Crap Father Quotes

Menoeceus wants his father. (Astrid) Bob is crying because he wants his mother to stop calling him that crap-ass name. It’s all right, Bob. Daddy’s got you now. I’m saving you from Mommy’s bad naming taste. I’d be crying, too, if my mom named me after an idiot. (Zarek)

Crap. He was actually crying. I didn't know how to deal with a crying father. I barely knew how to deal with a normal one.

You can have everything in the world, but if you don't have love, none of it means crap," he said promptly. "Love is patient. Love is kind. Love always forgives, trusts, supports, and endures. Love never fails. When every star in the heavens grows cold, and when silence lies once more on the face of the deep, three things will endure: faith, hope, and love." And the greatest of these is love," I finished. "That's from the Bible." First Corinthians, chapter thirteen," Thomas confirmed. "I paraphrased. Father makes all of us memorize that passage. Like when parents put those green yucky-face stickers on the poisonous cleaning products under the kitchen sink.

There is no such thing as a good father because the role itself is bad. Strict fathers, soft fathers, nice moderate fathers — one's as bad as another. They stand in the way of our progress while they try to burden us with their inferiority complexes, and their unrealized aspirations, and their resentments, and their ideals, and the weaknesses they've never told anyone about, and their sins, and their sweeter-than-honey dreams, and the maxims they've never had the courage to live by — they'd like to unload all that silly crap on us, all of it!

Always when I play back my father’s voice,” Maria says, “it is with a professional rasp, it goes as it lays, don’t do it the hard way. My father advised me that life itself was a crap game: it was one of two lessons I learned as a child. The other was that overturning a rock was apt to reveal a rattlesnake. As lessons go those two seem to hold up, but not to apply.

Menoceus wants his father." "Bob is crying because he wants his mother to stop calling him that crap-ass name. It's all right Bob. Daddy's got you now. I'm saving you fromMommy's bad naming taste. I'd be crying, too, if my mom named me after an idiot." "Menoeceus is a great name." "For an old man or a feminine hygeine product. Not for my son. And next time I get to name the kid and it won't be something that sounds like meningitis.

We have babies because we want them to love us, to make us important, but the only make us tired and fat and stinking of spit up because they're babies, not saviors. Their fathers leave us, sick of crap and sour milk, sweatpants and tears. But the babies still need all of us, only there isn't anything left to give because we based our worth on the lowlifes who knocked us up and around. So our babies end up screwed up and screwed with because not we're single again, too, so we're bringing home guys who secretly like pink satin baby skin more than our silvery stretch marks. We don't see what we should see because having anyone is till supposedly better than being alone.

.....if he’s not man enough to stand up to your father, and take the crap he has to dish out, then he’s not good enough to be with you.

How come she has more crap here now than when she lived with me?” their father grumbled as he came down one morning.

So you believe in blood sucking fangers, but you don't believe in the existence of werewolves. What kind of narrow minded crap is that?

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.

Let’s get married,’ he says with an almost pained expression. ‘I know I’m stuck on this island, that I’m poor, a single father, and in a business with somewhat diminishing returns. I know that your mother hates me, that I’m quite obviously crap when it comes to hosting author events.

I came to understand that I had baffled and infuriated my father at least as much as he had baffled and infuriated me. I saw that I had been selfish and unbending and a giant pain in the ass. He’d built a bridge of privilege for me, a hand-paved trestle to the good life, and I repaid him by chopping it down and crapping on the wreckage.

To: Anna Oliphant From: Etienne St. Clair Subject: Uncommon Prostitues I have nothing to say about prostitues (other than you'd make a terrible prostitute,the profession is much too unclean), I only wanted to type that. Isn't it odd we both have to spend Christmas with our fathers? Speaking of unpleasant matters,have you spoken with Bridge yet? I'm taking the bus to the hospital now.I expect a full breakdown of your Christmas dinner when I return. So far today,I've had a bowl of muesli. How does Mum eat that rubbish? I feel as if I've been gnawing on lumber. To: Etienne St. Clair From: Anna Oliphant Subject: Christmas Dinner MUESLY? It's Christmas,and you're eating CEREAL?? I'm mentally sending you a plate from my house. The turkey is in the oven,the gravy's on the stovetop,and the mashed potatoes and casseroles are being prepared as I type this. Wait. I bet you eat bread pudding and mince pies or something,don't you? Well, I'm mentally sending you bread pudding. Whatever that is. No, I haven't talked to Bridgette.Mom keeps bugging me to answer her calls,but winter break sucks enough already. (WHY is my dad here? SERIOUSLY. MAKE HIM LEAVE. He's wearing this giant white cable-knit sweater,and he looks like a pompous snowman,and he keeps rearranging the stuff on our kitchen cabinets. Mom is about to kill him. WHICH IS WHY SHE SHOULDN'T INVITE HIM OVER FOR HOLIDAYS). Anyway.I'd rather not add to the drama. P.S. I hope your mom is doing better. I'm so sorry you have to spend today in a hospital. I really do wish I could send you both a plate of turkey. To: Anna Oliphant From: Etienne St. Clair Subject: Re: Christmas Dinner YOU feel sorry for ME? I am not the one who has never tasted bread pudding. The hospital was the same. I won't bore you with the details. Though I had to wait an hour to catch the bus back,and it started raining.Now that I'm at the flat, my father has left for the hospital. We're each making stellar work of pretending the other doesn't exist. P.S. Mum says to tell you "Merry Christmas." So Merry Christmas from my mum, but Happy Christmas from me. To: Etienne St. Clair From: Anna Oliphant Subject: SAVE ME Worst.Dinner.Ever.It took less than five minutes for things to explode. My dad tried to force Seany to eat the green bean casserole, and when he wouldn't, Dad accused Mom of not feeding my brother enough vegetables. So she threw down her fork,and said that Dad had no right to tell her how to raise her children. And then he brought out the "I'm their father" crap, and she brought out the "You abandoned them" crap,and meanwhile, the WHOLE TIME my half-dead Nanna is shouting, "WHERE'S THE SALT! I CAN'T TASTE THE CASSEROLE! PASS THE SALT!" And then Granddad complained that Mom's turkey was "a wee dry," and she lost it. I mean,Mom just started screaming. And it freaked Seany out,and he ran to his room crying, and when I checked on him, he was UNWRAPPING A CANDY CANE!! I have no idea where it came from. He knows he can't eat Red Dye #40! So I grabbed it from him,and he cried harder, and Mom ran in and yelled at ME, like I'd given him the stupid thing. Not, "Thank you for saving my only son's life,Anna." And then Dad came in and the fighting resumed,and they didn't even notice that Seany was still sobbing. So I took him outside and fed him cookies,and now he's running aruond in circles,and my grandparents are still at the table, as if we're all going to sit back down and finish our meal. WHAT IS WRONG WITH MY FAMILY? And now Dad is knocking on my door. Great. Can this stupid holiday get any worse??

The young look up to me as their feeder," said Alex. "Well, they can go look for another trough. I'm through with this hogwash." "Are liberal ideas hogwash?" "All ideas are hogwash, Jack." "Don't you believe in anything anymore?" "Sure. I believe in God the Father of Nonsense, creator of Crap and Nonsense, is now and ever shall be Crap without end. Oh, oh, Jack, how we break our hearts trying to make sense of a world that's pure and utter crap. But if you ever come to where I am now, you'll be surprised and delighted to find out how little anything matters." "You've begun to sound Christian," said Pocholo.

If I were dying when I should've, say in the late sixties, when I thought my head would explode with howling misery, when every time their father opened his fat mouth I thought I'd have to kill him, then – then I would've written the girls affectionate letters, telling them of my sadness, and how much I loved them, and how sorry I was to be leaving them. Too late. They're here, they're grown-up, they're crap, and so we'll bicker towards oblivion.

Greg looked at Aunt Dahlia. “You need to leave.” “I already told her that,” Ham growled. Greg ignored Ham like he didn’t exist and said to Aunt Dahlia, “I’ll ask the manager to have you removed.” “Since I dine here once a month, I doubt he’ll choose removing me over removing the lot of you.” She twirled her finger in the air to indicate us all. “Do you think,” Nina started and I looked at her to see her looking at Max, “that this is normal? I mean, does this kind of thing happen to other people in the world? I really want to know.” Max smiled at his wife. I looked back at Aunt Dahlia to see, scarily, she was looking at me. “You need to phone your father.” “No, she doesn’t.” This was said by Kami Maxwell. I leaned forward and plonked my forehead on the table. --- “Is there a problem here?” A mild-mannered-looking suited man I suspected was the manager entered the situation. “No, I’m simply having a word with my niece,” my aunt replied. “Yes, this woman interrupted my wife’s dinner in an extremely unpleasant way,” Greg contradicted. “She’s not your wife,” Ham grunted. Uh-oh. Shocking the crap out of me, Greg, with narrowed eyes and anger contorting his face, instantly fired back at Ham, “She’ll always be my wife.” I went still. The table went still. I fancied the restaurant went still as I was pretty certain I watched ice form in a thick layer, crackling and groaning all around Ham. “Well shit.” His words were sarcastic but that didn’t mean they weren’t dripping icicles. “See I’m in a position to apologize since I fucked your wife against the wall before we left to come here.” This was when I plonked my head on the table again. “Oh my,” Nina breathed as she glanced at Max. “We haven’t done that in a while, darling. We should do that again.

So much of what he knew about religion struck him as total bullshit; he was disarmed when the fathers freely admitted that some stories were in fact pious fictions. But, judging his character, they dared him to cut through what he called the crap: to find the core of truth, carefully preserved and offered

I’m sure my father said plenty of normal things to me when I was growing up, but what stuck, probably because he said it, like, ten thousand times, was “Everything you touch turns to crap.” His other catchphrase was “You know what you are? A big fat zero.” Excerpt From: David Sedaris. “Let's Explore Diabetes with Owls.” iBooks.

If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth. In the first place, that stuff bores me, and in the second place, my parents would have about two hemorrhages apiece if I told anything personal about them. They're quite touchy about anything like that, especially my father. They're nice and all - I'm not saying that - but they're also touchy as hell. Besides, I'm not going to tell you my whole goddam autobiography or anything.

The doorbell rang and Grandma ran to get it. “It’s him,” she said to me. “It’s my honey.” My father got out of his chair in the living room and took his seat at the table. “I don’t care if he craps in a bag,” he said to Ranger. “I’ll give you a hundred bucks if you can scare him into marrying her and moving her into his room at the old people’s home.

Besides the age thing, Father Dom being sixty and me being sixteen, he's Mister Nice himself, whereas I'm ... Well, not. Not that I don't try to be. It's just that one thing I've learned from all of this is that we don't have very much time here on Earth. So why waste it putting up with other people's crap? Particularly people who are already dead, anyway.

Do you ever wonder how we all got here? On Earth, I mean. Forget the song and dance about Adam and Eve, which I know is a load of crap. My father likes the myth of the Pawnee Indians, who say that the star deities populated the world: Evening Star and Morning Star hooked up and gave birth to the first female. The first boy came from the Sun and the Moon. Humans rode in on the back of a tornado. Mr. Hume, my science teacher, taught us about this primordial soup full of natural gases and muddy slop and carbon matter that somehow solidified into one-celled organisms called choanoflagellates... which sound a lot more like a sexually transmitted disease than the start of the evolutionary chain, in my opinion. But even once you get there, it's a huge leap from an amoeba to a monkey to a whole thinking person. The really amazing thing about all this is no matter what you believe, it took some doing to get from a point where there was nothing, to a point where all the right neurons fire and pop so that we can make decisions. More amazing is how even though that's become second nature, we all still manage to screw it up.

A villager in Ca Lu said it to me, before I removed his intestines with a bayonet.” “Was he talking about himself?” Donaldson asked. “Or you?” “You tell me. Did you feel alive when you killed your father, Donaldson?” Donaldson nodded. “And when you killed the owner of the Pinto?” Mr. K continued. “Goddamn piece of crap car. I wish I could kill that guy again.” “How about someone else in his place?” Donaldson squinted at Mr. K. “What do you mean?” Another half smile. “The man in my trunk. If I gave you the chance to kill him, would you?

We crossed the street and turned left into one of the side streets, which was only slightly less wide. Here the traffic was lighter. To the left and slightly in front of us, two men walked shoulder to shoulder. The first wore leather pants, a white shirt with wide sleeves, and a leather vest over it. A wide leather bracer enclosed his left forearm. His hair, a rare blond shade, almost gold, hung in a ponytail down his back. He moved with a casual aristocratic elegance, perfectly balanced. Watching him, you had a feeling that if the road suddenly became a tightrope, he would just keep on walking without breaking a stride. My father moved like that. I sped up a little. We drew even and I saw a slender sword on his waist. That's what I thought. An expert swordsman. I glanced at his face and blinked. He was remarkably handsome. The man to his left was larger, his shoulders broader, his body emanating contained aggression. He didn't walk, he stalked, and you could tell by the way he moved that he would be very strong. His auburn hair looked like he'd rolled out of bed, dragged his hand through it, and gone on about his day. He wore dark pants and a black leather jacket that was more doublet than motorcycle. A ragged scar crossed his left cheek and when he turned his head, his eyes shone with yellow. Interesting. "It's always work with you," the russet-haired man said. "Some of us have to mind the safety of the realm," the blond said. A narrow smile curled his lips. "I've given the realm eight years of my life. It can bite me," his stocky companion retorted. "How far is it?" The slim man raised his left arm. A hawk dropped out of the sky and landed on his bracer. "We're almost there. Two blocks left." "Good. Let's get this crap and go home." They turned into the side street. "That bird smelled dead," Sean said.

I’ve got some good physical therapy for you. Any good at fencing?” Joss almost choked on her mouthful of coffee. She sat up straight in her chair and shook her head. “No, Gus.” Troy ignored her. “I can fence in my sleep.” “Gus.” She narrowed her eyes at her father-in-law who could be stubborn as a mule. “He dislocated his elbow. He shouldn’t be doing any heavy lifting with his arm. Not to mention it’s going to be in a splint for a couple of weeks.” “He’s still got his right arm, don’t he?” “Yeah,” Troy drawled, amusement flattening his vowels even more than usual. “I’ve still got my right arm.” She glared at Gus. “You want to take on a one-armed fencer?” “Damien’s got his summer job starting today so I’m losing my sidekick and Cody’s out with his broken leg for another couple of weeks. It’d be handy to have even one extra hand on.” “I bet I can fence better one-armed than most men can with two.” There was no bravado to the claim. His expression was sincere and Joss believed him. She didn’t doubt this man could do a crap ton of things better than most men.

When I was a child, my father forbade me to read science fiction or fantasy. Trash of the highest order, he said. He didn't want me muddying up my young, impressionable mind with crap. If it wasn't worthy of being reviewed in the Times, it did not make it onto our bookshelves. So while my classmates gleefully dove into The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, A Wrinkle in Time, and The Borrowers, I was stuck reading Old Yeller. My saving grace- I was the most popular girl in my class. That's not saying much; it was easy to be popular at that age. All you had to do was wear your hair in French braids, tell your friends your parents let you drink grape soda every night at dinner, and take any dare. I stood in a bucket of hot water for five minutes without having to pee. I ate four New York System wieners (with onions) in one sitting. I cut my own bangs and- bam!- I was queen of the class. As a result I was invited on sleepovers practically every weekend, and it was there that I cheated. I skipped the séances and the Ouija board. I crept into my sleeping bag with a flashlight, zipped it up tight, and pored through those contraband books. I fell into Narnia. I tessered with Meg and Charles Wallace; I lived under the floorboards with Arrietty and Pod. I think it was precisely because those books were forbidden that they lived on in me long past the time that they should have. For whatever reason, I didn't outgrow them. I was constantly on the lookout for the secret portal, the unmarked door that would lead me to another world. I never thought I would actually find it.

Kiara ached as her father left her alone with the two men she wasn’t so sure about. Her heart heavy, she locked the door, then frowned at the mocking expression on Syn’s face as he walked over to Nykyrian. “What the hell was that action?” Syn asked him. “I think it’s something called ‘paternal concern.’” Syn scowled at his bland explanation. “What…? You sure? I thought that crap was a myth.” Nykyrian shrugged. “No, really. I watched it once in a documentary. It was fascinating. Believe it or not, there are people out there who actually have feelings for their progeny.” “Get the fuck out. No way. You’re screwing with my head again, aren’t you?” “No. I swear. You just saw it with your own eyes. I did not make that shit up.” Syn shivered. “Yeah but it’s really messing with my concept of the natural order of the universe. Paternal love? What’s next? Limb regrowth? Genetic splicing reversals?” Kiara gave Syn an irritated grimace. “Don’t your parents ever worry about either of you?” Syn arched a brow. “What parents?” A ripple of apprehension went through Kiara that she might have been insensitive to them. “Are they dead?” “Careful,” Nykyrian said, returning to the kitchen. “You might not want an answer to that question.” She tried to understand his cryptic response. “What do you mean?” Syn laughed evilly. “Kip wasn’t born, he was spawned.” Now she was completely confused. “Who’s Kip?” Syn indicated Nykyrian with his thumb. “You were a tubie?” Nykyrian glanced up from his dinner preparations. “Syn has a brain disorder that causes him to lie most of the time. Ignore him.” Syn snorted. “I don’t lie. I merely tell the truth creatively.

I was thinking, The last thing I want to do is get in a wreck and lose another limb. I completely lost it and blew up at my father. “Why did you do that? I can’t get injured again! Pull over. I’ll drive!” I screamed. Dad is not the kind of person who would have ever taken that kind of behavior from me in the past, but I think he understood the paranoia. I’d asked him while I was in the hospital, “Did you ever think one of your kids would ever lose a limb?” And he said, “No, it never crossed my mind. I was always more afraid I would lost another limb.” It wasn’t until later that I realized how great it was of him that he kept his cool and understood where I was coming from. He just let me freak out and let me drive. I think in some ways it was the same kind of lesson he taught me as a child without ever saying a word. I watched him just get on with things with one arm. He never made a fuss about it. It was an example that growing up I didn’t know I’d need eventually. So I got in the driver’s seat and we continued on our way. After a while we stopped at a gas station to stretch our legs and get some snacks. I grabbed a lemon-line Gatorade and Dad grabbed something to drink and we got back in the car. I turned the car on, so the air and the radio were going as I tried and tried to get my Gatorade bottle open, but the top was too big and I couldn’t quite get my fingers to grab it, hold it, and twist it open. My finger strength just wasn’t there yet. So I put it between my legs and tried to hold it still while I twisted the top. I heard the creak of release as I managed to break the seal of the plastic orange cap but my legs were squeezing the bottle so hard that the bright yellow liquid squirted all over me. “Crap!” I yelled. I heard my dad snicker. I turned to look at him and he smirked while holding a can of Coke in his hand. “And that’s why I drink out of a can,” he declared with a smug grin. Click. Fizzzz. With one hand, Dad popped that can open and took a big slug of his soda.

Maddy’s going to pop soon,” Cooper said, finishing his beer and getting ready to head out. “Tucker is attached to her. It’s pretty fucking adorable. The guy about wets his pants every time she makes any noise that might be labor pain.” “You’ll be an uncle soon.” “I’m already an uncle,” Cooper mumbled, sliding on his jacket. “I just can’t hold the kid yet.” “You and Farah still planning on trying?” “No planning. We’re just trying now. She’s off the pill. Whenever it happens, it’ll be cool. Farah worries she’ll suck at being a mom. Can you believe that shit?” Cooper asked as his dark eyes warmed at the thought of his wife. “The way she takes care of Sawyer and me and everyone else and she thinks she’ll be a bad mom. These girls with their shit families get all fucked up in the head and no logic is going to fix it. They just need to face their fears and see how amazing they are when their idiot parents aren’t around to fuck things up.” “Should I fix things for Lark?” “I don’t know. If it was me, I’d go smack her stupid brother and father around. I don’t know if that’d be a good idea though. Those fucks aren’t low life drifters like Farah’s parents. That Larry asshole is a respectable member of the community. If you want to smack him around, you’ll need to do it in a more subtle way. Of course, if he ever fucks with you, we can just remind Mister Upstanding how his kind doesn’t run Ellsberg. It’s us dirty biker types who keep his house from burning down or his head from getting cracked open. If it comes down to it, I’ll help you take him down. Pop says behave. I say I’ve got my bud’s back.” Grinning, I shoved him away from me. “Crap. I’m worried you might hug me next.” “I was thinking about it,” Cooper said, smiling. “Farah’s turned me all nice and shit. I’m getting manners too. It’s disgusting.” “Horrifying,” I teased. “Thanks for the offer, but I feel like Lark needs to make a move. If she needs me to, I’ll burn down houses and crack open skulls. Right now, I feel like maybe she needs to find her way back to me. If she does, I’m keeping her and ruining anyone who tries to take her away.” “Now, there’s the punk ass jerk I became friends with.

To this day, I am still not sure what it was about Chip Gaines that made me give him a second chance--because, basically, our first date was over before it even started. I was working at my father’s Firestone automotive shop the day we first met. I’d worked as my dad’s office manager through my years at Baylor University and was perfectly happy working there afterward while I tried to figure out what I really wanted to do with my life. The smell of tires, metal, and grease--that place was like a second home to me, and the guys in the shop were all like my big brothers. On this particular afternoon, they all started teasing me. “You should go out to the lobby, Jo. There’s a hot guy out there. Go talk to him!” they said. “No,” I said. “Stop it! I’m not doing that.” I was all of twenty-three, and I wasn’t exactly outgoing. She was a bit awkward--no doubt about that. I hadn’t dated all that much, and I’d never had a serious relationship--nothing that lasted longer than a month or two. I’d always been an introvert and still am (believe it or not). I was also very picky, and I just wasn’t the type of girl who struck up conversations with guys I didn’t know. I was honestly comfortable being single; I didn’t think that much of it. “Who is this guy, anyway?” I asked, since they all seemed to know him for some reason. “Oh, they call him Hot John,” someone said, laughing. Hot John? There was no way I was going out in that lobby to strike up a conversation with some guy called Hot John. But the guys wouldn’t let up, so I finally said, “Fine.” I gathered up a few things from my desk (in case I needed a backup plan) and rounded the corner into the lobby. I quickly realized that Hot John was pretty good-looking. He’d obviously just finished a workout--he was dressed head-to-toe in cycling gear and was just standing there, innocently waiting on someone from the back. I tried to think about what I might say to strike up a conversation when I got close enough and quickly settled on the obvious topic: cycling. But just as that thought raced through my head, he looked up from his magazine and smiled right at me. Crap, I thought. I completely lost my nerve. I kept on walking right past him and out the lobby’s front door. When I reached the safety of my dad’s outdoor waiting area, I realized just how bad I’d needed the fresh air. I sat on a chair a few down from another customer and immediately started laughing at myself. Did I really just do that?

After wandering the world and living on the Continent I had long tired of well-behaved, fart-free gentlemen who opened the door and paid the bills but never had a story to tell and were either completely asexual or demanded skin-burning action until the morning light. Swiss watch salesmen who only knew of “sechs” as their wake-up hour, or hairy French apes who always required their twelve rounds of screwing after the six-course meal. I suppose I liked German men the best. They were a suitable mixture of belching northerner and cultivated southerner, of orderly westerner and crazy easterner, but in the post-war years they were of course broken men. There was little you could do with them except try to put them right first. And who had the time for that? Londoners are positive and jolly, but their famous irony struck me as mechanical and wearisome in the long run. As if that irony machine had eaten away their real essence. The French machine, on the other hand, is fuelled by seriousness alone, and the Frogs can drive you beyond the limit when they get going with their philosophical noun-dropping. The Italian worships every woman like a queen until he gets her home, when she suddenly turns into a slut. The Yank is one hell of a guy who thinks big: he always wants to take you the moon. At the same time, however, he is as smug and petty as the meanest seamstress, and has a fit if someone eats his peanut butter sandwich aboard the space shuttle. I found Russians interesting. In fact they were the most Icelandic of all: drank every glass to the bottom and threw themselves into any jollity, knew countless stories and never talked seriously unless at the bottom of the bottle, when they began to wail for their mother who lived a thousand miles away but came on foot to bring them their clean laundry once a month. They were completely crazy and were better athletes in bed than my dear countrymen, but in the end I had enough of all their pommel-horse routines. Nordic men are all as tactless as Icelanders. They get drunk over dinner, laugh loudly and fart, eventually start “singing” even in public restaurants where people have paid to escape the tumult of the world. But their wallets always waited cold sober in the cloakroom while the Icelandic purse lay open for all in the middle of the table. Our men were the greater Vikings in this regard. “Reputation is king, the rest is crap!” my Bæring from Bolungarvík used to say. Every evening had to be legendary, anything else was a defeat. But the morning after they turned into weak-willed doughboys. But all the same I did succeed in loving them, those Icelandic clodhoppers, at least down as far as their knees. Below there, things did not go as well. And when the feet of Jón Pre-Jón popped out of me in the maternity ward, it was enough. The resemblances were small and exact: Jón’s feet in bonsai form. I instantly acquired a physical intolerance for the father, and forbade him to come in and see the baby. All I heard was the note of surprise in the bass voice out in the corridor when the midwife told him she had ordered him a taxi. From that day on I made it a rule: I sacked my men by calling a car. ‘The taxi is here,’ became my favourite sentence.

Her face distressed, Astrid handed him off to Zarek. "Menoeceus wants his father." Zarek glared at her. "Bob is crying because he wants his mother to stop calling him that crap-ass name." Zarek cuddled the small boy to him as he rocked him gently against his shoulder while he continued to wail. Loudly. "It's all right, Bob. Daddy's got you now. I'm saving you from Mommy's bad naming taste. I'd be crying, too, if my mom named me after an idiot." "Menoeceus is a great name," Astrid said defensively. Zarek snorted. "For an old man or a feminine hygiene product. Not for my son. And next time I get to name the kid and it won't be something that sounds like meningitis." Astrid stood with her hands on her hips, toe to toe with her husband. "You keep that up and next time you'll be the one birthing it, and don't mess with me, bucko, I have connections in that department. A pregnant man is not an impossibility in my neighborhood." She started away from him. "Yeah, well, I'll be glad to birth it if it means I can name him something normal," Zarek called after her.

I stood straight and calm, though every part of me wanted to blast the crap out of the room. No one moved, no one spoke. I barely breathed. I didn’t know how much time had passed when Ty finally broke the silence. “If we’re demigods and you are demigods, which gods are our grandparents?” Tyde asked, snapping me out of my funk. Why hadn’t it occurred to me to ask that? My parents were the children of gods. All Mer were thought of as children of Poseidon in some respects, but this was different. “Well, your father’s father is Apollo,” Mom said, “And my father is… Zeus.” Whoa, that was big. Zeus was our grandfather. How does someone wrap their mind around that? “So our grandfathers are Apollo and Zeus, but aren’t they related? Wouldn’t that make you and Dad…” Ty couldn’t finish that thought and I was grateful. I was now grossed out. I couldn’t do the math on that messed up family tree. Yuck. “It doesn’t really work that way with the gods,” Mom said, catching on to what Ty was hinting at. “They are so ancient that their blood, while it will carry power, doesn’t carry much else in terms of genealogy. Our DNA comes mostly from our mortal parents. Our powers come from our godly parents but that’s it. It’s complicated, but your father and I are not related. So if you were worried… stop. You’re not the product of kissing cousins

.....if he’s not man enough to stand up to your father, and take the crap he has to dish out, then he’s not good enough to be with you.

 ’ Bout time you married someone and stopped tempting every man from here to the Blue Sea,” Padera said, slurring the words through toothless gums. “You know, wars have started over women like you.” Moya scoffed. “You’re so full of crap, old woman.” “Brin?” Padera called. Brin tore her eyes away from the doorway. “Augusta of Melen, daughter of Chieftain Eisol, started the Battle of the Red River when she refused to marry Theo of Warric. When Theo’s father was killed in the fight, Theo vowed vengeance and summoned all of Clan Warric to his banner. This resulted in what became known as the Ten Year War, which claimed the lives of a thousand men and instigated a famine that lasted two years.

The church can never be the community of perfect, trouble-free people; the church cannot be a club of the moral elite. If the church is a church of the cross, of the Love of Father and Son, it cannot be the community of denial in positivity. How is it that the church has gotten the reputation for being a people where you need to be perfect to be part of it? Where you have to have your crap together to belong? It is the utter opposite; only those who are willing to admit that their crap is in utter disarray (even if it looks orderly) are those who can be in, and lead, the church.

The Founding Fathers never intended it to be this way. They didn’t create the Second Amendment for hunting – they created it for citizens of this country to deal with the kind of crap we now have in Washington.

When I was ten years old my father taught me to assess quite rapidly the shifting probabilities on a craps layout: I could trace a layout in my sleep, the field here and the pass line all around, even money on Big Six or Eight, five-for-one on Any Seven. Always when I play back my father’s voice it is with a professional rasp, it goes as it lays, don’t do it the hard way. My father advised me that life itself was a crap game: it was one of the two lessons I learned as a child. The other was that overturning a rock was apt to reveal a rattlesnake. As lessons go those two seem to hold up, but not to apply.

Claire, yesterday you yelled at Nicholas for forgetting to take out the garbage. Do you remember what you said to him?’ ‘I said he has to take responsibility for some things around the house – which is the truth, Mum.’ ‘I’m not debating that but you ended your lecture with, “I don’t need another man giving me crap right now.”’ ‘I didn’t say that,’ I protested. ‘You did. You were angry and I am sure you didn’t mean it but I was going to talk to you about it today. You need to apologise to him. He is only a boy and not every man is Joel, Claire, not even the little men who share his genetics. Don’t alienate them because they happen to be boys. Love them into being wonderful men like your father.

If you think about it,” Roger said, his hand still pressed to the ground, “science relies on a sort of faith, too. It’s a faith in the accuracy of human senses to discern every truth. But as I’m sure you know by now, there’s a whole world of truth out there beyond what the common person can see with his five senses.”“So, you’re saying science is crap?” I asked. “Not at all,” Roger said. “Just that it’s myth. It’s a form of truth, but not the whole truth. Just like Taliesin’s tale or your father’s stories, or my Choctaw legends. To presume that science comprehends everything is a form of absolutism as dangerous as any kind of religious extremism. When we comprehend our myths properly we should recognize that they put us into contact with a truth greater than our own, with something grander than any dogma.”“Some mysteries are better adored than investigated,” I said. “My dad used to say that.

Bryce met Hunt’s disbelieving stare. “The Horn cracked in two when Pelias sealed the Northern Rift. Its power was broken. The Fae and Asteri tried for years to renew it through magic and spells and all that crap, but no luck. It was given a place of honor in the Asteri Archives, but when they established Lunathion a few millennia later, they had it dedicated to the temple here.” Ruhn shook his head. “That the Fae allowed for the artifact to be given over suggests they’d dismissed its worth—that even my father might have forgotten its importance.” Until it was stolen—and he’d gotten it into his head that it would be a rallying symbol of power during a possible war. Bryce added, “I thought it was just

Hunt said, “The kristallos’s presence in Lunathion suggests the Horn is still inside the city walls.” Bryce pinned Ruhn with a look. “Why does the Autumn King suddenly want it?” Ruhn chose his words carefully. “Call it pride. He wants it returned to the Fae. And wants me to find it quietly.” Athalar asked him, “But why ask you to look for the Horn?” The shadows veiling them rippled. “Because Prince Pelias’s Starborn power was woven into the Horn itself. And it’s in my blood. My father thinks I might have some sort of preternatural gift to find it.” He admitted, “When I was browsing the Archives last night, this book … jumped out at me.” “Literally?” Bryce asked, brows high. Ruhn said, “It just felt like it … shimmered. I don’t fucking know. All I know is I was down there for hours, and then I sensed the book, and when I saw that illustration of the Horn … There it was. The crap I translated confirmed it.” “So the kristallos can track the Horn,” Bryce said, eyes glittering. “But so can you.

They say "time heals", but even now, less than a week after my father's death, I know that's a lie. what people really mean is that eventually you'll get used to feel the pain. You'll forget who you were without it; you'll forget what you looked like without your scars. This, I think, is the boundary line of adulthood. Not the crap they claim it -- graduating from high school or losing your virginity or getting your first apartment or whatever. You cross the boundary the first time you're changed forever. You cross it the first time you know you can never go back.

Huh,” groaned Father Gabe. “I sympathize with you, Tommy. Relationships can be a crap shoot. You think you’re going to roll a seven and up pops snake eyes.

Now I know grief is a whetstone. It sharpens all your love, all your happiest memories, into blades that tear you apart from within. Something has been torn out from inside me that will never be filled up, not ever, no matter how long I live. They say “time heals,” but even now, less than a week after my father’s death, I know that’s a lie. What people really mean is that eventually you’ll get used to the pain. You’ll forget who you were without it; you’ll forget what you looked like without your scars. This, I think, is the boundary line of adulthood. Not the crap they claim it is—graduating from high school or losing your virginity or getting your first apartment or whatever. You cross the boundary the first time you’re changed forever. You cross it the first time you know you can never go back.

Darling’s head ached from all the shit he was supposed to go through and answer. For hours, he’d been listening to reports from the other gerents and administrators, whining about everything imaginable. Most of it absolute crap. How had his father stood it? No wonder the man had migraines all the time. It was like refereeing a hundred spoiled toddlers with ADHD. You

At moments I wonder whether those who go, as I do, for a Full Life, don't get their exact reward, which is that The Full Life is full of crap.

I used to cringe when people said I looked like him—my father, because I was a girl and girls aren’t supposed to look like their fathers. Girls are supposed to look like their mothers, or fairy princesses, or Barbie dolls, or some crap like that. I

As if the president gives a crap about demons and what they go through just because her father’s got horns?” Morganith returned. “She never opens her coward mouth about the quiet oppression the demons -- your people -- face every single day --!” “Our people,” Hari calmly corrected. “No,” said Morganith at once. “Halflings have never been anyone’s people.

You seem to like my father well enough, so why do you hide from me?” Isn’t it obvious?! “Because you’re a demon prince!” I replied without hesitation. Apparently, my linguistic abilities improved when I talked crap about people. Turns out I have such a bad personality that I honestly have no right to talk about anyone else. Who would’ve guessed? “I see. In that case, I suppose I should act appropriately demonic…” That is an incredibly evil smile you’re wearing right now, prince…

Teasdale doesn't have money for an attorney," he said. "Especially one from Boston. Who are you, really?" Sidney lifted her chin. "An attorney from Boston." "You don't sound like it." She lifted an eyebrow. "Like an attorney?" He scoffed. "No, you have that droning drivel down. You don't sound Boston." She shrugged. "I didn't start out there." "You sound like Sawyer," he said with a nod toward wherever Sawyer had headed. She refused to turn around to find out. "Well, I'm sure there are more than just two of us from---" "You know him," Crane said, narrowing his eyes. Sidney's tongue faltered, and she cleared her throat. "You're from the same place, aren't you?" he asked. "The same little hick town." "Because we both have an accent?" she asked, laughing, hoping it would cover up her lie. "Because of how I just saw him look at you," Crane said, studying Sidney with a grin. "Like a lovesick schoolboy. Holy shit, you're her>." Sidney's breath felt trapped in her chest, unable to move in or out, just held captive there. Sawyer had a her? And she was it? "I---I'm who?" "The girl he came to town all messed up over," Crane said, crossing his own arms. "A hundred years ago. Well, well, well." All messed up over. After punching out his own father. Defending her. Damn it if all her carefully constructed and ancient defenses weren't crumbling around her regarding him. The boy who shattered her already shaky confidence. The reason she bitterly swore off love and dove into work, into making herself a hard and formidable beast. A beast without people skills but still. And now... "We were friends in high school, yes," Sidney managed to push out, her voice sounding decidedly wobbly. "That has no bearing on Mr. Teasdale's case." "Which came to you how, again?" Crane asked. Sidney smiled. "I'll ask the questions." Crane winked, and she so much wanted to slug him. "Nice deflection. What firm are you with?" "Finley and Blossom." "Blossom?" he asked. And it wasn't about the name. It was recognition. Shit. "Yes, sir." "His damn niece," Crane said, slapping a big hand against the ladder. "I forgot she was a lawyer. Damn it. She sent you." Oh, seven kinds of hell, now this wall was disintegrating, too. She needed a suit of armor. "Everything okay?" said a voice from directly behind her. A voice that sent shock waves to all her nether regions, especially coupled with thee hand that rested on the back of her neck. Crap, she needed more than armor. Sidney needed a force field. "I work for her," Sidney said, ignoring Sawyer's question and fighting the urge to settle back against him. "And you need to bring back the win," Crane said, chuckling. God help her if she was ever up against this asshole in court.

The sins of the father are visited upon future generations…” EXODUS 34:7 Oh, how I used to hate this verse. I once had a client tell me that she hated it, too. It made her think of an-impossible-to-please, vengeful god. A god she wanted no part of. I completely understood, because for a big part of my life, I agreed with her. But then one day, a different perspective on this controversial verse presented itself to me. One that I shared with my client. It’s one I would like to share with you, too. What if this verse is not some warning of wrath from a vengeful, punitive deity? What if this verse is not talking about something God does to us, but rather something we do to ourselves—and to each other? What if this verse is actually a compassionate, albeit cryptic, warning? Perhaps it is a rallying cry to get us to show up and own our crap; to heal and to grow, and to set future generations up to do the same. What if this verse is a plea from on High to recognize our choices can set off ripple effects that are far beyond our understanding and that our choices influence the future beyond what we are able to recognize in the tangible, relational realms. And what if this ominous, poetic warning is really pointing us toward something much more scientific and even holistic? What if it’s a proof-text that we are incapable of living compartmentalized lives—that every part of us is inextricably connected to the other, not only within our own lives, but in all the lives that lead up to our existence? What if the ripples set in motion by those who have gone before us cast destructive waves upon the present and have potential to reach into future generations, unless there is some intervention?

they were all American made. “No Jap-crap,” as Vanessa’s father would have said, god rest his racist soul.

Mike walked out the front door and slammed it behind him. A drink? He told me that he had been attending AA meetings and he wasn’t drinking anymore. That liar. How could he have made all those promises to me? They were all just a pack of lies. You did it again, Sara, falling again for his crap.” CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: The Real Mike Is Back Two years went by. Everything was pretty much the same. Mike did his thing and I did mine. We barely even saw each other. At least the beatings had stopped. He’d come home from work while I was on my way out the door to work. Most of the time, he’d be gone in the afternoons when I got back to the house. The kids didn’t miss him. Michael Jr. never really got a chance to know him as a father anyway, and Michelle had more respect for Rex and Tom than she had for her own father. The kids and I spent a lot of time at the neighbors’ house.

Why don’t you spend less time worrying about your holier-than-thou crap and get over here and suck my cock?” he ordered. “I can’t.” “The fuck you can’t,” he hissed. “Now, do as I say, Father, and strip that pretty little dress of yours off.

She’d calmly removed her headphones and was about to call out her guess when she noticed the red spatters on her curtain and a couple of brain snails sliding down the other side of the translucent vinyl. Crap, she thought. Gingerly pinching a corner of the curtain and sliding it aside, she stepped into the living room, where she found her dad and his ex-client. Her father was still seated opposite the body lying beached-whale-like on the floor. Roger’s own face was stricken, blood spattered, and frozen while his hands eagle-clawed the arms of his chair. “Dad?” Pandora asked. “Yes?” Roger said, not moving. “Should I call someone?” “Yes,” he said, still not moving. “Who?” she asked. “Anyone,” he replied.

Yo mama is so ugly… they had to feed her with a Frisbee! Yo mama is so ugly… when she watches TV the channels change themselves! Yo mama is so ugly… she looks like she has been bobbing for apples in hot grease! Yo mama is so ugly… they passed a law saying she could only do online shopping! Yo mama is so ugly… she looked in the mirror and her reflection committed suicide! Yo mama is so ugly… even homeless people won’t take her money! Yo mama is so ugly… she’s the reason blind dates were invented! Yo mama is so ugly… even a pit-bull wouldn’t bite her! Yo mama is so ugly… she scares the paint off the wall! Yo mama is so ugly… she scares roaches away! Yo mama is so ugly… she looked out the window and got arrested! Yo mama is so ugly… she had to get a prescription mirror! Yo mama is so ugly… bullets refuse to kill her! Yo mama is so ugly… for Halloween she trick-or-treats on the phone! Yo mama is so ugly… when she plays Mortal Kombat, Scorpion says, “Stay over there!” Yo mama is so ugly… I told her to take out the trash and we never saw her again! Yo mama is so ugly… even Hello Kitty said goodbye! Yo mama is so ugly… even Rice Krispies won't talk to her! Yo mama is so ugly… that your father takes her to work with him so that he doesn't have to kiss her goodbye. Yo mama is so ugly… she made the Devil go to church! Yo mama is so ugly… she made an onion cry. Yo mama is so ugly… when she walks down the street in September, people say “Wow, is it Halloween already?” Yo mama is so ugly… she is the reason that Sonic the Hedgehog runs! Yo mama is so ugly… The NHL banned her for life. Yo mama is so ugly… she scared the crap out of a toilet! Yo mama is so ugly… she turned Medusa to stone! Yo mama is so ugly… her pillow cries at night! Yo mama is so ugly… she tried to take a bath and the water jumped out! Yo mama is so ugly… she gets 364 extra days to dress up for Halloween. Yo mama is so ugly… people put pictures of her on their car to prevent theft! Yo mama is so ugly… her mother had to be drunk to breast feed her! Yo mama is so ugly… instead of putting the bungee cord around her ankle, they put it around her neck. Yo mama is so ugly… when they took her to the beautician it took 24 hours for a quote! Yo mama is so ugly… they didn't give her a costume when she tried out for Star Wars. Yo mama is so ugly… just after she was born, her mother said, “What a treasure!” And her father said, “Yes, let's go bury it!” Yo mama is so ugly… her mom had to tie a steak around her neck to get the dogs to play with her. Yo mama is so ugly… when she joined an ugly contest, they said, “Sorry, no professionals.” Yo mama is so ugly… they had to feed her with a slingshot! Yo mama is so ugly… that she scares blind people! Yo mama is so ugly… when she walks into a bank they turn off the surveillance cameras. Yo mama is so ugly… she got beat up by her imaginary friends! Yo mama is so ugly… the government moved Halloween to her birthday.

Revi, tell her about your homework.” Despite her protestations about the height of chairs, Lynne was now leading Barney straight up the side of the couch. “This is amazing, Gretchen. She got assigned to look up a word. And I realized that I’ve gone my entire life without ever really knowing what it means.” “Which word is that?” Gretchen looked at Revi curiously. “Forgive,” said Revi. “I told Counselor Troi that I wasn’t sure I could ever forgive my mother, and if I couldn’t, then how could we ever move on? And she said that my forgiveness didn’t have the slightest thing to do with Mom. It only has to do with me. Then she told me to go home and look up the word.” “And it means…” “To stop feeling angry or resentful toward someone for an offense, flaw or mistake,” said Revi, obviously quoting from memory. “And to stop expecting punishment or restitution. It’s not about what she did or didn’t do. It’s about how I feel. I have control over that. I can choose to stop carrying around a lot of crap. It doesn’t change the facts of what happened, it just changes how I react to them.” “And you’ve done that before, so you know it’s possible,” added Lynne. “How interesting,” said Gretchen. “You’ve just taught me something. I thought forgiveness meant you had to stop blaming the other person for what they’d done, or stop holding them responsible.” “Nope,” said Revi. “That’s absolution. I didn’t know that until yesterday, either. I’ll never absolve my father, and I’m not really sure I can absolve my mother. But I think that maybe I can forgive her…eventually…because that’s about me, and the gods know I need every advantage I can get.

they make a lovely couple.” Lucinda’s father beamed. “What are you two doing tomorrow?” Hello… Now was the time for Bryce to jump in and explain that he had a girlfriend. His dad knew I was here with him… What kind of crap was he trying to pull? “Bryce,” I tried to keep an even tone to my voice, “tell your father why you can’t show Lucinda around.” “We haven’t made any firm plans yet.” Bryce said. “Lucinda, I’ll call you. Haley, we should go before the Cupcakery closes.” Hell no. “Bryce?” “Could we not do this here?” Bryce sounded annoyed. Too bad. “I’m sorry if this makes you uncomfortable, but I need to know where I stand.” He looked as frustrated as I felt. “What do you want me to do?” “Man up and make a choice.” I was tired of second-guessing our relationship. Either he wanted to be my boyfriend or he didn’t. Either way, I’d live. I might eat a dozen cupcakes by myself, but I’d survive. “Consider our deal over, and make a choice.” He didn’t say he wanted me to be his girlfriend. He didn’t say he wanted to continue dating me, but see other people. He didn’t say a word. He blinked and stared. And there was my answer. Fighting the urge to tell him what a wuss he was, I nodded. “Fine. It’s over. Have a nice life.” With that parting shot, I stomped out the door and wove through the crowd of people waiting for the valet. Slow, even breaths, that was the key. I could do this, even though it felt like I was inhaling broken glass. I would not cry in public. If people were going to gossip about me breaking up with Bryce, which they would, at least they’d say I made a dignified exit. Now what? I needed an escape route. Jane. I needed Jane. All I had to do was find her, because her real boyfriend would give me a ride home.

They always say that. 'One was a woman. A mother.‘ It‘s such sexist crap, isn‘t it? A civilian is a civilian. The men were fathers. No one ever says that. 'A mother and a woman.‘ Like that makes it worse than a father and a man.

From a friend you need to take crap. But I'm not your friend. I'm your father. And nobody needs to take crap from their father.