Dirty Harry Quotes

But there's a juicy artery in your groin," he said after a pause to regroup, his voice as slithery as a snake on a slide. "Don't you talk dirty," I told him. "I won't listen to that.

Do ya' feel lucky, punk?

THIRTY–ZERO! TAKE THAT, YOU DIRTY, CHEATING —” “Jordan, if you can’t commentate in an unbiased way — !” “I’m telling it like it is, Professor!

There was a horrible smell in the kitchen the next morning when Harry went in for breakfast. It seemed to be coming from a large metal tub in the sink. He went to have a look. The tub was full of what looked like dirty rags swimming in gray water. "What's this?" he asked Aunt Petunia. "Your new school uniform," she said. Harry looked in the bowl again. "Oh," he said, "I didn't realize it had to be so wet.

He was in uniform, gun at his hip, expression dialed to Dirty Harry, and just looking at him had something pinging low in Chloe’s belly.

Hey, it’s a party already,” Trez called out as he and iAm arrived. “Oh, nice tux. Isn’t that Tom Ford?” “Or was it Dick Chrysler,” Rhage interjected. “Harry GM—wait, that sounds dirty….

People even said I was a racist because I shot black bank robbers at the beginning of Dirty Harry. So, first I’m labeled right-wing. Then I’m a racist. Now it’s macho or male chauvinism. It’s a whole number nowadays to make people feel guilty on different levels. It doesn’t bother me because I know where the fuck I am on the planet and I don’t give a shit.

I... drew out the gun I kept at home, a great big old Dirty Harry Callahan number that weighed about seventy-five thousand pounds.

There aren't many clean places left in this dirty world of ours.

One thing they don’t tell you ’bout the blues when you got ’em, you keep on fallin’ ’cause there ain't no bottom,' sings Emmylou Harris, and she may be right. Perhaps it would help to be told that there is no bottom, save, as they say, wherever and whenever you stop digging. You have to stand there, spade in hand, cold whiskey sweat beaded on your brow, eyes misshapen and wild, some sorry-ass grave digger grown bone-tired of the trade. You have to stand there in the dirty rut you dug, alone in the darkness, in all its pulsing quiet, surrounded by the scandal of corpses.

I've got to hand it to her," Harlow says, reaching for an onion ring. "Wonder Woman just keeps proving she's got it." "I'm completely confused," Mia says. "That's because Ansel's over there trying to suck your soul out through your mouth like some sort of Dementor," Harlow says, and then whispers in my direction, "It's a Harry Potter reference, Sunshine. Keep up.

One of the things I learned firsthand as a child, growing up in Zacatecas, Mexico was... that when you fight with a pig, you both get dirty, but the pig likes it.

I pitched my voice for Dirty Harry, but it was more Lisping Baggins.

A man has to know his limitations.

Go ahead, make my day - Dirty Harry

He felt dirty, contaminated, as though he were carrying some deadly germ, unworthy to sit on the underground train back from the hospital with innocent, clean people whose minds and bodies were free of the taint of Voldemort. . 

The cigar made its traverse from one side of Harry King to the other. He was known to dote on his daughters, who he felt had rather suffered from having a father who needed to take two baths just to get dirty.

And the ground and the dirty buildings on either side fell away, dropping out of sight as the car rose; in seconds, the whole of London lay, smoky and glittering, below them.

I felt like Dirty Harry, only, my weapon wasn’t as big as his! I don’t know what it is with guns, but once you’ve got your hand on one, you think you’re one of the untouchables.

Never challenge Life to a game, my mother used to say to me. Because Life plays dirty, changes the rules, steals the cards right out of your hands or, sometimes, turns them all to blank―

It was friendly. Mostly." I guzzled the coffee like it was a drug. "Tounge?" "Have you ever had a friendly tounge kiss?" "Yes, as a matter of fact, but that's my story. I want to hear yours.

We don't think of ourselves as "prayer warriors." A man must've come up with that term - men think anything difficult is war. But prayer is more delicate than battle, especially intercessory prayer. More than just a notion, taking up the burdens of someone else, often someone you don't even know. You close your eyes and listen to a request. Then you have to slip inside their body. You are Tracy Robinson, burning for whiskey. You are Cindy Harris's husband, searching your wife's phone. You are Earl Vernon, washing dirty knots out of your strung-out daughter's hair. If you don't become them, even for a second, a prayer is nothing but words.

Bodies” by Drowning Pool “Breath of Life” by Florence & The Machine “Bullet With a Name” by Nonpoint “Corrupt” by Depeche Mode “Deathbeds” by Bring Me the Horizon “The Devil In I” by Slipknot “Devil’s Night” by Motionless in White “Dirty Diana” by Shaman’s Harvest “Feed the Fire” by Combichrist “Fire Breather” by Laurel “Getting Away with Murder” by Papa Roach “Goodbye Agony” by Black Veil Brides “Inside Yourself” by Godsmack “Jekyll and Hyde” by Five Finger Death Punch “Let the Sparks Fly” by Thousand Foot Krutch “Love the Way You Hate Me” by Like a Storm “Monster” by Skillet “Pray to God (feat. HAIM)” by Calvin Harris “Silence” by Delirium

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.

Are you feeling lucky today?

If you don’t air your dirty laundry you’ll eventually have to burn your closet.

isn’t it true that when some couple celebrates their tenth or fifteenth anniversary they seem far from triumphant? In fact they seem duped while dirty Uncle Harry, the rake, seems to wear the laurels.

The girl beside the window looked up. She had straggly, waist-length, dirty blonde hair, very pale eyebrows and protuberant eyes that gave her a permanently surprised look. Harry knew at once why Neville had chosen to pass this compartment by. The girl gave off an aura of distinct dottiness. Perhaps it was the fact that she had stuck her wand behind her left ear for safekeeping, or that she had chosen to wear a necklace of Butterbeer corks, or that she was reading a magazine upside-down. Her eyes ranged over Neville and came to rest on Harry. She nodded. ‘Thanks,’ said Ginny, smiling at her. Harry and Neville stowed the three trunks and Hedwig’s cage in the luggage rack and sat down. Luna watched them over her upside-down magazine, which was called The Quibbler. She did not seem to need to blink as much as normal humans. She stared and stared at Harry, who had taken the seat opposite her and now wished he hadn’t. ‘Had a good summer, Luna?’ Ginny asked. ‘Yes,’ said Luna dreamily, without taking her eyes off Harry. ‘Yes, it was quite enjoyable, you know. You’re Harry Potter,’ she added. ‘I know I am,’ said Harry. Neville chuckled. Luna turned her pale eyes on him instead. ‘And I don’t know who you are.’ ‘I’m nobody,’ said Neville hurriedly. ‘No you’re not,’ said Ginny sharply. ‘Neville Longbottom – Luna Lovegood. Luna’s in my year, but in Ravenclaw.’ ‘Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure,’ said Luna in a singsong voice. She raised her upside-down magazine high enough to hide her face and fell silent. Harry and Neville looked at each other with their eyebrows raised. Ginny suppressed a giggle.

Find Mundungus Fletcher?” he croaked. “And bring him here, to Grimmauld Place,” said Harry. “Do you think you could do that for us?” As Kreacher nodded and got to his feet, Harry had a sudden inspiration. He pulled out Hagrid’s purse and took out the fake Horcrux, the substitute locket in which Regulus had placed the note to Voldemort. “Kreacher, I’d, er, like you to have this,” he said, pressing the locket into the elf’s hand. “This belonged to Regulus and I’m sure he’d want you to have it as a token of gratitude for what you--” “Overkill, mate,” said Ron as the elf took one look at the locket, let out a howl of shock and misery, and threw himself back onto the ground. It took them nearly half an hour to calm down Kreacher, who was so overcome to be presented with a Black family heirloom for his very own that he was too weak at the knees to stand properly. When finally he was able to totter a few steps they all accompanied him to his cupboard, watched him tuck up the locket safely in his dirty blankets, and assured him that they would make its protection their first priority while he was away. He then made two low bows to Harry and Ron, and even gave a funny little spasm in Hermione’s direction that might have been an attempt at a respectful salute, before Disapparating with the usual loud crack.

Møller hesitated in front of the DON’T WALK ON THE GRASS sign. ‘It’s the shortest route, boss.’ ‘Yes,’ Møller said. ‘But my shoes will get dirty.’ ‘As you wish,’ Harry said, walking up the track. ‘Mine are filthy already.

I knew you were looking down my shirt,” she said, her voice sounding all prim and scandalized. God, it turned him on. Because she looked tough and dirty, not at all innocent. The voice of a virgin and the body of a sinner.

Everyone had what they called a coffee bar name. Instead of Nooput, the girl is Natalie. Instead of Tarick, the boy is Ricky. And Hardik wants to be called Harry because he says Americans think his name means he is in the dirty movies.

He's gone," Sara said. "I can feel it. This time for good." Natalie hugged her, and she started to sob. Then Harry shattered the silence with a pained yell, hurling his thermos into the woods. With tears in his eyes, he said, "I want a drink." I hugged him fiercely. "It'll have to be one of my special chais, Harry. Have I made you a dirty one yet?" "I want mine filthy," he said. We trudged back to the museum together, and toasted Coby with dirty vanilla chai lattes.

Alecto, Amycus’s sister, teaches Muggle Studies, which is compulsory for everyone. We’ve all got to listen to her explain how Muggles are like animals, stupid and dirty, and how they drove wizards into hiding by being vicious toward them, and how the natural order is being reestablished. I got this one,” he indicated another slash to his face, “for asking her how much Muggle blood she and her brother have got.” “Blimey, Neville,” said Ron, “there’s a time and a place for getting a smart mouth.

Harry had not expected Hermione’s anger to abate overnight, and was therefore unsurprised that she communicated mainly by dirty looks and pointed silences the next morning. Ron responded by maintaining an unnaturally somber demeanor in her presence as an outward sign of continuing remorse. In fact, when all three of them were together Harry felt like the only non-mourner at a poorly attended funeral. During those few moments he spent alone with Harry, however (collecting water and searching the undergrowth for mushrooms), Ron became shamelessly cheery.

In high school, we barely brushed against Ogden Nash, Lewis Carroll, Edward Lear, or any of the other so-unserious writers who delight everyone they touch. This was, after all, a very expensive and important school. Instead, I was force-fed a few of Shakespeare's Greatest Hits, although the English needed translation, the broad comedy and wrenching drama were lost, and none of the magnificently dirty jokes were ever explained. (Incidentally, Romeo and Juliet, fully appreciated, might be banned in some U.S. states.) This was the Concordance again, and little more. So we'd read all the lines aloud, resign ourselves to a ponderous struggle, and soon give up the plot completely.

We’re supposed to practice the Cruciatus Curse on people who’ve earned detentions--” “What?” Harry, Ron, and Hermione’s untied voices echoed up and down the passage. “Yeah,” said Neville. “That’s how I got this one,” he pointed at a particularly deep dash in his cheek, “I refused to do it. Some people are into it, though; Crabbe and Goyle love it. First time they’ve ever been top in anything, I expect. “Alecto, Amycus’s sister, teaches Muggle Studies, which is compulsory for everyone. We’ve all got to listen to her explain how Muggles are like animals, stupid and dirty, and how they drove wizards into hiding by being vicious toward them, and how the natural order is being reestablished. I got this one,” he indicated another slash to his face, “for asking her how much Muggle blood she and her brother have got.” “Blimey, Neville,” said Ron, “there’s a time and a place for getting a smart mouth.” “You didn’t hear her,” said Neville. “You wouldn’t have stood it either. The thing is, it helps when people stand up to them, it gives everyone hope. I used to notice that when you did it, Harry.” “But they’ve used you as a knife sharpener,” said Ron, wincing slightly as they passed a lamp and Neville’s injuries were thrown into even greater relief. Neville shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. They don’t want to spill too much pure blood, so they’ll torture us a bit if we’re mouthy but they won’t actually kill us.” Harry did not know what was worse, the things that Neville was saying or the matter-of-fact tone in which he said them.

I think it would be easy to kill you now. I think that, despite everything, I am smiling. Smiling at your act. At your charm. At your easy manner and little dirty jokes. Smiling because for ten years we smiled and worked together, and for only a few days did you attempt to destroy my life. Smiling because that’s the habit that has been set into my features in your presence, though I loathe you beyond all comprehension. Smiling because, despite the lies, despite knowing all I do about you, I like you, Vincent Rankis. I still like you.

The next morning, I went over to pick them up. I’d spent the night thinking of more things I should tell them--everything about Chris I thought they needed to know. It was all too much. “I don’t know how to tell you everything,” I confessed to Bradley as he got into the car. I started to cry. “There’s so many things and we have such a short amount of time.” “Just being here is all we need,” he said. “I’m not an impersonator. I’m just here to feel Chris’s life--I feel him here with me right now.” Bradley put me at ease and I calmed down. Back at the house, he and Clint became almost like family. Little bits of their personality came out as well--and I saw a glimmer of Clint’s famous Dirty Harry character later on in the day when I had to leave to go to Bubba’s basketball game. They’d talked about coming with me--which frankly would have created an impossible circus. But I did give them the option. As they stood trying to make up their minds, I snapped into anxious mom mode. “All right,” I told them both. “You’re welcome to come. But if you’re coming, we’re leaving now.” I guess my tone was a little too strident. “So you want to get tough with me, huh, lady?” said Clint in his best Dirty Harry voice as he raised his eyebrow. It’s amazing how threatening a simple facial tic can be. I left them home to study some of Chris’s replica guns and gear. Our own already had its ample share of lawmen.

Now, as they pressured perfect footprints into the snow that had been accumulating all day, his father took Harry's hand. "Heshele, how are you?" "OK, I guess." "Are you very sad?" "I don't know. I know I should be. But what does it mean to be sad?" His father stopped. He cupped his free hand to let the snow gather. It quickly turned from an inviting white coating to black-specked gray water. "Sadness is in my hand. In a second, a thing of beauty becomes dirty water; innocence leaves a child's eyes; he who strived for immortality lies forgotten under weeds. Sad is missing the love that death has sealed in the ground or that life has denied life to." "Then I'm sad. When you took my hand, I remembered how he took my hand when we went to the pier to fish. And I thought: That will never happen again. And then I thought: Up until now I never understood the word never, and there was a lump in my throat.

He’s having a laugh. We can’t let him have that sword.” “Is it true?” Harry asked Hermione. “Was the sword stolen by Gryffindor?” “I don’t know,” she said hopelessly. “Wizarding history often skates over what the wizards have done to other magical races, but there’s no account that I know of that days Gryffindor stole the sword.” “It’ll be one of those goblin stories,” said Ron, “about how the wizards are always trying to get one over on them. I suppose we should think ourselves lucky he hasn’t asked for one of our wands.” “Goblins have got good reason to dislike wizards, Ron,” said Hermione. “They’ve been treated brutally in the past.” “Goblins aren’t exactly fluffy little bunnies, though, are they?” said Ron. “They’ve killed plenty of us. They’ve fought dirty too.” “But arguing with Griphook about whose race is most underhanded and violent isn’t going to make him more likely to help us, is it?” There was a pause while they tried to think of a way around the problem. Harry looked out of the window at Dobby’s grave. Luna was arranging sea lavender in a jam jar beside the headstone. “Okay,” said Ron, and Harry turned back to face him, “how’s this? We well Griphook we need the sword until we get inside the vault, and then he can have it. There’s a fake in there, isn’t there? We switch them, and give him the fake.” “Ron, he’d know the difference better than we would!” said Hermione. “He’s the only one who realized there had been a swap!” “Yeah, but we could scarper before he realizes--” He quailed beneath the look Hermione was giving him. “That,” she said quietly, “is despicable. Ask for his help, then double-cross him? And you wonder why goblins don’t like wizards, Ron?” Ron’s ears had turned red. “All right, all right! It was the only thing I could think of! What’s your solution, then?” “We need to offer him something else, something just as valuable.” “Brilliant. I’ll go and get one of our other ancient goblin-made swords and you can gift wrap it.

I was certainly not the best mother. That goes without saying. I didn’t set out to be a bad mother, however. It just happened. As it was, being a bad mother was child’s play compared to being a good mother, which was an incessant struggle, a lose-lose situation 24 hours a day; long after the kids were in bed the torment of what I did or didn’t do during those hours we were trapped together would scourge my soul. Why did I allow Grace to make Mia cry? Why did I snap at Mia to stop just to silence the noise? Why did I sneak to a quiet place, whenever I could? Why did I rush the days—will them to hurry by—so I could be alone? Other mothers took their children to museums, the gardens, the beach. I kept mine indoors, as much as I could, so we wouldn’t cause a scene. I lie awake at night wondering: what if I never have a chance to make it up to Mia? What if I’m never able to show her the kind of mother I always longed to be? The kind who played endless hours of hide-and-seek, who gossiped side by side on their daughters’ beds about which boys in the junior high were cute. I always envisioned a friendship between my daughters and me. I imagined shopping together and sharing secrets, rather than the formal, obligatory relationship that now exists between myself and Grace and Mia. I list in my head all the things that I would tell Mia if I could. That I chose the name Mia for my great-grandmother, Amelia, vetoing James’s alternative: Abigail. That the Christmas she turned four, James stayed up until 3:00 a.m. assembling the dollhouse of her dreams. That even though her memories of her father are filled with nothing but malaise, there were split seconds of goodness: James teaching her how to swim, James helping her prepare for a fourth-grade spelling test. That I mourn each and every time I turned down an extra book before bed, desperate now for just five more minutes of laughing at Harry the Dirty Dog. That I go to the bookstore and purchase a copy after unsuccessfully ransacking the basement for the one that used to be hers. That I sit on the floor of her old bedroom and read it again and again and again. That I love her. That I’m sorry. Colin

The anger faded from Hagrid’s face. He looked suddenly anxious. “I never expected this,” he said, in a low, worried voice. “I had no idea, when Dumbledore told me there might be trouble gettin’ hold of yeh, how much yeh didn’t know. Ah, Harry, I don’ know if I’m the right person ter tell yeh — but someone’s gotta — yeh can’t go off ter Hogwarts not knowin’.” He threw a dirty look at the Dursleys. “Well, it’s best yeh know as much as I can tell yeh — mind, I can’t tell yeh everythin’, it’s a great myst’ry, parts of it. . . .” He sat down, stared into the fire for a few seconds, and then said, “It begins, I suppose, with — with a person called — but it’s incredible yeh don’t know his name, everyone in our world knows —” “Who?” “Well — I don’ like sayin’ the name if I can help it. No one does.” “Why not?” “Gulpin’ gargoyles, Harry, people are still scared. Blimey, this is difficult. See, there was this wizard who went . . . bad. As bad as you could go. Worse. Worse than worse. His name was . . .” Hagrid gulped, but no words came out. “Could you write it down?

I hate the goddamn system, but until someone comes along with some changes that make sense, I’ll stick with it. —Clint Eastwood as “Dirty Harry,” Magnum Force, 1973

A man’s got to know his limitations.

here’s a quick down-and-dirty rule to help you figure it out: a priority is something you need to do to avoid getting in trouble for not doing it.

We don’t think of ourselves as “prayer warriors.” A man must’ve come up with that term—men think anything difficult is war. But prayer is more delicate than battle, especially intercessory prayer. More than just a notion, taking up the burdens of someone else, often someone you don’t even know. You close your eyes and listen to a request. Then you have to slip inside their body. You are Tracy Robinson, burning for whiskey. You are Cindy Harris’s husband, searching your wife’s phone. You are Earl Vernon, washing dirty knots out of your strung-out daughter’s hair. If you don’t become them, even for a second, a prayer is nothing but words.

What a skunk I am,” Harry said to himself “What a dirty skunk, to kill a thing she loved so much.” He dropped his head and looked at the floor. “I’m lonely,” he said. “Oh, Lord, I’m so lonely!

Go ahead. Make my day.

Every year, this aged old hat, patched, frayed and dirty, sorted new students into the four Hogwarts houses (Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin).

Forced rape and abuse of child porn, is given to Queen.

Five months before its release, a close friend of Prince Harry had warned me that the institution—and the media allies that support it—might “play dirty” against those who attempt to expose the truth. They weren’t wrong.

He’d lugged his fair share of those exact same bags in MI, though they’d all been khaki or olive drab. But he knew the type. It was a portable weapons locker. Sure enough, when she removed a small but sturdy lock from the zippers and hauled down on them, then flung the bag open, he could see a veritable armory inside. There were handguns and submachine guns and shotguns and some sort of sniper rifle, very high-tech-looking with a folding stock and a sleek body. But there were other weapons in there as well, knives and swords and axes and clubs and even an honest-to-God crossbow. It was like Dirty Harry meets King Arthur, and all in a seedy motel room!

He watched Clint Eastwood for a while. He had never much enjoyed cop films or cop programs on television, but watching right here and now, he could identify with Dirty Harry tracking down the villains and dealing with them his own way. He had meant what he said to Blackstone. A few minutes alone with Pamela Jeffreys’s attackers and they would know what police brutality was all about.

Staying motivated when circumstances get difficult or when progress toward the goal is slow, mundane or tedious, you can find yourself grinding to a halt.   Sometimes working toward a goal isn’t glamorous. It’s dirty, it’s sweaty, and it causes you to stay up until all hours of the night, hammering away at a project until it’s done.   If you find yourself bogged down with discouragement, depression or even just plain boredom, consider taking the focus off your task for a moment.

Laws are not drawn up near dumpsters with dirty needles and rats, but in mahogany trimmed board rooms where the marble gleams with the light of noble intentions. Rarely do these coincide with the gun toting men who are charged with the task of enforcing them. They are the offensive linemen of society. Nobody buys their jersey. People just yell at them when they are offsides. But without him everything will collapse! When I was an offensive guard I did whatever I could to block the other guy. So I can empathize with Inspector Harry Callahan and his methods. I love it when Callahan is still chewing his hot dog as he blows away punks who think they can steal from a bank during the middle of the day in San Francisco. Dirty Harry you had me at 'do you feel lucky?' Real cops couldn't catch the Zodiac killer, but Harry blew that scumbag into a pond, then followed up by throwing his badge into the same pond, because he too knows that the rules of 'decent' society are a myth that pretty people in big houses talk about over tea.

You could immediately see the difference between the street addicts stumbling into the clinic for help for the first time, and the patients who had been on legal prescriptions for a while. The street addicts would often stagger in with abscesses that looked like hard-boiled eggs rotting under their skin, and with open wounds on their hands and legs that looked, as Parry recalls, “like a pizza of infection. It’s mushy, and the cheese you get on it is pus. And it just gets bigger and bigger.” A combination of contaminated drugs and dirty needles had given a home to these infections in the addicts’ flesh and they “can go right through the bone and out the other side, so you’ve got a hole going right through you. You have that on both legs and your body’s not strong enough—it’ll cut right through. You had situations where people were walking and their legs snapped.” They often looked like survivors of a war, with amputated limbs and flesh that looked charred and scarred. The addicts on prescriptions, by contrast, looked like the nurses, or the receptionists, or John himself. You couldn’t tell them apart. Harry

We don’t think of ourselves as “prayer warriors.” A man must’ve come up with that term—men think anything difficult is war. But prayer is more delicate than battle, especially intercessory prayer. More than just a notion, taking up the burdens of someone else, often someone you don’t even know. You close your eyes and listen to a request. Then you have to slip inside their body. You are Tracy Robinson, burning for whiskey. You are Cindy Harris’s husband, searching your wife’s phone. You are Earl Vernon, washing dirty knots out of your strung-out daughter’s hair. If you don’t become them, even for a second, a prayer is nothing but words. That’s

Fuck,” Syn growled. He was still thinking of solutions when he heard something scrape against his doorknob. Something metal was tampering with the lock. If he were anywhere else in the apartment he wouldn’t have heard it, but he was right next to the door, so he could hear someone trying to get in. He instinctually moved to stand in front of Furi, pulling his Sig from its holster and unlocking the safety. He felt Furi tensing behind him. He could hear the tool manipulating the lock mechanism. Is this bastard really fuckin’ brave enough to break into my home in broad goddamn daylight? Syn was in awe at the size of this guy’s balls. The closet door was arm's length away. He yanked it open and grabbed the blanket off the top shelf, pulling his loaded twelve-gauge shotgun down just as the door eased open. All Syn could see was the tip of a black boot. Furi griped his shoulder. “Hey. Listen to this!” Syn yelled out. He put the stock of the gun firmly against his shoulder and pulled the pump back in two extremely swift moves. The sound was extremely loud and intimidating in the quiet room, by far the scariest sound an intruder could hear. “Don’t shoot, Dirty Harry.” The irritating chuckle that followed was unmistakable. “Son of a bitch,” Syn grumbled. “Day, have you lost your fuckin’ mind?” His Lieutenants came all the way through the door, Day laughing at the pissed look on Syn's face and Furi leaning on the wall behind him recovering from a panic attack. “Syn. What the hell is going on man? Are you really gonna put a buckshot in someone you think is breakin’ into your little-ass apartment? Because, you do know that that’s excessive force, right?” God asked, looking at him expectantly. “I was just scaring them off. No one comes in after hearing that sound, trust me.” Syn removed the shell and placed the gun back in the closet, covering it with the blanket. He turned to look at Furi. He looked a little pale but he was okay. Syn spun back around, “Day. Knock on my damn door like a normal visitor and wait for me to say come in!” Day pfftd, plopping down on the couch. “You don’t invite the wind. The wind just–” “Stop saying that stupid wind bullshit. Because if your door is shut and you weather guard that bitch then the wind stays the fuck out until ... You. Open. The. Door.” Syn’s dark eyes bored into Day’s hazel ones. God’s laugh was raspy, while Day looked bewildered. “But we’re family.” “Oh for fuck’s sake,” Syn grumbled, he had to get going; he had no time to explain to Day about how to behave in civilized society. He turned serious eyes back on Furi. “I gotta go, but I really think–” Furi pulled Syn to him before he could finish the sentence, kissed him hard on the mouth before turning, heading to the bedroom. “Just concentrate on your job and don’t take any officers away from their assignments to follow me. There could be someone out there who really needs their help.” Syn didn’t get to say anything else because Furi had closed the bedroom door. End of discussion.

THE ACCIDENT   maybe you read it in the paper i was so young just a child i did something stupid   nightstand by the bed found it in the drawer that was so often locked but not this time   sunlight through curtains high noon reflected on polished steel heavy in my hand   pretending to be a cop like my father but more like dirty harry like i saw on tv   my little brother burst into the room four years old just four years old without thinking i aimed   killer instinct squeeze tug bang   slow motion exploding blood not a sound from him as if what happened was completely natural   i replay it again and again efficient little hum that burning memory   pulled the trigger and watched him fold like a house of cards and the questions hammer through my brain and i ask you again   "how much more do i have to pay before becoming whole again?

Sometimes an expression of gratitude can make all the difference in the world to people who desperately need to know that they count, that we value them. That their actions, however small, are appreciated … a harried waitress, the overworked clerk trying to whittle down a long waiting line, a lonely parking lot attendant, the day-care worker up to her elbows in dirty diapers.

In the movies, they always make sure the hero kills only in self-defense, typically in the instant before the bad guy gets the drop on him. Even in that film Miyamoto had mentioned, Dirty Harry, Clint Eastwood blows away a guy who had kidnapped, tortured, and killed a teenage girl only when the guy goes for a gun. To me, that’s all bullshit. More than anything else, killing is about survival. About doing everything you can to deceive, and cheat, and stack the odds in your own favor. You don’t wait for the other guy to go for his gun; you shoot him before he has a chance. If he has his back to you, that’s even better. If you can call in an air strike, that’s better still. You don’t just do everything you possibly can to prevent a fight from being fair—preventing the fight from being fair is the entire point. Do you want the enemy to have as good a chance of killing you as you have of killing him? Or do you want to make sure he gets no chance at all? As far as I’m concerned, the people who think a fair fight is desirable can go ahead and die in one.

A man's gotta know his limitations

Keep your soul clean. Don't allow anyone to look into your eyes and see a dirty room.

A thought passes across the driver's face. Ruiz has always referred to it as the Dirty Harry moment-that fleeting instant when a person wonders: Am I fast enough or lucky enough?

Kate, too, is beginning to paint a picture of herself, not with too many words at the moment, but in her actions. With her charity affiliations she has sought out vulnerable children and wretched addicts, and is encouraging others to take inspiration from the natural world, sports and the arts. She loves theatre, opera and fine art, but she is also a fan of the Harry Potter franchise, went to see Bridesmaids at the cinema, and by all accounts is a demon on the dance floor. She is a lady but she doesn't mind a bit of rough and tumble - always looking immaculate, painting watercolours and making jam, but she is also an outdoorsy country girl who doesn't mind getting her hair wet or her feet dirty while camping or hiking. For her wedding day, she told her hairdresser that she wanted to look like "herself" and when sitting for her portrait she requested that she look like her "natural self, not her formal self". She is proud of and dedicated to her royal position, but she doesn't allow it to totally define her - she wants to remain true to herself, and remain her own person as well, and that is what will emerge more and more over time.

We’re not looking for someone walking around right now. We’re looking for whatever is left.

It was about here,” said Ron, recovering himself to walk a few paces past Filch’s chair and pointing. “Level with this door.” He reached for the brass doorknob but suddenly withdrew his hand as though he’d been burned. “What’s the matter?” said Harry. “Can’t go in there,” said Ron gruffly. “That’s a girls’ toilet.” “Oh, Ron, there won’t be anyone in there,” said Hermione, standing up and coming over. “That’s Moaning Myrtle’s place. Come on, let’s have a look.” And ignoring the large OUT OF ORDER sign, she opened the door. It was the gloomiest, most depressing bathroom Harry had ever set foot in. Under a large, cracked, and spotted mirror were a row of chipped sinks. The floor was damp and reflected the dull light given off by the stubs of a few candles, burning low in their holders; the wooden doors to the stalls were flaking and scratched and one of them was dangling off its hinges. Hermione put her fingers to her lips and set off toward the end stall. When she reached it she said, “Hello, Myrtle, how are you?” Harry and Ron went to look. Moaning Myrtle was floating above the tank of the toilet, picking a spot on her chin. “This is a girls’ bathroom,” she said, eyeing Ron and Harry suspiciously. “They’re not girls.” “No,” Hermione agreed. “I just wanted to show them how — er — nice it is in here.” She waved vaguely at the dirty old mirror and the damp floor. “Ask her if she saw anything,” Harry mouthed at Hermione. “What are you whispering?” said

The Hog’s Head bar comprised one small, dingy, and very dirty room that smelled strongly of something that might have been goats.

That dirty old goat is trying to get me killed. The assignment is so top secret I can't tell a soul about it, particularly you, so here are all the papers, read them for yourself.

Can I call you Daddy?” I tease. Tristan’s eyes flick over to me and then drop down to my breasts. Dirty bastard. “He’s not your daddy, Mom,” Patrick announces. “He’s ours, you already have a dad.” Tristan chuckles and picks up my hand and kisses my fingertips. “Oh for god’s sake, concentrate on the road,” Harry moans.

School is not a place where students come to listen to lectures, fill in worksheets, and endure boredom. Nor is it a place reserved for those who can tolerate the drab and dirty look of many schools. School is a concept wherein students are welcome to learn and enhance the quality of their lives without fear of intimidation or harm, guided by hospitable and caring people in a clean and orderly environment.

But prayer is more delicate than battle, especially intercessory prayer. More than just a notion, taking up the burdens of someone else, often someone you don’t even know. You close your eyes and listen to a request. Then you have to slip inside their body. You are Tracy Robinson, burning for whiskey. You are Cindy Harris’s husband, searching your wife’s phone. You are Earl Vernon, washing dirty knots out of your strung-out daughter’s hair.

The Hog’s Head bar comprised one small, dingy and very dirty room that smelled strongly of something that might have been goats.

I am a boy mom, but I am raising two very different boys. So what does #lifewithboys mean in my house? Mud. Blood. ER visits and black eyes. “He threw a rock at me!” but also, “Let’s play a math game on the computer!” Holes in the knees of brand-new pants. Dirty cleats and stinky jock-straps. Marathon games of Monopoly, chess, and Sudoku. Reading Harry Potter five times. Yelling “No throwing baseballs in the house!” Science camp by day and soccer practice by night. Messy hair and dirty fingernails. Overdue library books. Tears. Fears. And love. We may have holes in the walls and holes in our pants, but I wouldn’t trade this life. It’s exhaustingly beautiful and never boring. Someday, my youngest child may have a boy just like him, and when he throws a baseball through the living room window, I’ll tell my son that it’s okay. He’s just a little boy.

But prayer is more delicate than battle, especially intercessory prayer. More than just a notion, taking up the burdens of someone else, often someone you don’t even know. You close your eyes and listen to a request. Then you have to slip inside their body. You are Tracy Robinson, burning for whiskey. You are Cindy Harris’s husband, searching your wife’s phone. You are Earl Vernon, washing dirty knots out of your strung-out daughter’s hair. If you don’t become them, even for a second, a prayer is nothing but words.

He felt dirty, contaminated, as though he were carrying some deadly germ, unworthy to sit on the underground train back from the hospital with innocent, clean people whose minds and bodies were free of the taint of Voldemort. . . . He had not merely seen the snake, he had been the snake, he knew it now. . .

The Travelling People, the final radio ballad, broadcast in 1964, was the most ambitious of all, grappling with the vilified nomadic population of Britain. The programme did not flinch from including the negative sentiments of the ‘not in my backyard’ brigade: one gentleman is heard to call them ‘misfits … the maggots of society’. The soundworld is particularly rich and evocative of difference: the travellers’ words are surrounded by the outdoor ambience in which they dwell – birdsong, horses’ hooves, the rush of road traffic. The voices of ‘respectable’ society speak in the dead air of cushioned interiors. Parker’s editing skills reach a new level of finesse, so a succession of phrases like ‘They call us the wild ones/ The pilgrims of the mist/ Romanies, Gypsies, diddikais, mumpers, travellers/ Nomads of the road/Blackfaced diddies/ … In Carlisle, they call you porters, dirty porters this, dirty porters that …’ whizz past in a kaleidoscope of lexicographic plurality and regional accents. Its conclusion – comparing Britain’s treatment of its nomads to the Nazi pogroms – is shocking, but is borne out by the words of Labour councillor Harry Watton, who is heard to say, ‘One must exterminate the impossibles.’ It is a bitter, troubling conclusion to the radio ballads.

Harry prese la lettera. Era indirizzata a lui. Strappò la busta ed esclamò: «È di Sirius!» «Cosa?» chiesero Ron e Hermione eccitati. «Leggila ad alta voce!» Caro Harry, spero che questa lettera ti venga recapitata prima che tu arrivi dai tuoi zii. Non so se sono abituati alla posta via gufo. Io e Fierobecco siamo in clandestinità. Non ti dirò dove, nel caso che questo messaggio finisca nelle mani sbagliate. Ho qualche dubbio sull’affidabilità del gufo, ma è il migliore che ho trovato, e sembrava impaziente di affrontare la missione. Credo che i Dissennatori mi stiano ancora cercando, ma non hanno alcuna speranza di trovarmi qui dove sono. Sto progettando di farmi vedere al più presto da alcuni Babbani, molto lontano da Hogwarts, di modo che venga tolta la sorveglianza al castello. C’è una cosa che non sono riuscito a dirti nel nostro unico breve incontro. Sono stato io a mandarti la Firebolt... «Ah!» esclamò Hermione trionfante. «Visto? Te l’avevo detto che era lui!» «Sì, ma non l’aveva affatturata, vero?» disse Ron. «Ahia!» Il gufetto, che ora tubava allegramente nella sua mano, gli aveva beccato un dito in quello che a suo parere era un gesto di affetto. Grattastinchi ha portato l’ordine all’Ufficio Gufi per conto mio. Ho usato il tuo nome, ma ho dato disposizione di prelevare il denaro dal sotterraneo numero 711 della Gringott, il mio. Prendila come dono del tuo padrino per tutti i tuoi tredici compleanni. Voglio anche chiederti scusa per lo spavento che temo di averti fatto prendere quella notte dell’anno scorso, quando te ne sei andato dalla casa dei tuoi zii. Speravo solo di poterti vedere per un attimo prima di intraprendere il viaggio verso nord, ma credo di averti fatto paura. Accludo un’altra cosa per te, una cosa che credo renderà più piacevole il tuo prossimo anno a Hogwarts. Se hai bisogno di me, manda un messaggio. Il tuo gufo mi troverà. Ti scriverò presto. Sirius Harry guardò con ansia dentro la busta. C’era un altro foglio di pergamena. Lo lesse in fretta e all’improvviso si sentì caldo e soddisfatto come se avesse inghiottito una bottiglia di Burrobirra bollente in un sol sorso. Io, Sirius Black, padrino e tutore di Harry Potter, con la presente gli concedo il permesso di visitare Hogsmeade nei finesettimana. «A Silente basterà!» disse Harry allegramente. Guardò di nuovo la lettera di Sirius. «Aspettate! C’è un poscritto...» Ho pensato che il tuo amico Ron potrebbe essere felice di tenersi questo gufo, visto che per colpa mia non ha più un topo.

He was a skinny, black-haired, bespectacled boy who had the pinched, slightly unhealthy look of someone who has grown a lot in a short space of time. His jeans were torn and dirty, his T-shirt baggy and faded, and the soles of his trainers were peeling away from the uppers.

My smells of a son are gummy sweeties, Play-Doh, Pritt Stick, poster paint and wax crayons. Earthy mud on polyester football kit. The sweet antiseptic of sticking plasters. Fruity bubble gum and the minty tang of chong- as he and his friends called chewing gum. Bicycle chain oil and rubber inner tubes. The chemical overload of Lynx sprayed profusely over sweat, hair gel and toxic trainers. Fried onions and meat on the breath. Tomato ketchup. My scents for a son are: I am Juicy Couture by Juicy Couture Black by Bvlgari L'Air de Rien by Miller Harris Serge Noire by Serge Lutens Rocker Femme by Britney Spears Dirty by Lush Africa by Lynx

But he needs to know that if anyone disturbs her peace, gets in her way, derails her progress out of the fucking nightmare I've put her in - Fuck. If she so much as feels unsafe. Even a hint. A murmur of unease. I'll rip his world apart. Dismantle it. Dirty deed by dirty deed.

He was a skinny, black-haired, bespectacled boy who had the pinched, slightly unhealthy look of someone who has grown a lot in a short space of time. His jeans were torn and dirty, his T-shirt baggy and faded, and the soles of his trainers were peeling away from the uppers. Harry Potter’s appearance did not endear him to the neighbors, who were the sort of people who thought scruffiness ought to be punishable by law, but as he had hidden himself behind a large hydrangea bush this evening he was quite invisible to passersby. In fact, the only way he would be spotted was if his Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia stuck their heads out of the living room window and looked straight down into the flower bed below.

Dirty four. It’s what some geneticists call the DRD4 gene.

So from here on out, we need to find a way to fight the killer with brains, not brawn. Attack this problem like scientists, not... Dirty Harry.

It’s a specialty item, handcrafted by the Dökkálfar and acid etched with runes of power—think the ill-behaved-Frankenstein-spawn of Dirty Harry’s .44 Magnum Smith & Wesson.

When Harry was awake, the house was littered with the perennially half-finished: a glass of orange juice left on the island for two hours; soda cans moved to the sink but not rinsed out and dumped in the recycling; dirty crockery left on the counter and not scraped, rinsed, washed, and slotted in the dish rack to dry.

The tub was full of what looked like dirty rags swimming in grey water. ‘What’s this?’ he asked Aunt Petunia. Her lips tightened as they always did if he dared to ask a question. ‘Your new school uniform,’ she said. Harry looked in the bowl again. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I didn’t realise it had to be so wet.

Texas Instruments (TI) fell into the irrelevance trap in calculators and watches. By relentlessly building volume, driving down costs, and lowering prices, TI achieved leading market share in both products. Retail prices for watches and calculators plunged below $15, and TI dominated the volume channels, including supermarkets and discount stores. Casio, Sharp, and Seiko—all Japanese companies—followed TI’s lead in pursuing volume by slashing prices and designing costs out of the products and their manufacturing. But, as prices sank, the Japanese companies introduced new products with many more features than TI’s offerings. Prices were so low, consumers were willing to pay a few dollars extra for features such as solar power, more mathematical functions for calculators, and styling features for watches. Before long, TI’s relentless pursuit of higher volumes and lower costs became irrelevant to consumers, and the Japanese companies took over the categories. If you have not examined your costs, in detail, within the past five years—or if you believe your competitors have not—it is very likely that there exists, lurking somewhere in your cost structure, a major opportunity to improve your profits, weaken your competitor, and expand your influence. There are limits to cost-raising strategy. As important as price is to your customers, they care about other things as well, including product features, quality, time, and status. So, even as you pursue this hardball strategy with gusto, remember the mortal words of Dirty Harry: “A man’s got to know his limitations.”2

It’s not funny,’ said Ron, fiercely. ‘If you must know, when I was three, Fred turned my – my teddy bear into a dirty great spider because I broke his toy broomstick. You wouldn’t like them either if you’d been holding your bear and suddenly it had too many legs and

And Harry's friend Ron isn't much better." She looked at another kid with flame-red hair and a homemade sweater so big the cuffs draped onto his food. "His older brothers are always playing dirty tricks on Slipperens. Just yesterday, they put two second years in the hospital wing with oversized goblin noses. It's going to take a week to shrink them and another to remove the warts. And Ron, he hates anyone who has more money than his family, which is everyone here, except maybe Haggard.