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.

A husband? Actually making you happy? What the fuck kind of crazy-ass planet had I landed on?

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.

My heart had only barely recovered from my earlier worries about her. And now, it was being pummelled by her prettiness. I was going to die a very early death at this rate.

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.

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

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

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.

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….

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

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.

I think you are beautiful. And I would very much like to perform cunni-linguine on you.

A man could read a thousand books on human women and never be any closer to actually understanding them. You’ll have to learn through trial and error and making a complete fool of yourself.

Yes,” Fallon breathed, his eyes now very, very bright white. “Without you and your most illuminating guide, I would not know about the wonders of the clitorosaurus.

The man gave me major stressed-out-dad-regrets-bringing-his-kids-camping energy.

But… What the hell was I supposed to do?! The man’s loins were activated! I couldn’t leave him hanging with activated loins! That would just be cruel!

It would have been just as outlandish if she’d told me Galbrath had grown a tail and planned to become a cowboy just so he could use it as a lasso.

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.

Or, more likely, Fallon had created such a safe place for me in our time together that I’d finally, slowly, been able to start to relax. To breathe.

scarf beneath my chin. I wondered if humans only ever did the kiss ritual at weddings. I did not see how we could have another wedding so that I could repeat the experience. But maybe they also did the kiss thing at other important ceremonies, like funerals. I found myself rather foolishly hoping that someone might die soon so that I could find out. Maybe Zohro. No one would miss him. It would be worth it.

Yours. Your wife, your love. Whatever you want me to be, I’m yours. Now,

You don’t make me unhappy,” I said between sniffs. “I don’t think I’d even recognize happiness without you at this point.

Cherry helped me with the design,” he’d said, so proud and so bashful in equal measure that I thought I’d melt into a big puddle of Fallon-loving goo. God, I was a goner for him.

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

But really, what was there to say about the fact that your new alien husband had jerked off to porn he’d doodled of you before your arrival? Very nice use of shading and colour, Fallon? You have a great artistic eye?

Yes,” Fallon breathed, his eyes now very, very bright white. “Without you and your most illuminating guide, I would not know about the wonders of the clitorosaurus.” “Oh, God,” whispered Cherry. “Fallon,” moaned Darcy. “We have talked about this!

Do you have any other tips for me? About having a human wife?” “The soft parts on their chests are not called udders,” he said.

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.

Precisely,” she said, still grinning.

maybe I can write another book. This one about Zabrian males.

but maybe I can collect enough notes while I’m here to put something together. I am staying for a month, after all.

But you’re a good man too, Garrek. And you’re the one I fell in love with. You and Killian both. I look at you two, and I see my family. I see my future.

You forget one crucial thing,” I told him. He raised his brows questioningly. “I have Killian on my side.

he’ll love you,” I told him. “And he’s ferociously loyal to those he loves.” Oaken’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Sounds like somebody else I know.

Because my cousin held this human woman like he never wished to let her go. Like she was as necessary to him as his own hands, his own heart. There was no doubt in my mind that she was his wife.

At least one man to rely on. I could be that man.

She is not alone,” I said. “Because she is with me.

I can’t give you much. But I can give you a place here. And I can give you time. The time you need.

Because her laugh was an achingly beautiful sound. And that sound was calling me home.

I was ninety-nine percent sure the guy was a weirdo. I was one hundred percent sure that he was also a total sweetheart.

But to remain good, right down to your core, even when life took and took and took from you… That was fucking impressive. And I admired that in a person. In my husband. Oh, boy.

I am commemorating the culmination of your wedding ceremony,” she said coolly. And then, the camera behind her eye sensor snapped again.

I thought you said this was not a real wedding,” Killian said, glaring up at Magnolia and me.

Begging for a wife. Praying for one. Crossing all his Zabrian fingers and toesies for one.

Poor guy’s been pining.

So even if it’s only for a couple of weeks, he is probably thanking his lucky stars. I bet his eyes are glowing white non-freaking-stop right now. Selflessly volunteered, my ass.

Cherry nooooooooo. NO DICKTACLES. You must use the PROPER TERMINOLOGY. SEE THE GROUP CHAT NAME!!!

Here. Take out your comms tablet,” she said. “I’ll add you to the group chat.

Darcy Dubois Changed the Group Name to Cock Tail Hour

My eyes are not white,” Killian cried, sounding very offended for a boy whose eyes were… well… white.

He is looking at her the way that Garrek looks at you!” he growled. “His eyes are white! And his eyes are never white!

Oaken got married?!” he cried, his gaze swinging wildly between Magnolia and me. “And I was not invited?!

Using the tip of his tail, he went to give Lala an experimental poke, but she batted his tail away with one of her spindles.

It’s simply in his nature to put others before himself. He’s got more heart than sense, that one.

I just couldn’t picture some big, brawny alien mountain man being the literary sort. But then again, I wouldn’t have pictured him carefully bottle-feeding a pink alien goat, either.

Even now, I already wanted to get back to her. To talk to her. To hear her laugh again, even if it was at my expense.

Every time I’m away from you for more than a few moments,” Oaken went on, “I worry that you won’t still be there when I come back.

Oaken’s eyes were never white. Except for every time he was around me.

He stopped. His eyes went to my face at once. Bright white.

Oaken gave me a sweetly crooked sort of smirk. He looked immensely satisfied to see me wrapped up in his blanket.

He asked the question as if he really, truly wanted to know the answer. Like he was prepared to wait as long as it took, and would not once complain.

He just looked at me with those bright, patient eyes, and said, “If you want it, then it is done.

And memorizing the way she looked, with her lovely face resting so comfortably against my chest.

I can take care of myself, she’d said. I could tell it was important to her.

Holding Jaya while she slept so soundly in my arms brought me more pleasure than I ever could have anticipated.

In what felt like no time at all, I had reached my property, and was carefully bringing my sleeping wife through the door.

Being with her, getting to observe her at her work, left me ensconced in the hazy quality of a dream.

As we crossed the Lavariya’s threshold, Jaya briefly took my hand to pull me all the way inside. When she touched me, I did not breathe.

I could sense the happiness in her, the pride for what she had here. And for some reason, it made me want to hold her.

I was very glad I could play some small part in keeping that ship in her life. Even if that very ship would be the thing to carry her away from me one day.

Tonight… You mean, you’re coming with me? For the whole night?

We may not have reached your ship yet. But I am with you, Jaya,” he said. “And I can keep you safe.

I thought of all the thousands of days that awaited me after she left, and the world seemed to get just a little smaller. A little less bright.

Funny. I’d been standing in the sun all morning. But seeing her now, it was as if the sun had only just come out.

I’ll wash your socks and give them back.” “No need,” I said. “They’re yours.” Everything I have is yours.

I thought she was finished, but after a pause, she abruptly added, “And I like that you gave her your socks.

Instead, all my dumbass brain wanted to focus on was the part where Oaken had whisked me up into his arms and apparently carried me all the way home.

And then, my dumbass hormones decided to join the party, and I lay there for far too long feeling positively loopy with the stupidest sort of happiness possible.

My ridiculous hormones were apparently pleased by that, too, because I experienced a gush of giddiness when I realized that Oaken must have been the one to have helped with that.

I didn’t find Oaken in the house, but I saw signs of him and his thoughtfulness everywhere.

Those two are becoming fast friends,” Jaya said, glancing at me from the side as we walked through the rocks and the dust. “Just like us.

Because mine, it turned out, belonged to a quiet, white-eyed child and the hard-jawed, scar-backed rider who took care of him.

bedroll with Garrek. It was talking to Garrek late at night, seeing those eyes shift from purple to white and then back again. It was the rough char of his voice. The calloused touch of his hands. The way he’d had no idea what a hug was but

I will never love anything like I love the face before me now, good.

Because you held her – just as you hold her now – as if she means more to you than your own life!

I tried not to love her.” I did not know what else to say, where else to start. “It didn’t work.

I never wished for your death.” Then, a pause. “That was Killian.

I took a moment to simply watch her. To let her beauty wash over me like cool water. To give into the utter awe that, at least for a moment, she had, in some small way, been mine.

My wife was in my arms. Perfection was a place. And it was here. Perfection had a name. And it was hers.

This was just so cozy. And comforting. And enthralling and alarming and wonderful. A magical mix of contradictions. Just like Oaken.

I don’t think we’ve covered any seduction techniques in the lessons yet!” I squawked. Oaken flicked his tail. “I was improvising.

As far as I am concerned, he may sleep as close to the Lavariya as he likes.

That was the last glimpse I had of him that night. The image I carried with me all the way back. The image of Silar bending, then crouching, silently gazing upon his new little sapling of a cherry tree.