Cowboys And Aliens Quotes

Radical Edwards's profile? He's a seven-foot tall ex-basketball pro hindu guru drag-queen alien. -Jet Black, from the Cowboy Bebop anime script

The whole point about gangsters and cowboys and aliens and pirates was that you could stop being them and go home.

The whole point about gangsters and cowboys and aliens and pirates was that you could stop being them and go home.

Cowboys, aliens, hit men, and now a canyon full of survivalists. Young stared down into the chasm and the flurry of movement their approach was causing and shook his head in disbelief. How was this his life?

where most of his friends enjoyed cowboy lore, Dan kept a collection of model Apollo moon rockets and took his flights

This is a love story,” Michael Dean says, ”but really what isn’t? Doesn’t the detective love the mystery or the chase, or the nosey female reporter who is even now being held against her wishes at an empty warehouse on the waterfront? Surely, the serial murder loves his victims, and the spy loves his gadgets, or his country or the exotic counterspy. The ice-trucker is torn between his love for ice and truck and the competing chefs go crazy for scallops, and the pawnshop guys adore their junk. Just as the housewives live for catching glimpses of their own botoxed brows in gilded hall mirrors and the rocked out dude on ‘roids totally wants to shred the ass of the tramp-tatted girl on hookbook. Because this is reality, they are all in love, madly, truly, with the body-mic clipped to their back-buckle and the producer casually suggesting, “Just one more angle.”, “One more jello shot.”. And the robot loves his master. Alien loves his saucer. Superman loves Lois. Lex and Lana. Luke loves Leia, til he finds out she’s his sister. And the exorcist loves the demon, even as he leaps out the window with it, in full soulful embrace. As Leo loves Kate, and they both love the sinking ship. And the shark, god the shark, loves to eat. Which is what the Mafioso loves too, eating and money and Pauly and Omertà. The way the cowboy loves his horse, loves the corseted girl behind the piano bar and sometimes loves the other cowboy. As the vampire loves night and neck. And the zombie, don’t even start with the zombie, sentimental fool, has anyone ever been more love-sick than a zombie, that pale dull metaphor for love, all animal craving and lurching, outstretched arms. His very existence a sonnet about how much he wants those brains. This, too is a love story.

The black rock was sharp-edged, hot, and hard as corundum; it seemed not merely alien but impervious to life. Yet on the southern face of almost every rock the lichens grew, yellow, rusty-brown, yellow-green, like patches of dirty paint daubed on the stone.

Every day,” I seethed, as if my very soul were seeping out from between my teeth, “I thank the sun for rising just so it can shine upon her. Simply to breathe the air beside her is something that I treasure and fight every moment to deserve. I do not care if you do not respect me. But you will respect my wife.

This is a love story, Michael Deane says. But, really, what isn’t? Doesn’t the detective love the mystery, or the chase, or the nosy female reporter, who is even now being held against her wishes at an empty warehouse on the waterfront? Surely the serial murderer loves his victims, and the spy loves his gadgets or his country or the exotic counterspy. The ice trucker is torn between his love for ice and truck, and the competing chefs go crazy for scallops, and the pawnshop guys adore their junk just as the Housewives live for catching glimpses of their own Botoxed brows in gilded hall mirrors, and the rocked-out dude on ‘roids totally wants to shred the ass of the tramp-tatted girl on Hookbook, and because this is reality, they are all in love—madly, truly—with the body mic clipped to their back buckle, and the producer casually suggesting just one more angle, one more Jell-O shot. And the robot loves his master, alien loves his saucer, Superman loves Lois, Lex, and Lana, Luke love Leia (till he finds out she’s his sister), and the exorcist loves the demon even as he leaps out the window with it, in full soulful embrace, as Leo loves Kate and they both love the sinking ship, and the shark—God, the shark loves to eat, which is what the Mafioso loves, too—eating and money and Paulie and omerta` --the way the cowboy loves his horse, loves the corseted girl behind the piano bar, and sometimes loves the other cowboy, as the vampire loves night and neck, and the zombie—don’t even start with the zombie, sentimental fool; has anyone ever been more lovesick than a zombie, that pale, dull metaphor for love, all animal craving and lurching, outstretched arms, his very existence a sonnet about how much he wants those brains? This, too, is a love story.

This is a love story, Michael Deane says. But, really, what isn’t? Doesn’t the detective love the mystery, or the chase, or the nosy female reporter, who is even now being held against her wishes at an empty warehouse on the waterfront? Surely the serial murderer loves his victims, and the spy loves his gadgets or his country or the exotic counterspy. The ice trucker is torn between his love for ice and truck, and the competing chefs go crazy for scallops, and the pawnshop guys adore their junk, just as the Housewives live for catching glimpses of their own Botoxed brows in gilded hall mirrors, and the rocked-out dude on ’roids totally wants to shred the ass of the tramp-tatted girl on Hookbook, and because this is reality, they are all in love—madly, truly—with the body mic clipped to their back buckle, and the producer casually suggesting just one more angle, one more Jell-O shot. And the robot loves his master, alien loves his saucer, Superman loves Lois, Lex, and Lana, Luke loves Leia (till he finds out she’s his sister), and the exorcist loves the demon even as he leaps out the window with it, in full soulful embrace, as Leo loves Kate and they both love the sinking ship, and the shark—God, the shark loves to eat, which is what the mafioso loves, too—eating and money and Paulie and omertà—the way the cowboy loves his horse, loves the corseted girl behind the piano bar, and sometimes loves the other cowboy, as the vampire loves night and neck, and the zombie—don’t even start with the zombie, sentimental fool; has anyone ever been more lovesick than a zombie, that pale, dull metaphor for love, all animal craving and lurching, outstretched arms, his very existence a sonnet about how much he wants those brains? This, too, is a love story.

The experience of the Terek Cossacks is also important because it stands so apart from the Cossack myth. Like cowboys in the United States, gauchos in Argentina, and many other frontier social groups who became national icons, by the end of the nineteenth century Cossacks represented the soul of Russian national identity. They were, according to the myth, deeply Russian in spirit if not ethnicity (strong, spontaneous, Russophone, Orthodox), Christian warriors of the tsar, intrepid scouts and explorers, the vanguard of Russification, conquering wilderness, alien enemies, and alien cultures alike. The history of the Terek Cossacks shows how shallow that myth was–many were neither Russian nor Orthodox, they were more losers than victors in their struggle with the “wilderness,” they fought mostly for themselves and their sense of honor rather than for an empire or a tsar, and were far from being agents of Russian civilization.

Human beings, hooked by the mystery of the Kefahuchi Tract, arrived on its doorstep two hundred years after they got into space. They were arrant newcomers, driven by the nouveau enthusiasms of a cowboy economy. They had no idea what they had come for, or how to get it: they only knew they would. They had no idea how to comport themselves. They sensed there was money to be made. They dived right in. They started wars. They stunned into passivity five of the alien races they found in possession of the galaxy and fought the sixth — which they called 'the Nastic' out of a mistranslation of the Nastic's word for 'space' — to a wary truce. After that they fought one another. Behind all this bad behavior was an insecurity magnificent in scope, metaphysical in nature. Space was big, and the boys from Earth were awed despite themselves by the things they found there: but worse, their science was in a mess. Every race they met on their way through the Core had a star drive based on a different theory. All those theories worked, even when they ruled out one another's basic assumptions. You could travel between the stars, it began to seem, by assuming anything. If your theory gave you a foamy space to work with — if you had to catch a wave — that didn't preclude some other engine, running on perfectly smooth Einsteinian surface, from surfing the same tranche of empty space. It was even possible to build drives on the basis of superstring-style theories, which, despite their promise four hundred years ago had never really worked at all.

Loneliness when you’re surrounded by people feels different than loneliness in the empty quiet.

Look, I know I already got all up your ass about this last night.” Garrek whipped around to look at me. “You what?

Hey,” he said, feeling his lips stretch into a shit-eating grin. “You heard this one? So a cowboy, an alien, and three hit men walk into a bar….

What were you doing out here?” He chuckled. “Looking for aliens. What else?

Somehow her shirt had come open completely, giving him all the access he needed to caress her breasts with both hands,

Like cowboys, hackers supposedly experienced freedom in a wild land that yielded only to our special prowess and expertise. We roamed as we pleased, inventing reality for everyone else. Normal people would wait helplessly as we blazed their new world. What surprised me over the next few decades is that all those alien, “normal” people, all over the globe, chose to buy into our myth. You let us reinvent your world! I’m still curious why.