she sees my clean face. “All that hard work, down the drain. I’m not blaming you, Katniss. It’s just that very few people are born with camera-ready faces. Like him.” She snags Gale, who’s in a conversation with Plutarch, and spins him towards us. “Isn’t he handsome?”
Gale does look stricking in the uniform, I guess. But the question just embarrasses us both Given our history. I’m trying to think of a witty comeback when Boggs says brusquely, “Well don’t expect us to be too impressed. We just saw Finnick Odair in his underwear.

Look, we say stuff to women all the time. We say we’ll call them, then we don’t. We tell them they’re beautiful, then spend the evening looking at other women. We say we don’t love them when we do, and say we do when we don’t. Christ, if I was a woman, I wouldn’t listen to a goddamn thing any man ever said to me.

It is depressing to have to point out, yet again, that there is a distinction between having the legal right to say something & having the moral right not to be held accountable for what you say. Being asked to apologise for saying something unconscionable is not the same as being stripped of the legal right to say it. It’s really not very f-cking complicated. Cry “free speech” in such contexts, you are demanding the right to speak any bilge you wish without apology or fear of comeback. You are demanding not legal rights but an end to debate about and criticism of what you say. When did bigotry get so needy?

We walk for about an hour before Raffe whispers, “Does moping actually help humans feel better?” “I’m not moping,” I whisper back. “Of course you’re not. A girl like you, spending time with a warrior demigod like me. What’s to mope about? Leaving a wheelchair behind couldn’t possibly show up on the radar compared to that.” I nearly stumble over a fallen branch. “You have got to be kidding me.” “I never kid about my warrior demigod status.” “Oh. My. God.” I lower my voice, having forgotten to whisper. “You are nothing but a bird with an attitude. Okay, so you have a few muscles, I’ll grant you that. But you know, a bird is nothing but a barely evolved lizard. That’s what you are.” He chuckles. “Evolution.” He leans over as if telling me a secret. “I’ll have you know that I’ve been this perfect since the beginning of time.” He is so close that his breath caresses my ear. “Oh, please. Your giant head is getting too big for this forest. Pretty soon, you’re going to get stuck trying to walk between two trees. And then, I’ll have to rescue you.” I give him a weary look. “Again.” I pick up my pace, trying to discourage the smart comeback that I’m sure will come. But it doesn’t. Could he be letting me have the last say? When I look back, Raffe has a smug grin on his face. That’s when I realize I’ve been manipulated into feeling better. I stubbornly try to resist but it’s already too late.

(Seth) “So,” he said, looking me up and down, “you’re what the fuss was all about. I can’t say I’m impressed.” He sneered at me. “Still riding bulls, cowboy?” (Weber) “Nope.” I smirked at him. “I only ride his cock now.

I thought cobblers just ate shoe leather" Jocelyn says as she and her shadow dance by us. I've had enough of this one. "I never have, but if you want to try leather, I'm happy to shove some down your throat.

Hi,' he says. 'Hi,' she says back, and then to her great surprise, she begins to cry. 'You know,' Nick says as he hands her a tissue from the bedside table,' for all this talk about how you don't cry, you sure are sprouting a lot of water.

Persevere like a seed; even when people try to bury you, flourish.

Are you saying we should start up where we left off?” His comeback was instant. “Did it ever end for you?

You suck at working with someone," I say, because it's true.

She sat back down, arms once again crossed over her breasts. It was the most direct she’d ever spoken to him, and it felt liberating. Unfortunately, the resentment coursing through her veins wouldn’t allow her to relish her new found independence. She expected her words to incite anger; after all, she’d experienced his anger before. Nevertheless, carelessly and unapologetically Claire forged ahead, “I would prefer the words, but you are welcome to say, one through four, if that’s easier for you.

There's a peculiar thing that happens every time you get clean. You go through this sensation of rebirth. There's something intoxicating about the process of the comeback, and that becomes an element in the whole cycle of addiction. Once you've beaten yourself down with cocaine and heroin, and you manage to stop and walk out of the muck you begin to get your mind and body strong and reconnect with your spirit. The oppressive feeling of being a slave to the drugs is still in your mind, so by comparison, you feel phenomenal. You're happy to be alive, smelling the air and seeing the beauty around you...You have a choice of what to do. So you experience this jolt of joy that you're not where you came from and that in and of itself is a tricky thing to stop doing. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you know that every time you get clean, you'll have this great new feeling. Cut to: a year later, when you've forgotten how bad it was and you don't have that pink-cloud sensation of being newly sober. When I look back, I see why these vicious cycles can develop in someone who's been sober for a long time and then relapses and doesn't want to stay out there using, doesn't want to die, but isn't taking the full measure to get well again. There's a concept in recovery that says 'Half-measures avail us nothing.' When you have a disease, you can't take half the process of getting well and think you're going to get half well; you do half the process of getting well, you're not going to get well at all, and you'll go back to where you came from. Without a thorough transformation, you're the same guy, and the same guy does the same shit. I kept half-measuring it, thinking I was going to at least get something out of this deal, and I kept getting nothing out of it

Emily tucks her knees up beneath her and leans forward on the table. 'Do you like Ryan?' she asks Nick, and Mom's eyes go wide. Kevin chokes a little on his water. Mortified, Ryan looks away, holding her breath. Nick turns to Emily, and with mock seriousness, leans down to consult with her. 'Do you like Ryan?' Emily considers this a moment, tapping a finger against her lips in thought. 'I guess most of the time,' she says finally. 'I guess she's okay.' 'Then I think so too' he says, turning back to the rest of the table. He winks at Ryan. 'We've decided you're okay.' She breathes out. 'I can live with that.

You think that drinking with a serial killer takes you into the midnight currents of the culture? I say bullshit. There's been twelve TV documentaries, three movies and eight books about me. I'm more popular than any of these designed-by-pedophile pop moppets littering the music television and the gossip columns. I've killed more people than Paris Hilton has desemenated, I was famous before she was here and I'll be famous after she's gone. I am the mainstream. I am, in fact, the only true rock star of the modern age. Every newspaper in America never fails to report on my comeback tours, and I get excellent reviews.

Most sane human beings who have managed to attain and retain fame each uses it to dramatically increase their name’s chances of being remembered until Jesus comes back, since their heart cannot do what they consciously or unconsciously lust for, that is to say, for it to beat until Jesus returns.

Capitalist societies can always heave a sigh of relief and say to themselves: communism is finished since the collapse of the totalitarianisms of the twentieth century and not only is it finished, but it did not take place, it was only a ghost They do no more than disavow the undeniable itself. a ghost never dies, it remains always to come and to come-back.

Oooh, hard to say," Angela sneered behind Kami. "Other than live without magic like everybody els, you loser.

Passionate people say to their obstacles “I may fall, I may lose everything I have, but if I still get me, you are still in trouble because am coming back and when I come back, you are doomed”. Passion is a serious secret that sailed people to the top!

I’m trying to think of a witty comeback, when Boggs says brusquely, “Well, don’t expect us to be too impressed. We just saw Finnick Odair in his underwear.” I decide to go ahead and like Boggs.

Thing is, as ye git aulder, this character-deficiency gig becomes mair sapping. Thir wis a time ah used tae say tae aw the teachers, bosses, dole punters, poll-tax guys, magistrates, when they telt me ah was deficient:'Hi, cool it, gadge, ah'm jist me, jist intae a different sort ay gig fae youse but, ken?' Now though, ah've goat tae concede thit mibee they cats had it sussed. Ye take a healthier slapping the aulder ye git. The blows hit hame mair. It's like yon Mike Tyson boy at the boxing, ken? Every time ye git it thegither tae make a comeback, thir's jist a wee bit mair missin. So ye fuck up again. Yip, ah'm jist no a gadge cut oot fir modern life n that's aw thir is tae it, man. Sometimes the gig goes smooth, then ah jist pure panic n it's back tae the auld weys. What kin ah dae?

It's not about winning or losing, really,” he’s saying. “It’s just the showing up every day. It’s stepping up to the plate and whiffing, and then doing it over and over again, whether you get a hit or not. It’s getting up every morning and failing and being disappointed and getting beat up and being let down, and then doing it all over again the next day.

What is a whore?" Unsurprisingly, that hadn't been one of the words we had shared over the last span of days. For half a moment I considered lying, but there was no way I could manage it. "He says your mother is a person men pay money to have sex with." Tempi turned back to the mercenary and nodded graciously. "You are very kind. I thank you.

September days are crisp and golden. I've been turn like the autumn leaf, who looked at the sky to survive. And when comeback to reality, I knew gracefully, life is a gift.

Suddenly William loomed over him, scowling, snarling and bloody, his suit dirt-stained and ripped. “Do you know. How many strands. Of hair I lost. On my way down?” Whatever. “Math was never my thing, but I’m gonna say you lost…a lot.” Electric-blues glittered with menace. “You are a cruel, sadistic bastard. My hair needs TLC and you…you… Damn you! I’ve gutted men for less.” “I know. I’ve watched you.” Paris lumbered to his feet and scanned the rocky bank they stood upon, the crimson ocean lapping and bubbling in every direction. The drawbridge was only a fifty-yard dash away. “Don’t kill the messenger, but I’m thinking you should change your dating profile to balding.” Masculine cheeks went scarlet as the big bad warrior struggled for a comeback. … “One of these days you’re going to wake up,” William finally said, “and I will have shaved you. Everywhere.” “Won’t make a difference. Women will still want me. But you know what else? What I did to you wasn’t cruel, Willy.” He offered the warrior a white-flag grin. A trick. A lie. “This, however, is.” He grabbed William by the wrist, swung the man around and around before at last releasing him and hurling his body directly onto the bridge.

Guns, double-crosses, hitmen… I can get used to a lot of things, but I’m never going to get used to sleeping where apocalypse bugs mate,” Wednesday said, walking into the room looking around. She dropped her Birkin on the floor and heard something scuttling behind the cheap plastic wood print veneer covered dresser. She turned to face Alvin, her head cocked to the side. “Seriously. I’m not saying five-star… I’m saying go on Expedia and find a place that actually has stars… any stars.

A woman is driving along when the car in front of her hits the brakes suddenly, and she plows into it. An extremely short man gets out, looks at the damage, and says, “I’m not happy ...” “Well, which one are you?

Sex makes things messy.” “Messy is good.” “And according to you, so is greed and we won’t even get a chance to be greedy if we’re too preoccupied with sex.” “Believe me, you’ll be greedy,” he says lazily. “You’ll have the greediest cunt around once I’ve gotten through to you.” My cheeks flame. Damn. “You’re speechless,” he says after a beat. I clear my throat a few times. “I’m trying to think of a witty comeback.” “Don’t think so much then.

I would like to be able to say that I came back from this by just simply getting up from the sofa and rolling up my sleeves… but I didn’t. I could not even take things days by day. In realistic terms I fought to make it through the day - 5 minutes at a time.

There’s no great dividing line between being a kid and an adult. We’re not all caterpillars turning into butterflies. You are what you are. When you grow up, you may be more careful than when you were a kid. You don’t say what you think as much as you once did. You learn to play nice. But you’re still the same person who did good things or rotten things when you were young. Whether you feel good about them or bad … whether you regret them. Well, that’s a different thing. But it’s not like they disappear forever.

You are not going to do it?” His voice was calm but gravelly. A rich, deep baritone that held no fear. “I cannot say I am disappointed.” “I… I…” In the history of great comebacks, that had to rank in the top three. Idiot. “If you are not going to stake me, what do you intend?” “I… I…” Oh, come on, Addison. At least get out a verb. “I found you. All I want is for you to be well enough to leave.

What’s bothering you, son?” Jem came to the point: “Mr. Ewell.” “What has happened?” “Nothing’s happened. We’re scared for you, and we think you oughta do something about him.” Atticus smiled wryly. “Do what? Put him under a peace bond?” “When a man says he’s gonna get you, looks like he means it.” “He meant it when he said it,” said Atticus. “Jem, see if you can stand in Bob Ewell’s shoes a minute. I destroyed his last shred of credibility at that trial, if he had any to begin with. The man had to have some kind of comeback, his kind always does. So if spitting in my face and threatening me saved Mayella Ewell one extra beating, that’s something I’ll gladly take. He had to take it out on somebody and I’d rather it be me than that houseful of children out there. You understand?

And when the time finally comes to say good-bye, she'll swallow hard against the tightness of her throat and the weight of her heart. She'll think I'll miss you and she'll think don't go and she'll think please. But what she'll finally say is simply thank you, and it will mean all of these things - everything promised and remembered, everything wordless and spoken and understood - and so much more.

If you're asking me to wear a ski mask, check the Darkwood handbook, Levi says. Page one hundred thirty-seven. Dress Code. Second Paragraph, fourth line. Prohibited item number forty-two: ski masks or other masks that cover the face. Prohibited item number forty-two? Is this kid serious?

To understand, I destroyed myself. To understand is to forget about loving. I know nothing more simultaneously false and telling than the statement by Leonardo da Vinci that we cannot love or hate something until we’ve understood it. Solitude devastates me; company oppresses me. The presence of another person derails my thoughts; I dream of the other’s presence with a strange absent-mindedness that no amount of my analytical scrutiny can define. Isolation has carved me in its image and likeness. The presence of another person – of any person whatsoever – instantly slows down my thinking, and while for a normal man contact with others is a stimulus to spoken expression and wit, for me it is a counterstimulus, if this compound word be linguistically permissible. When all by myself, I can think of all kinds of clever remarks, quick comebacks to what no one said, and flashes of witty sociability with nobody. But all of this vanishes when I face someone in the flesh: I lose my intelligence, I can no longer speak, and after half an hour I just feel tired. Yes, talking to people makes me feel like sleeping. Only my ghostly and imaginary friends, only the conversations I have in my dreams, are genuinely real and substantial, and in them intelligence gleams like an image in a mirror. The mere thought of having to enter into contact with someone else makes me nervous. A simple invitation to have dinner with a friend produces an anguish in me that’s hard to define. The idea of any social obligation whatsoever – attending a funeral, dealing with someone about an office matter, going to the station to wait for someone I know or don’t know – the very idea disturbs my thoughts for an entire day, and sometimes I even start worrying the night before, so that I sleep badly. When it takes place, the dreaded encounter is utterly insignificant, justifying none of my anxiety, but the next time is no different: I never learn to learn. ‘My habits are of solitude, not of men.’ I don’t know if it was Rousseau or Senancour who said this. But it was some mind of my species, it being perhaps too much to say of my race.

People in France have a phrase: "Spirit of the Stairway." In French, Esprit d'Escalier. It means that moment when you find the answer but it's too late. Say you're at a party and someone insults you. You have to say something. So, under pressure, with everybody watching, you say something lame. But the moment you leave the party...

Chris looked at me with his eyes wide, but he didn’t say anything else. Something I learned early is that most assholes don’t have comebacks.

English is my second language," she says, "and your bad comebacks are still a little over the top, sweetie.

That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?” “What else do you want?” “You usually have some smartass comeback.” “I’m too tired for that shit right now. Aren’t you?” “Most definitely.

She snags Gale, who’s in a conversation with Plutarch, and spins him toward us. “Isn’t he handsome?” Gale does look striking in the uniform, I guess. But the question just embarrasses us both, given our history. I’m trying to think of a witty comeback, when Boggs says brusquely, “Well, don’t expect us to be too impressed. We just saw Finnick Odair in his underwear.

I have abstained from expressing any opinion, so far," says Mr. Superintendent, with his military voice still in good working order. "I have now only one remark to offer, on leaving this case in your hands. There IS such a thing, Sergeant, as making a mountain out of a mole-hill. Good-morning." "There is also such a thing as making nothing out of a mole-hill, in consequence of your head being too high to see it." Having returned his brother-officer's compliment in those terms, Sergeant Cuff wheeled about, and walked away to the window by himself.

Indeed, an astoundingly small proportion of arguments ‘for free speech’ and ‘against censorship’ or ‘banning’ are, in fact, about free speech, censorship or banning. It is depressing to have to point out, yet again, that there is a distinction between having the legal right to say something & having the moral right not to be held accountable for what you say. Being asked to apologise for saying something unconscionable is not the same as being stripped of the legal right to say it. It’s really not very f-cking complicated. Cry “free speech” in such contexts, you are demanding the right to speak any bilge you wish without apology or fear of comeback. You are demanding not legal rights but an end to debate about and criticism of what you say. When did bigotry get so needy? This assertive & idiotic failure to understand that juridical permissibility backed up by the state is not the horizon of politics or morality is absurdly resilient.

4. COMMENT: “RACIST? I’M NOT RACIST! YOU’RE THE REAL RACIST!” Often heard when: You call out racism. Why it should be laid to rest: “I’m rubber and you’re glue, whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you” hasn’t been a valid line of defense since elementary school. Comeback: “Just like talking about global warming doesn’t make me a greenhouse gas, talking about racism doesn’t make me a racist.

Why’d you have to go and say that?” Shotty asked. “Now I might look forward to seeing you.” At the time she just thought it was a clever comeback from a clever old man, but on her drive home, she heard the sadness in it, the sadness of a world where the people who cared for him were swapped out like baseball cards, the peril of attachment in a world of dependence, and the fatigue of anticipation, anywhere.

The leader steps into an organization in its darkest hour and says, “Friends, you only thought this was your darkest hour. In fact, this is your greatest opportunity. Let me show you why that’s true.” Note

That doesn’t mean we should say, “Bring me more struggle because more people will get salvation.” None of us runs eagerly into that battle. But when the battle comes to us, we know God is working a great purpose.

You know I never really understood that expression. Seriously. If someone says they're going to open up a can of whup ass on you, it means someone out there is canning whup ass. Truth be told, that's the guy I'd be most afraid of." Medea

BEOWULF’s comeback is savage lol: “Now I cannot recall any fight you entered, Unferth, that bears comparison. I don’t boast when I say that neither you nor Breca were ever much celebrated for swordsmanship or for facing danger on the field of battle.

Remember: One drop starts the overflow. One play starts the comeback. One person saying one word can stop a retreat . . . or start one . . . can calm a mob or unleash one. Anyone can be that person. You can give that work, make that play, be that drop.

You're not a lawyer, are you?' asked the nurse suspiciously. 'One of those geniuses who gets a degree while they're still in nappies?' Artemis sighed. 'A genius, yes. A lawyer, hardly. I am, mademoiselle, a customer.' And suddenly the nurse was all charm. 'Oh, a customer! Why didn't you say so? I'll show you right in. Would sir care for tea, coffee or perhaps something stronger?' 'I am thirteen years old, mademoiselle.' 'A juice?' 'Tea would be fine. Earl Grey if you have it. No sugar, obviously; it might make me hyperactive.

Devyn opened the channel to let Sway and Vik know what was coming. “Batten down. It’s going to be a rough landing.” Sway buzzed him back. “Dev, are you trying to say we’re about to crash?” “Yeah, we’re crashing.” Sway had one last surly comeback to that. “Asshole.” Shaking

Stop looking at me like that,” I say, frowning and rubbing at my chest. He has this habit of making my heart sore, making my lungs feel like there’s not enough air. He tilts his head attractively, which only makes matters worse. “Like what?” “Like you’re molesting me with your eyes,” I blurt out. His answering laugh is long and deep. I can barely handle the affection in his gaze. “Okay, I’ll try to stop. But if it all gets to be too much for you, this apartment happens to have a very nice bathroom. You can go rub one out again to take the edge off. I’ll come listen, too, if that will help.” There he goes again, pushing me. I do a slow blink at him before coming out with a rather masterful comeback. And when I say “masterful,” I mean shit. “Why don’t you go and rub one out?” He cocks an eyebrow. “I don’t rub out, darlin’. I jack off.

Gale does look striking in the uniform, I guess. But the question just embarrasses us both, given our history. I’m trying to think of a witty comeback, when Boggs says brusquely, “Well, don’t expect us to be too impressed. We just saw Finnick Odair in his underwear.” I decide to go ahead and like Boggs.

Masters: Situation appears dire. Look around. Do you see any adults? Me: My ball size indicates I’m the adultest thing here. Me: I haven’t been rejected this hard since I tried to block the punt in that game against OSU last semester. Masters: My wife says rejection is good for you. Makes you mentally tough. Me: You love saying that phrase “my wife.” Masters: You bet your fat ass I do. Me: You don’t think it’s completely strange that you’re 21 and acting like a Taylor Swift song? Masters: Bro, sorry you feel left out. Stop by later and I’ll give you a hug. Me: Fuck off. Masters: I have MY WIFE to do that for me. Thanks, though. Hug still stands. I’ll even let you smell me. MY WIFE says I smell delicious. Me: I’ve smelled you before, which is why I’m not sure how you convinced Ellie to marry you. She must have defective olfactory senses. Masters: Me and MY defective WIFE will be getting it on tonight. While u have only Rosie Palm. Me: Don’t worry. I get plenty of variety. Left-hand Laura sometimes steps in. Masters: Heard you were out with Josie Weeks. Be careful. She eats little linebackers like you for breakfast. And the fact that I don’t even want to make a sexually charged comeback tells me exactly how I feel about Josie. Hope she doesn’t mind being just study partners.

Your circumstances may be black, but Scripture says that God is light. Trust in him, and he will give you a comeback. He will give you a fresh start. He will give you a change of heart and provide a powerful spiritual turnaround. He is with you in the midst of the valley of the shadow of death, and I invite you to praise him and trust his purposes for your life.

Would you like to hold my sword?" He asked the question with a gleam in his eyes. Lucy burst out laughing. At least she didn't giggle again. "You did not just say that. But, um, yeah, I'd like to hold your sword, Agent Riley." Hunter grinned and unzipped his backpack, pulling out something surprisingly small. He held it out to her, and noticed the disappointed look on her face. "Expecting something bigger?" She smirked at his continued play on words. She had a lifetime of training in verbal and physical sparring; he was no match for her. "They say size doesn't matter, but I disagree." Hunter, who apparently hadn't expected her response, choked on his own comeback and unsheathed the sword, then placed it in her hand. "You have to stroke it a certain way to make it bigger.

Guess what? Grace is more powerful than consequences. Grace overwhelms consequences. Even with consequences there is love and grace and the mercy of God in Christ. Jesus says to us, “I know you messed up, and I know there are consequences, but I want to walk with you through the consequences. I want to love you through the consequences. And I even want to use the consequences in this whole big story.

She snags Gale, who’s in a conversation with Plutarch, and spins him toward us. “Isn’t he handsome?” Gale does look striking in the uniform, I guess. But the question just embarrasses us both, given our history. I’m trying to think of a witty comeback, when Boggs says brusquely, “Well, don’t expect us to be too impressed. We just saw Finnick Odair in his underwear.” I decide to go ahead and like Boggs.

Remember, we non-Aboriginals were signatories. As a non-Aboriginal, I say we. And through Canada’s signatures we committed ourselves to the permanency of our relationship with the words that these treaties would stand “as long as the sun shines, the grass grows and the river flows.” These were and remain binding legal documents. Perhaps more important, with our signatures we committed our government to act always with the Honour of the Crown.

When the music stopped, the curtains to their booth flew open. Jax, the devastatingly handsome Nordic wolf, leered down on the lovers, who smiled up at him in amusement. “I said pretend to be her mate. At any point, did you hear me say, ‘Come up to New York and fuck my sister in public…during one of my company events?’ Did I say that? I really don’t recall saying that.” Jax scrubbed his fingers over his tightly cropped hair. He moved to the balcony, overlooking the patrons who were shuffling into the lobby for the intermission. “Sorry.” Dimitri laughed. He knew that they should have been slightly less conspicuous but the draw of his mate had been too much to resist. “Sorry? Really? That’s all you’ve got?” He turned to Gillian, who scrambled up to her feet, adjusting her dress. “And you? What’s your excuse, little sister? Seriously, every shifter in the room could hear you.” “Um, well, yeah, sorry about that. But technically this is your fault. I mean, what did you expect? You asked Dimitri to come here…to pretend to be my mate.” Gillian reasoned that her comeback sounded solid, inexperienced in dealing with her Alpha brother.

You called?" Sounding casual is difficult when it feels like you're heart's river-dancing in your rib cage. "Yes. I just wondered where you were. You didn't answer your cell. Is everything okay?" She sighs, but I can't tell if it's in relief or parental aggravation. "Everything's fine. My battery is dead, but Galen bought me a charger to keep over here, so it's charging." "How sweet of him," she says, knowing good and well she instructed him to do so. "Well, just wanted to check in. Should I wait up for you? I don't appreciate you missing curfew the last few nights. Technically, staying over there until four in the morning is a coed sleepover, which I don't allow, or had you forgotten? Your trip to Florida with Galen's family was a special circumstance." "I stayed the night at Chloe's all the time with JJ there." JJ is Chloe's eight-year-old brother. Not a great comeback, but it will have to do.

You're serious." "As serious as an accountant at an IRS audit." His face closed off, reminding her of the ruthlessness she had first noticed about him on the front steps. "You have no business opening a restaurant." "Says who?" "Says the guy who watched you try to extricate yourself from a burger suit with a knife." Her mouth fell open. "Burger suits and restaurants are two different kettles of fish." "Kettles of fish? Now there's great business terminology." "Yep, Texas style." "You're in New York, sweetheart." "I am not your sweetheart, thank my lucky stars." "Another of your quaint Texas sayings? What was the last one I heard you use? 'Bless your heart'?" She sliced him a tooth-grinding smile. "While you might not like them, you can bet your backside that a cafe that serves the kind of fare we create in Texas would have people lined up around the corner. Or, as we say in Texas, till the cows come home.

But what we did do is get interstitials with different colors and movement that reflected the scene that just happened or previewed the one to come. I started to match what my comedic take on the end of a scene was with what the interstitial was doing. I gave them names. One was called “Up Yours,” so if somebody slams somebody [or has a comeback to what they say], the atom would swoop up like an arm coming up at you. If it was a goofy ending, I had one that would swirl through called “Oogle Google.” If the scene was a hard-hitting, funny moment, it would come straight at the camera, which I called “Coming at Ya.” And then if the scene was with Penny, Amy, and Bernadette, I had one with three atoms called “Triple Threat.” If the four guys were in the scene, it would be atoms from the four corners that would come straight at you. I also started to match the colors to the scene. I would use the aquamarine color if we were coming out of or going to Penny’s apartment because it matched her couch or what they were wearing. My assistant and I knew, and that was it. I never told anybody.

our government is still breaking our treaty obligations. If you coolly strip away the endless administrative rhetoric about budgets and governance, the endless studies and the endemic lack of broad policies coming from the Department of Indian Affairs, you begin to realize that we are still caught up in the racist assimilation policies of a century ago. Let me take a broader example. We all know that the treaties involved a massive loss of land for First Nations. What most of us pretend we don’t know is that this remarkable generosity was tied to permanent obligations taken on by colonial officials, then by the Government of Canada; that is, by the Crown; that is, by you and me. So we got the use of land – and therefore the possibility of creating Canada – in return for a relationship in which we have permanent obligations. We have kept the land. We have repeatedly used ruses to get more of their land. And we have not fulfilled our side of the agreement. We pretend that we do not have partnership obligations. It’s pretty straightforward. We criticize. We insult. We complain. We weasel. Surely, we say, these handouts have gone on long enough. But the most important handout was to us. Bob Rae put it this way at the Athabasca Chipewyan First Nation Treaty Conference in June 2014: “It’s ridiculous to think people would say: ‘I have all this land, millions and millions and millions of acres of land, I’m giving it to you for a piece of land that is five miles by five miles and a few dollars a year.’ To put it in terms of a real estate transaction, it’s preposterous. It doesn’t make any sense.” So the generosity was from First Nations to newcomers. And we are keeping that handout – the land – offered in good faith by friends and allies.

The Canadian government’s point of view was set in the imperial/colonial era. Our dominant mythologies were shaped in the same era. All our governments – federal and provincial – must simply let go of their paternalistic mindset. Aboriginals are not wards of the state. They don’t need charity. They want the power that our own history says is theirs by right. And that power contains economic solutions. What this means is that our governments should stop wasting our money fighting to maintain systems of injustice. What they need to do is digest reality and embrace reconciliation, which, as Taiaiake Alfred says, begins with restitution. This is more than good intentions. It involves a shift in power and in economic wealth. That shift in economic wealth is the solution to Aboriginal poverty.

I made another comeback in the sweet science of boxing, and nobody say I’ve had more comebacks than Frank Sinatra… ‘cos he’s dead.

Dozens of comebacks dance on my tongue but I don’t say anything. I never do.

Only thus can hope be bright that there might come a tomorrow when you, the descendants of the settlers of our lands, can say to the world, Look, we came and were welcomed, and then we wrought much despair; but we are also men of honour and integrity and we set to work in cooperation, we listened and we learned, we gave our support, and today we live in harmony with the first people of this land who now call us, brothers.

Money talks. For instance, mine keeps saying “good bye.

Holy crap,” I whispered. That was a good comeback too, perhaps a little on the personal side, but a good one. “I don’t even know what that means and I’ll say you can say that again,” Narinda whispered.

Internet Trolls say snide things to aggravate others; as they think there is no comeback... Yet intelligent answers win the audience, and people question the morality together.

The Shining Twins move in closer. "I admired you at the family dinner," one says. "I wish I could eat like you," the other says. Whoa. Shots fired. Still, I smile sweetly for the camera. Flash. I turn slightly left. This twin has a little mole beneath her eye, a beauty mark. "I bet I could make you." I say it loud enough for both to hear.

There'll be a comeback of some kind to this, Laddie," he told the collie, as they moved on. "I don't know just what it'll be. But those two worthy youths didn't look at all lovingly at us. And there's nothing else in country life so filthily mean as an evicted trespasser. Don't let's say anything to the Mistress about it, Lad. It'd only worry her! And—and she'll think I ought to have invited all those panhandlers up to the house to get dry. Perhaps she'd be right, too. She generally is.

The phrases “I’m sorry” and “I apologize” are exactly the same. Unless you’re saying it at a funeral.

He wants the old man to deliver a biting comeback, he wants the old man to punch the pizza guy in his smirking face, he wants the old man to back away before the pizza guy says—or does—something worse. Before he lifts those hands that pound and flatten thick dough into compliance. The moment tautens and tightens,

We often say that life imitates art, but sometimes, art also infiltrates life. People watch a movie about a dramatic comeback (Rocky)

That kind of thinking says my job every day is to put my life in God's hands. God's job every day is to use my circumstances for his glory.

Complete With A Container Word The container word denotes that this offer is a bundle of lots of things put together. It’s a system. It’s something that can’t be held up to a commoditized alternative. Examples: Challenge, Blueprint, Bootcamp, Intensive, Incubator, Masterclass, Program, Detox, Experience, Summit, Accelerator, Fast Track, Shortcut, Sprint, Launch, Slingshot, Catapult, Explosion, System, Getaway, Meetup, Transformation, Mastermind, Launch, Game Plan, Deep Dive, Workshop, Comeback, Rebirth, Attack, Assault, Reset, Solution, Hack, Cheatcode, Liftoff,

Wow, you look fantastic!” She stopped me in the hallway. “Did you get gastric bypass surgery?” “No, I lost weight naturally.” “Really? I only ask because of your skin.” She pointed to the excess skin under my arm. “Doesn’t skin retract if you lose weight naturally?” I thought of a million comebacks later that night, the “wit of the staircase” as the French call it. Like, Doesn’t it strike you as odd that your best feature is pointing out the worst in others? Or, Amber, go fuck yourself. But in the moment all I could think to say was, “It depends on how fast you lose it.

When the rain delay ended, the Cubs came out looking fresh and hungry. Schwarber raced out to the plate and lashed a single to start things off. The Cubs scored two runs. Cleveland tried to fight back one more time, but this time the comeback fell short. Mike Montgomery was on the mound for Chicago. Michael Martínez was the batter. He chopped a ground ball to third base. “Tough play,” Joe Buck said on television, but third baseman Kris Bryant had no doubts, and he grabbed the ball and threw it across the infield. As he threw, he smiled. That’s the part every Cubs fan remembers. The smile. Martínez was out, the Cubs were champions, and 108 years of sadness, heartbreak, and absurdity came down crashing. And I’ve always wondered: What the heck did Jason Heyward say?

Ah, "never give up," the ultimate mantra for life's champions! When obstacles try to play their game of whack-a-mole, I'll be the sneaky mole that keeps popping up, saying, "Not today, my friend!" It's like facing a Rubik's cube with a sassy smile, determined to twist and turn until all the colors align. So, to the hurdles that dare cross my path, I've got a witty comeback: You can't stop me—I'm a tenacious force with a side of stubborn!

Ah, "never give up," the ultimate mantra for life's champions! When obstacles try to play their game of whack-a-mole, I'll be the sneaky mole that keeps popping up, saying, "Not today, my friend!" It's like facing a Rubik's cube with a sassy smile, determined to twist and turn until all the colors align. So, to the hurdles that dare cross my path, I've got a witty comeback: You can't stop me—I'm a tenacious force with a side of stubborn!

Ah, "never give up," the ultimate mantra for life's champions! When obstacles try to play their game of whack-a-mole, I'll be the sneaky mole that keeps popping up, saying, "Not today, my friend!" It's like facing a Rubik's cube with a sassy smile, determined to twist and turn until all the colors align. So, to the hurdles that dare cross my path, I've got a witty comeback: You can't stop me—I'm a tenacious force with a side of stubbornness!

You’re brutal.” “Not brutal. Honest. So, she left and you…” Her head tilts to the side. “Just let her go. Just like that? You didn’t fight for her?” “This is real life. It isn’t some cheesy romance movie, Ariana.” “Obviously not. Future NHL star with up-and-coming songwriter. Best childhood friends turned high school enemies with a second chance at love. But no. You’re a colossal idiot. Not romance movie material at all. You let her go. Wuss move. If you were in a romance movie, you’d chase after her to the airport, or announce your love for her in front of the entire college. You wouldn’t run like a coward with your tail between your legs.” “She’s not flying anywhere.” “Totally missing the point, brother. If you don’t go after her, you’ve got zero chance. Personally, I think the odds are low even if you go after her, but a slim chance is better than no chance.” She glances around. “How about I stay another night? Before we have to go back to school on Monday.” “After that inspiring speech, how could I possibly say no?” I duck to avoid the second swat aimed at me.

I’ve got a few things to say, and I don’t want you running for the hills. Can you listen before you freak out?” Not ominous at all. “Okaaayyyy.” “I talked to Sebastian.” His mouth twists as he sort of spits out the name. “You shouldn’t have.” His hand flies up to halt my protest. “Yes. I should have. I’m your friend and I kind of wanted to punch that guy in the face, but he’s pretty big, so…” A snicker sneaks out. “Sorry, Abs. Wasn’t willing to risk my pretty face for you. Although maybe a broken nose would give me that extra bad boy edge. I don’t like it any more than you do. I’d love nothing more than for you to punch this guy yourself and move on with your life, but I don’t think you can. Abby, trust me. I know what it’s like to care about someone so deeply you can’t shake them from your system. You need to talk to him and figure out what’s going on. Then you can make the choice. Either ditch him for good or maybe you’ll understand him a little better.” “He doesn’t deserve my time.” I repeat myself. “Maybe not, but you deserve it. The closure, or whatever. I still want to punch the guy for being an idiot, but I think he has some genuine reasons for his actions, and I think it’ll help you out to hear them. I can’t stand seeing you so upset.” “He’s been avoiding me. How do I even know he’ll talk to me?” He takes a long pause without turning to face me, and the words slip out on a whisper. “Because I can see it in his eyes, his mouth. Every single feature says he’s fighting his feelings for you.” “But…” His eyes meet mine as he cuts off my protest. “He’s the one you never got over, Abby. Don’t waste your chance.

Ghosts don’t really get me going. Abby, on the other hand? Let’s just say my dick comes to attention anytime she shows up in my subconscious. Or when she’s nearby. Or something reminds me of her. God, I’ve got it bad. I’m so screwed.

Are you a bad bitch, Abby?” My sex muddled brain is confused. “What?” Has lust scrambled my brain? What’s he talking about? “It says so right here.” He jerks the cotton panties down my legs, dangling them in front of my burning face. “I… I forgot they said that. I don’t check out my butt too often.” “Well, then I’ll have to do it for you. It’s fucking fantastic. I could stare at this ass all day.” He punctuates the words with a sharp squeeze of said ass. “Maybe I am. What happens to bad girls?

Say my name,” I growl at her. “Sebastian.” Her voice comes out in a needy moan. “Please.” “That’s not my name. Not to you at least.” A frustrated groan comes from her before she complies. “Bastian, please…

**"Rise Above"** (Verse 1) Neon lights and pickup trucks, I'm moving fast, kicking up dust. Life's a game, sometimes it's rough, but I've got dreams, they're enough. (Pre-Chorus) They say I'm just a small-town kid, chasing stars, on the grid. But I've got fire in my soul, I'm on a roll, I'm in control. (Chorus) 'Cause I'm stronger than that, I'm the comeback kid, With every breakdown, I've got more to give. I'll turn the whispers into my soundtrack, Watch me shine, 'cause I'm stronger than that. (Verse 2) I've seen the highs, I've felt the lows, but here I stand, ready to go. With every word they throw my way, I'll build my castle, I'll make my play. (Pre-Chorus) So let 'em talk, let 'em spin their tales, I'm rising up, I will not fail. With every rumor, I'll just laugh, I'm unbreakable, I'm stronger than that. (Chorus) Yeah, I'm stronger than that, I've got the heart of a lion, Turning setbacks into moments to rely on. I'll light up the stage, no holding back, I'm the headline act, 'cause I'm stronger than that. (Bridge) Sometimes life's a storm, a relentless attack, But I'm the eye of the hurricane, I've got my own back. With a smile on my face, I'll tip my hat, I'm not just surviving, I'm stronger than that. (Chorus) I'm stronger than that, I'm the hero in my story, Turning pain into power, into glory. I'll take the stage, this is where I'm at, Singing loud and proud, I'm stronger than that. (Outro) So here's to the fighters, the dreamers in black, We're all in this together, we're on the right track. With every chord, we'll combat, The noise of the world, 'cause we're stronger than that.

Alcohol may be man’s worst enemy, but the Bible says love your enemy. —FRANK SINATRA

Encore!” The guy with blond hair and a panty melting smile puts a lot of enthusiasm into his words. Like a ridiculous amount. “Shut up, Jackson.” Sebastian says. “What? It was great. I’m showing my appreciation for beautiful music coming from an even more beautiful woman.” I’m not sure what’s funnier. Jackson’s words or the murderous look on Sebastian’s face.

I pulled my hair up in a messy ponytail upon leaving the bedroom and didn’t change from my blue and white shorts and red tank top I wore to bed the night before (Go, USA!). The shirt is tight and the shorts are short, but I'm completely comfortable. Graham is presently glaring at me like he doesn’t like me too much, so I'm thinking he is not comfortable with my outfit—or he still isn't over last night. I don't think he's ever been so angry with me before—well, except for maybe that time I accidentally put salt in his girlfriend's coffee instead of sugar. I pour myself a cup of coffee, showing him my back. And I wait. He doesn't make me wait long. His voice is brittle as he snaps, “Do you have to dress like that?” “I always dress like this. You never seemed to care before.” I give my behind an extra wiggle just to irritate him. I know I've succeeded when something thumps loudly against the tabletop. “I think you should dress like that more often,” Blake immediately replies. “Did anyone ask you?” is Graham's hotheaded comeback. “In fact, I think you’re wearing too many clothes. You should remove some.” A low growl leaves Graham. When I finally face the Malone boys, it is to find them staring one another down from across the small table. Graham’s wearing a white t-shirt and black shorts; his brother is in jeans and a brown shirt. Their coloring is so different, as are their features, but they are both striking in appearance, and their expressions currently mimic one another’s. “Graham, you're being an ass,” I calmly inform him. He grabs a piece of toast off his plate and whips it at me. I duck and it lands in the sink. To say I’m surprised would be an understatement. Toast throwing now? This is what our friendship has resorted to? “I will not live with someone who throws toast at me in anger,” I announce, setting my untouched cup of coffee on the counter. Blake snorts, covering his mouth with the back of his hand as he turns his attention to the world beyond the sliding glass patio doors. Graham blinks at me, like he doesn’t understand what I just said or maybe he doesn’t understand what he just did. Either way, I grab my mug and stride out of the room and down the hall to my bedroom. I’ll drink my coffee in peace, away from the toast throwing. Only peace is not to be mine. The door immediately opens after I close it, and there is Graham, staring at me, his head cocked, his expression unnamable. “This coffee is hot,” I warn, holding the white mug out. “You wanna be a toast thrower then I can be a coffee thrower. Just saying.” “Put the coffee down.” “No.” He takes a step toward me. “Come on. Please.” “You threw toast at me,” I point out, in case he forgot. “I don’t know why I did that,” he mumbles, looking down. When he lifts his eyes to me, they are pleading. “Please?” With a sigh, I comply. I am putty in his hands—or I could be. I keep the mug within reach on the dresser, should I need it as backup. As soon as I let the cup go, I’m pulled against his hard chest, his strong arms wrapping around me, his chin on the crown of my head. His scent cocoons me; a mixture of soap and Graham, and I inwardly sigh. He should throw toast more often if this is the end result. “I’m sorry—for last night, for the toast.

Hey, Larry Fairy,” Brad Chomner said at school, “think fast.” Which was one of those phrases that never made sense to Laurence: People who told you to “think fast” were always those who thought much more slowly than you did. And they only said it when they were about to do something to contribute to the collective mental inertia. And yet Laurence had never come up with the perfect comeback to “Think fast,” and he wouldn’t have time to say whatever it was, since something unpleasant usually hit him a second later. Laurence had to go clean himself up.

Why not simply embrace the reality of the Aboriginal comeback? Why not accept that these court victories contain the elements for resolving the problem of Aboriginal poverty by creating the basis for Aboriginal power, which is in part economic power? We are dealing with a point-of-view problem. The Canadian government’s point of view was set in the imperial/colonial era. Our dominant mythologies were shaped in the same era. All our governments – federal and provincial – must simply let go of their paternalistic mindset. Aboriginals are not wards of the state. They don’t need charity. They want the power that our own history says is theirs by right. And

It isn’t fashionable to say this these days, but a willingness to go into the streets shows a commitment to democracy. And Canadian democracy, like so many others, was born in good part on the streets in the middle of the nineteenth century. It could be argued that the general

Many of our leaders are themselves addicted to the Euro-U.S. Westphalian model. They desperately attempt to fabricate simplistic myths – peopled by royal families, military triumphs, heroes, Canadian values or Quebec values – that turn out to be lifted directly from Britain or France or the United States. You might say these are simple, old-fashioned concepts of patriotism. But in this case old-fashioned refers to a model that has never worked here, a model that leads to the kind of patriotic misery experienced in Europe and the United States when races are ranked, languages forbidden, cultures excluded, one religion set in place as the official faith, or all religions marginalized so that the state’s monolithic mythology can become the state religion. This is disingenuously called a secular state. And all of this is done in the name of a safe, aggressively simplified and centralized mythology. But if that is so, you ask, what

He committed the state to a permanent reciprocal relationship. It hardly matters what the legal papers say because in an oral relationship the legal relationship is oral. That is why the Supreme Court so often decides for the Aboriginal side.