Cow Tipping Quotes

Holy cow,” Chloe said faintly. “No kidding,” Gwen breathed. The sexy Fae prince flashed them a smile that was pure devilish charm, sexy and playful and mischievous, briefly catching the tip of his tongue between white teeth, before his lip curved, dark eyes sparkling gold. Gabby groaned. She choked on it hastily, camouflaging it with a dry little cough. Her own private stash of eye candy had just been made available for public consumption and she didn’t like it one bit. Apparently she wasn’t the only one. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Dageus?” Drustan said irritably. “Och, aye,” Dageus said darkly. “You liked him better invisible too?” “Och, aye.” “Should I curse him again?” “Och, aye.” Adam threw back his head and laughed, eyes sparkling with gold fire. “Bloody hell, it’s good to be back,” he purred.

Books are my friends, where it's okay to be silent, where you're not a freak if you don't want to get drunk, peel out in the parking lot, tip cows.

*Go cow-tipping.* Close enough to donkey-napping.

What behaviors are rewarded? Punished? Where and how are people actually spending their resources (time, money, attention)? What rules and expectations are followed, enforced, and ignored? Do people feel safe and supported talking about how they feel and asking for what they need? What are the sacred cows? Who is most likely to tip them? Who stands the cows back up? What stories are legend and what values do they convey? What happens when someone fails, disappoints, or makes a mistake? How is vulnerability (uncertainty, risk, and emotional exposure) perceived? How prevalent are shame and blame and how are they showing up? What’s the collective tolerance for discomfort? Is the discomfort of learning, trying new things, and giving and receiving feedback normalized, or is there a high premium put on comfort (and how does that look)?

Rage flooded through me like a draught of strong spirit. The right thing to do, of course, would be to get up, tip the bucket of bloody water over Uncle’s head, run down the hill and drive away; away from Yorkshire, from Uncle, from the Dinsdales, from this cow.

Cats, tea and candles, is all the therapy, I will ever need.

These are lines from my asteroid-impact novel, Regolith: Just because there are no laws against stupidity doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be punished. I haven’t faced rejection this brutal since I was single. He smelled trouble like a fart in the shower. If this was a kiss of gratitude, then she must have been very grateful. Not since Bush and Cheney have so few spent so much so fast for so long for so little. As a nympho for mind-fucks, Lisa took to politics like a pig to mud. She began paying men compliments as if she expected a receipt. Like the Aerosmith song, his get-up-and-go just got-up-and-went. “You couldn’t beat the crap out of a dirty diaper!” He embraced his only daughter as if she was deploying to Iraq. She was hotter than a Class 4 solar flare! If sex was a weapon, then Monique possessed WMD I haven’t felt this alive since I lost my virginity. He once read that 95% of women fake organism, and the rest are gay. Beauty may be in the eyes of the beholder, but ugly is universal. Why do wives fart, but not girlfriends? Adultery is sex that is wrong, but not necessarily bad. The dinosaurs stayed drugged out, drooling like Jonas Brothers fans. Silence filled the room like tear gas. The told him a fraction of the truth and hoped it would take just a fraction of the time. Happiness is the best cosmetic, He was a whale of a catch, and there were a lot of fish in the sea eager to nibble on his bait. Cheap hookers are less buck for the bang, Men cannot fall in love with women they don’t find attractive, and women cannot fall in love with men they do not respect. During sex, men want feedback while women expect mind-reading. Cooper looked like a cow about to be tipped over. His father warned him to never do anything he couldn’t justify on Oprah. The poor are not free -- they’re just not enslaved. Only those with money are free. Sperm wasn’t something he would choose on a menu, but it still tasted better than asparagus. The crater looked alive, like Godzilla was about to leap out and mess up Tokyo. Bush follows the Bible until it gets to Jesus. When Bush talks to God, it’s prayer; when God talks to Bush, it’s policy. Cheney called the new Miss America a traitor – apparently she wished for world peace. Cheney was so unpopular that Bush almost replaced him when running for re-election, changing his campaign slogan to, ‘Ain’t Got Dick.’ Bush fought a war on poverty – and the poor lost. Bush thinks we should strengthen the dollar by making it two-ply. Hurricane Katrina got rid of so many Democratic voters that Republicans have started calling her Kathleen Harris. America and Iraq fought a war and Iran won. Bush hasn’t choked this much since his last pretzel. Some wars are unpopular; the rest are victorious. So many conservatives hate the GOP that they are thinking of changing their name to the Dixie Chicks. If Saddam had any WMD, he would have used them when we invaded. If Bush had any brains, he would have used them when we invaded. It’s hard for Bush to win hearts and minds since he has neither. In Iraq, you are a coward if you leave and a fool if you stay. Bush believes it’s not a sin to kill Muslims since they are going to Hell anyway. And, with Bush’s help, soon. In Iraq, those who make their constitution subservient to their religion are called Muslims. In America they’re called Republicans. With great power comes great responsibility – unless you’re Republican.

The neon sign reflected off his gun, like the moonlight reflects off my brother-in-law's bald head after a night of beer drinking and cow-tipping.

Books are my friends, where it’s okay to be silent, where you’re not a freak if you don’t want to get drunk, peel out in a parking lot, tip cows.

It was a silver cow. But when I say ‘cow’, don’t go running away with the idea of some decent, self-respecting cudster such as you may observe loading grass into itself in the nearest meadow. This was a sinister, leering, Underworld sort of animal, the kind that would spit out of the side of its mouth for twopence. It was about four inches high and six long. Its back opened on a hinge. Its tail was arched, so that the tip touched the spine—thus, I suppose, affording a handle for the cream-lover to grasp. The sight of it seemed to take me into a different and dreadful world.

My bad mood returns like an unwanted rash. “I got in a fight with Logan. And that’s all I’m saying on the subject, because if I talk about it right now, it’ll just piss me off again and then I’ll be too distracted to produce Dumb and Dumber’s show.” We both glance at the main booth, where Evelyn is using the reflection on her water glass to check her makeup, dabbing delicately at her eye shadow. Pace is engrossed with his phone, his chair tipped back so far that I predict a very loud disaster in the near future. “God, I love them,” Daisy says with a snicker. “I don’t think I’ve ever met two more self-absorbed people.” Morris saunters out of the booth and wanders over to us. He notices Daisy’s shirt and says, “Sweetheart, we’re at work. Show some decorum.” “Says the guy who ripped this shirt off me in the supply closet.” Rolling her eyes, she takes a step away. “I’m going to make myself presentable in the bathroom. I’d do it out here, but I’m scared Dumber might take a picture and post it on a porn site.” “Wait, the names Dumb and Dumber actually correspond to each of them?” Morris says in surprise. “I thought it was more of a general thing. Which one is Dumber?” The second the question leaves his mouth, a muffled crash reverberates from the booth, and we all turn to see Pace tangled up on the floor. Yup, the guy who spent an hour regaling me about his cow-tipping days back in Iowa? Tipped himself right over. From behind the glass, Pace bounces to his feet, notices us staring, and mouths the words, “I’m okay!” Morris sighs. “I withdraw the question

We were young, she continued, while she had a bad heart. Did we not want to earn our tips, she asked us and, cowed, we refrained from introducing the subject again. Her bad heart, I noticed, did not force her to abstain from smoking, or from eating large portions of puddings. Every time I heard her opening how she could not carry anything heavy, I thought sourly "except yourself".

But the thing was not leaves but a great red fox, brightened by the sun. As if eager for her to see him, he stood still among the red leaves, head turned toward her, fiery-tipped brush lifted, mouth open, happily, pleasantly, like a dog. He looked at her and she at him; he was so close she could see the hairs in his eyebrows, the teeth shining in his half-open mouth, and the green fire in his coolly appraising eyes; with the red sunlight playing on his lifted tail, his back and shoulders, his pointed ears, he looked big, big as a half-grown cow; she looked more closely and saw the nicked left ear. King Devil it was, the fox Nunn had chased in hatred and in anger for the last five years; he had stolen from every family in the country, led many hounds to their death; every hunter was sworn to kill him; many had seen him long enough to learn his mark, but never had he stood so still and close as this. With a last cool glance, he dropped his head and picked up a hen, one of Nancy's White Rocks, fresh-dead and limber.

And at this very moment, like a miracle, the rail-bus appeared. We waved our arms frantically, hardly daring to hope that it would stop. It did stop. We scrambled thankfully on board. That is the irony of travel. You spend your boyhood dreaming of a magic, impossibly distant day when you will cross the Equator, when your eyes will behold Quito. And then, in the slow prosaic process of life, that day undramatically dawns—and finds you sleepy, hungry and dull. The Equator is just another valley; you aren’t sure which and you don’t much care. Quito is just another railroad station, with fuss about baggage and taxis and tips. And the only comforting reality, amidst all this picturesque noisy strangeness, is to find a clean pension run by Czech refugees and sit down in a cozy Central European parlor to a lunch of well-cooked Wiener Schnitzel.

COOKBOOK FOR THE MODERN HOUSEWIFE The cover was red with a subtle crosshatch pattern and distressed, the book's title stamped in black ink- all of it faded with age. Bordering the cookbook's cover were hints of what could be found inside. Alice tilted her head as she read across, down, across, and up the cover's edges. Rolls. Pies. Luncheon. Drinks. Jams. Jellies. Poultry. Soup. Pickles. 725 Tested Recipes. Resting the spine on her bent knees, the cookbook dense yet fragile in her hands, Alice opened it carefully. There was an inscription on the inside cover. Elsie Swann, 1940. Going through the first few, age-yellowed pages, Alice glanced at charts for what constituted a balanced diet in those days: milk products, citrus fruits, green and yellow vegetables, breads and cereals, meat and eggs, the addition of a fish liver oil, particularly for children. Across from it, a page of tips for housewives to avoid being overwhelmed and advice for hosting successful dinner parties. Opening to a page near the back, Alice found another chart, this one titled Standard Retail Beef Cutting Chart, a picture of a cow divided by type of meat, mini drawings of everything from a porterhouse-steak cut to the disgusting-sounding "rolled neck." Through the middle were recipes for Pork Pie, Jellied Tongue, Meat Loaf with Oatmeal, and something called Porcupines- ground beef and rice balls, simmered for an hour in tomato soup and definitely something Alice never wanted to try- and plenty of notes written in faded cursive beside some of the recipes. Comments like Eleanor's 13th birthday-delicious! and Good for digestion and Add extra butter. Whoever this Elsie Swann was, she had clearly used the cookbook regularly. The pages were polka-dotted in brown splatters and drips, evidence it had not sat forgotten on a shelf the way cookbooks would in Alice's kitchen.

That spring, the skies at last broke open over Maidan Sabz. What came down was not the soft drizzle of years past but a great, great rainfall. Fat rain fell from the sky, and the village rose thirstily to meet it. All day, water drummed upon the roofs of Maidan Sabz and drowned all other sound from the world. Heavy, swollen raindrops rolled from the tips of leaves. The wells filled and the river rose. The hills to the east turned green. Wildflowers bloomed, and for the first time in many years children played on grass and cows grazed. Everyone rejoiced.

WILDERNESS SURVIVAL TIP! Ninety-seven percent of our nation’s ponds are filled to the top with piranha, which can skeletonize a cow in seconds. If you value your cow, don’t shove it into a pond.

When you get the creative urge, pay close attention to the motivation behind your creative energy and put it to use where it belongs.

2. Think before you speak. Have you ever heard the story of the fly that lived on a cow farm in Indiana? One day the fly was particularly hungry. As he was buzzing around looking for some food, he saw his favorite meal—a big, fresh cow patty. Excited by his discovery, the little fly dove in and feasted until he could feast no more. But when he tried to fly away, he realized there was a problem. He had eaten so much that he was too heavy for his wings to lift him off the ground. What’s a fly to do? Well, this enterprising little sucker spotted a broom leaning against the wall of the barn. He came up with a plan. The fly decided to climb to the top of the broom and jump off, assuming that once he was in the air with his wings spread, he’d be able to fly. The little hero waddled over to the broom and grunted his way to the tip of the handle. Once as high as he could go, he catapulted himself off and flapped his wings with all his might. But he was still too heavy to fly. He fell to the ground with a splat—and that was the end of Mr. Fly. The moral of the story? Don’t fly off the handle when you’re full of crap. In other words, think before you speak.

durability. Flying Cows And Pigs 27. Flying

What’s that?” he breathed. “Lube,” I said, dripping some of it onto my fingers. “I’ve been doing some research online.” “What kind of research?” “The kind that’s going to make you come hard all over me.” He groaned. I loved that I could make him do that with just a little dirty talk. I put my lubed fingers between Josh’s legs, and worked that slickness into his crease. “What do you think?” I asked, teasing a slippery finger against his hole. “Oh, Caleb,” he moaned. “Don’t stop.” Well then. I pressed the tip of my finger inside, and his breath hitched. “Okay?” I asked. He let out a breath. “It’s strange.” “Should I stop?” He shook his head, then buried his face in the crook of my shoulder. I took a moment to add more of the slippery liquid to my finger. “Relax, baby. Can you do that?” He nodded into my neck. Slowly, I pushed my finger into his body. With my other hand, I slowly stroked Josh’s dick. I felt his chest rise and fall with a deep breath, and then he seemed to bear down on my finger. I stretched, reaching for the spot I hoped to find. And when my finger brushed his prostate, Josh shuddered in my arms. “You like that?” I whispered. He moaned so loudly that the cows probably looked up from their hay.

Happiness isn’t about smiling all the time, loving all the time, or getting everything you want. It’s about living and experiencing everything this life has to offer you, truly and authentically.

Sacred cows don’t tip easily.

Dangling Leaf tipped his head. “Do you know Micah’s dead?” he asked Cow. Moth Flight flinched, but Cow returned his inquisitive gaze steadily. “Yes.” Dusk Nose nudged her brother. “You can’t ask questions like that, Shade Pelt. It’s rude.” “Raven Pelt says we can ask anything we like,” Dangling Leaf

One piece of AI, called the generator, is instructed to create a deepfake showing, for example, Hillary Clinton endorsing Ron DeSantis. The generator is provided with sufficient raw data, including video footage and voice recordings of Clinton. It then uses the data to create an initial video. That video is passed to a different piece of AI, called the discriminator. The discriminator’s job is to sniff out counterfeits. When it looks at the generator’s first draft of the video, it can tell it’s a fake. So, the discriminator passes it back to the generator and basically says, “Fake news!” The generator looks at what tipped the discriminator off that the video was counterfeit, makes some changes to address those issues, and then sends it back to the discriminator for another evaluation. It fails the “sniff test” again, and the clip goes back to the generator for a third iteration. Rinse and repeat a million times or more. Finally, maybe on version 1,438,847, the discriminator looks at the video and says, in effect, “Holy cow! Hillary Clinton endorsed Ron DeSantis!

So those three milking under the trees seemed actually present to me for an hour. As Giles 'tugged' (how his polite diction slips from him when he gets down to the job) he would see what I saw, gazing up into that elm; gleams of near-crimson lighting the budding tips of the boughs, boughs that go gesturing up mightily form the trunk, then curve over and hang down delicately. For the eye dwells on a thing as one milks, a bit of bruised concrete, a big spider in a cobweb up in the cowhouse roof; I can see them yet. To look up into such a maze of boughs day by day, and see the bare wood bursting open with new life: wine-dark buds, then the first green, till later he sat under a roof of the small elm leaves scattering coin-like shadows all around him, such would have been Giles's lot.

A whole rib roast (aka prime rib) consists of ribs 6 through 12. Butchers tend to cut the roast in two. We prefer the cut further back on the cow, which is closest to the loin and less fatty. This cut is referred to as the first cut, the loin end, or sometimes the small end because the meat and ribs get larger as they move up toward the shoulder. When ordering a three-rib roast, ask for the first three ribs from the loin end—ribs 10 through 12.

I caught the attention of the bartender. He was older than I’d thought. Maybe in his early seventies. But he looked good. Like an in-shape grandpa. I said, “Can I grab my bill?” He shook his head. “You don’t get a bill. Thank you for your service.” Holy cow, did I need to hear something like that about now. I laid a ten-dollar tip on the bar. I was a little choked up and couldn’t speak. That surprised me. The bartender said, “This too shall pass. That’s what they told me when I came back from Vietnam. No one gave a damn about me. I remember walking through East Harlem in my uniform and someone threw a tomato at me. Another woman called me a baby killer. But they all came around. It may have taken twenty-five years, but people finally understood that we were just doing our duty. You’ll see. The same attitude will come around about cops. In the meantime, stay safe.

Most wannabe writers are to the book industry what cows are to the meat industry.

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To avoid the side effects of excellence, you'll need to differentiate between what can be done in the name of excellence and what should be done in the name of progress.

Using Shears To Pick Up Sticks – Among they’re many uses. Shears have more uses other than shearing sheep. You can also use them to shear mushrooms off cows and use them to pick up sticks that you find lying around.

Dick made an attempt to cheer me up. It was either a bar fight or cow tipping.” Zeb’s nose wrinkled. “You and Dick have a complicated relationship.

There is a special kind of rattle, however, that is believed to have magical powers. This is the raven rattle. It is made out of a cow horn, with the tip carved to look like a raven’s head. It is not normally used as an instrument to drive the shamanic trance; rather, it is a tool to direct spiritual-magical energy in a specific direction. The rattle is shaken in the direction toward which the energy is to go, with the movement imitating pecking (tonshoho). The energy then flows out through the raven’s beak. The power of the raven rattle is usually directed toward sources of negative energy or harmful spirits.