Demolition Derby Quotes

I sneak a look over and consider a blow job, but even I know giving head in the middle of a demolition derby is risky,

I'm not engineer educated, but I am an adrenaline junkie. Demolition derbies, drag racing, driving fast--when I gave them up, I tried to think of something I could do to replace them, something that would give me that rush. I love the thrill of impending, weightless doom, so I built something to give me those feelings all the time." As he stands, hands on hips, nodding at the Blue Flash, I think about impending, weightless doom. It's a phrase I like and understand. I tuck it away in the corner of my mind to pull out later, maybe for a song. I say, "You may be the most brilliant man I have ever met." I like the idea of something that can give you those feelings all the time. I want something like that, and then I look at Violet and think: .

And if a collection of bad cells no bigger than a walnut could destroy all those things, those things that are so personal that they can never be properly articulated, so personal you hardly dared admit their existence to yourself, what did that leave? How could you trust life again? How could you see it as anything more meaningful than a Saturday night demolition derby?

Danielle Elizabeth Henderson! Get your ass over here!' she shouted. Grandma always used my full name when she was angry. None of the shoppers around her turned a head or lifted a finger to help; in the 1980s, department stores were full of people shouting the names of temporarily lost children, a cacophony of negligent parenting always ringing out like the last act of an opera.

Briefcase A scientist named Tim Berra wrote a book called Evolution and the Myth of Creationism in 1990. In it, he said that Corvettes can help us understand evolution, because we can see how they changed from year to year. Whoops! Somebody forgot to tell Professor Berra that Corvettes don’t have baby Corvettes. And that Corvettes are designed by intelligent people. So Tim Berra scored a goal for the other side, since his argument was really for intelligent design! Today, it’s called Berra’s Blunder. No one is quite sure when the first demolition derbies were held. Some think a stock-car driver named Larry Mendelsohn organized the first one in Long Island, New York, in the late 1950s. But the Merriam-Webster’s dictionary first included the term “demolition derby” in their 1953 edition. That means there were probably demolition derbies at county fairs at least back in the late 1940s. Anyway, people have been smashing cars for a long time.

CRUNCH! Izzy jumped off the bench, which made Alex laugh all over again. “Chill out.” He pointed at a cloud of smoke. “Look, it’s over, see? Number fifty-seven won.” Terrific. The driver of a purple-and-gray wreck waved at the cheering crowd as he circled the other dead and crunched cars. “Survival of the fittest, huh?” Alex put on that smirk that signaled he was about to pass out a little more college wisdom. “Just one more example of how evolution works.” “You’re kidding, right?” This was too lame. He actually believed that smashed cars at the demolition derby proved…what? “No, look.” Alex pointed to a big green car with the back end curled up. “See that Chevy there?” The one with all the smoke coming out of it? He went on. “That’s a ‘79. You can tell by the front end.” What was left of it. But Professor Alex wasn’t done. “Then look at that Chevy right next to it. It’s a ‘77, but it came from the same assembly line. The body is almost the same.” “Okay…” “So that’s the example my professor at Tech used to explain it. Cars that look alike. It’s how scientists look at fossils too. How they can tell that one life-form comes from the next…You know, evolution.” Oh. By that time they had followed the crowd off the grandstands and were making their way to Uncle John’s minivan out in the parking lot. Who was she to argue with a college kid? And yet…something occurred to Izzy about what her cousin was trying to tell her. She turned to him after they’d piled into the backseat. “Those cars you pointed out…” she started. “Yup.”Alex knew the answers. “Just another illustration of evolution.” “Whatever.” This time she couldn’t just smile and nod. “I was just wondering, though. Do you think a real person designed the older car?” “Well, sure.” This time Alex’s face clouded a bit. “And did a real person design the newer car too?” “Sure, but—” “And would there be a chance the designer might have used some of the same ideas, or maybe some of the same drawings, for both cars?” Alex frowned and sighed this time. “That’s not the point.” Wasn’t it? Izzy tried not to rub it in, just let her cousin stew on it. Yeah, so if the cars looked like they were related, that could mean the same person thought them up. Couldn’t it? Just like in creation. Only in creation it would be the same God who used the same kind of plans for the things—and the people—he made. Good example, Alex, she thought, and she tried to keep from smiling as they drove away from the fairgrounds. “Thanks for taking us to the derby,” she told her uncle John. “Maybe we should do it again next year.

Shaun McManus: By the time we played the demolition derby we weren’t travelling that well, but they weren’t either. The Eagles had champions who had won premierships in 1992 and 1994 but I felt that by 2000 they had some pretenders out there who were basking in the glory of things they hadn’t done - things that had been done by people who had gone before them.

I found that he was a lot more fun to talk about than he'd ever been to live with; I discovered a lot of women had Vincents of their own. But every once in a while, without my permission and against my will, this man shows up in my dreams, wearing his Poocher shirt, driving his purple demolition derby car, my name glinting gold in the sun. He says he has something to say to me. He wants to know who do you think I am. He wants to know did I really love him or did I just hate myself. He wants to remind me of the girl I used to be.

Demolition derby Duck tape works wonders

Don't forget to check your rearview mirror," Gretchen said, peering over her shoulder as I backed out of the parking spot at the mall. "Gretchen," I said, trying to keep my composure, "I've been driving for a couple of years. You know that, right?" "I know, but this is city driving. It's different." "Yes. Very different. At home, we just back up without looking," I said. "We smash into other people's cars and that's how we figure out when to stop. Every parking lot is a demolition derby, basically.

My grandparents got creative to make space for three kids in their two-bedroom home. They took one of the bedrooms, my mom and aunt shared the other, and my uncle Bobby slept on the screened-in porch. Every single one of your neighbors would call Child Protective Services if you put a child on the porch these days, but this was the seventies, which was basically a lawless decade where children were concerned. Lawn Darts -- a game where one child would stand in a Hula-Hoop placed on the ground and another child would aim for the hoop by launching oversize, spiky metal darts at them -- hit its peak in this year for a reason: if your child was fed and moderately clothed, people turned a blind eye to your second-degree murder-adjacent shenanigans.

When lunchtime comes, as always, I run to Library 1.2. I run my fingers along the edges of the books and follow the path to the romance section, looking for the seventeenth book in the ninth row of the third shelf. This is my routine and I adore every moment of it. One of the pages of the book is different from the rest; it was glued in to replace the original page, which had been torn out. On the patched page, I find my favorite passage from the story. I sit on the floor and read. “How’s the patient?” he asked Derby. “Dead to the world.” “But not actually dead.” “No.” “How nice—to feel nothing, and still get full credit for being alive.” I close the book and think of my best friend. How I wish he were here to see everything we achieved together. So he could see how our mission changed the lives of hundreds of thousands of people. I wanted to see the look of joy in his eyes as we admired together the demolition of the Wall. Of all the wishes, I wanted to talk to him about rhymes and metrics, sonnets and quatrains, about all the things I’ve been learning at school. Sometimes, the longing hits so hard that I feel as if part of me died with him. As if part of my soul went with Mário, because I’ve never felt complete, whole, again. I feel broken, old scrap. I know Mário wanted to bring change to Redentor, but there are times when I feel it wasn’t worth it. I know it’s selfish, but I would trade all this sea of smiles on strangers’ faces to have a life by my friend’s side. I know he sacrificed himself for the good of all, but I allow myself to be a little selfish. Just a little. Two of the few things I asked for after my participation in the revolution were Firstborn's box and Mário’s chip. At first, many came to me, trying to convince me to engage in political struggle, to be a poster boy, but my mother didn’t allow it. He’s going to school, she said. His mission is over. Now, he’s going to be a child. I like that my mother protects me from the adult world. And all I want is to be a normal boy and live my days peacefully. I no longer want to be involved in shootouts, explosions, and revolutions, of that I’m sure. But she’s wrong about one thing: my mission is not over yet. It all began with Mário by my side, and it will only end with him by my side again. Every night, before sleeping, I fiddle and tinker with the insides of that computer, just waiting to see that red light turn on and the sides of the lenses spin in processing. So far, all I’ve gotten are some light shocks. Even old Jeremias has already said the chip is completely broken, beyond repair. I refuse to give up. – Today’s the day – I say to myself as I unscrew the computer. I replace the old wiring with new ones, clean the processor and run the chip through an advanced recovery system. I work for two hours hunched over the table. I plug the machine in and press the button. Nothing. Zero. Absolutely nothing. I sigh. I don’t let discouragement or despair take hold of me. Tomorrow, I will continue. And if tomorrow the red light doesn’t turn on, I’ll try the day after tomorrow. And after that, and after that, and after that. I will work until there’s no more tomorrow. “Everything works out in the end. If it’s not right, it’s because it’s not the end yet.” It was a robot who liked poetry who taught me: That's how life works.

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How the hell are we supposed to save up for a house if you’re going to spend all our money?” Jason said. “Art school is stupid. You spend thousands of dollars to learn a skill that makes you no money back. It’s a bad investment.” “Stupid?” Rose echoed, her voice rising. Jason had always been against her going to art school but he’d never used such strong words before. “Art is a hobby, Rose. A hobby. Only idiots pay that kind of money for their hobbies.” Was he for real? She remembered the days back in high school when Jason drove in the demolition derby. How much money had he blown on that particular hobby? “I’m a good artist. I can make money…” “No, you can’t.” Jason’s temper flared, too.