Donald Duck Quotes

Sometimes when I watch my dog, I think about how good life can be, if we only lose ourselves in our stories. Lucy doesn't read self-help books about how to be a dog; she just IS a dog. All she wants to do is chase ducks and sticks and do other things that make both her and me happy. It makes me wonder if that was the intention for man, to chase sticks and ducks, to name animals, to create families, and to keep looking back at God to feed off his pleasure at our pleasure.

Want your boat, Georgie?' Pennywise asked. 'I only repeat myself because you really do not seem that eager.' He held it up, smiling. He was wearing a baggy silk suit with great big orange buttons. A bright tie, electric-blue, flopped down his front, and on his hands were big white gloves, like the kind Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck always wore. Yes, sure,' George said, looking into the stormdrain. And a balloon? I’ve got red and green and yellow and blue...' Do they float?' Float?' The clown’s grin widened. 'Oh yes, indeed they do. They float! And there’s cotton candy...' George reached. The clown seized his arm. And George saw the clown’s face change. What he saw then was terrible enough to make his worst imaginings of the thing in the cellar look like sweet dreams; what he saw destroyed his sanity in one clawing stroke. They float,' the thing in the drain crooned in a clotted, chuckling voice. It held George’s arm in its thick and wormy grip, it pulled George toward that terrible darkness where the water rushed and roared and bellowed as it bore its cargo of storm debris toward the sea. George craned his neck away from that final blackness and began to scream into the rain, to scream mindlessly into the white autumn sky which curved above Derry on that day in the fall of 1957. His screams were shrill and piercing, and all up and down Witcham Street people came to their windows or bolted out onto their porches. They float,' it growled, 'they float, Georgie, and when you’re down here with me, you’ll float, too–' George's shoulder socked against the cement of the curb and Dave Gardener, who had stayed home from his job at The Shoeboat that day because of the flood, saw only a small boy in a yellow rain-slicker, a small boy who was screaming and writhing in the gutter with muddy water surfing over his face and making his screams sound bubbly. Everything down here floats,' that chuckling, rotten voice whispered, and suddenly there was a ripping noise and a flaring sheet of agony, and George Denbrough knew no more. Dave Gardener was the first to get there, and although he arrived only forty-five seconds after the first scream, George Denbrough was already dead. Gardener grabbed him by the back of the slicker, pulled him into the street...and began to scream himself as George's body turned over in his hands. The left side of George’s slicker was now bright red. Blood flowed into the stormdrain from the tattered hole where his left arm had been. A knob of bone, horribly bright, peeked through the torn cloth. The boy’s eyes stared up into the white sky, and as Dave staggered away toward the others already running pell-mell down the street, they began to fill with rain.

If Mickey Mouse could fly, he'd be Donald Duck.

Gordie: Alright, alright, Mickey's a mouse, Donald's a duck, Pluto's a dog. What's Goofy? Vern: If I could only have one food for the rest of my life? That's easy-Pez. Cherry-flavored Pez. No question about it. Teddy: Goofy's a dog. He's definitely a dog. Gordie: I knew the $64,000 question was fixed. There's no way anybody could know that much about opera! Chris: He can't be a dog. He drives a car and wears a hat. Gordie: Wagon Train's a really cool show, but did you notice they never get anywhere? They just keep wagon training. Vern: Oh, God. That's weird. What the hell is Goofy?

I mean emotionally, women are like Bruce Lee and we’re like Donald Duck. An’ I think a lotta guys are afraid of that.

At present, he's got the idea that I'm a kind of ... Who was the chap who was such a devil with the other sex? ... Donald something." "Donald Duck?' "Don Juan. That's the fellow I mean

As I see it, a person’s culture represents his appraisal of the things that make up his life. And a fellow becomes cultured, I believe, by selecting that which is fine and beautiful in life and throwing aside that which is mediocre or phony. Sort of a series of free, very personal choices, you might say. If this is true, then I think it follows that ‘freedom’ is the most precious word to culture. Freedom to believe what you choose and read, think and say and be with what you choose. In America, we are guaranteed these freedoms. It is the constitutional privilege of every American to become cultured or to grow up like Donald Duck. I believe that this spiritual and intellectual freedom, which we Americans enjoy, is our greatest cultural blessing. Therefore, it seems to me, that the first duty of culture is to defend freedom and resist all tyranny.

Mold won’t grow on McDonald’s. So, if a lifeform with no brain won’t even eat their food, what’s that say about the intellects of McDonald’s customers? BearPaw Duck And Meme Farm caters to more discerning consumers.

In 1991, Disney forced a group of New Zealand parents in a remote country town to remove their amateur renditions of Pluto and Donald Duck from a playground mural; and Barney has been breaking up children's birthday parties across the U.S., claiming that any parent caught dressed in a purple dinosaur suit is violating its trademark. The Lyons Group, which owns the Barney character, "has sent 1,000 letters to shop owners" renting or selling the offending costumes. "They can have a dinosaur costume. It's when it's a purple dinosaur that it's illegal, and it doesn't matter what shade of purple, either," says Susan Elsner Furman, Lyons' spokesperson.

YO MAMA SO POOR... Yo mama so poor when I saw her kicking a can down the street, I asked her what she was doing, she said "Moving." Yo mama so poor she can't afford to pay attention. Yo mama so poor when I ring the doorbell I hear the toilet flush. Yo mama so poor when she goes to KFC, she has to lick other people's fingers. Yo mama so poor she went to McDonald's and put a milkshake on layaway. Yo mama so poor your family ate cereal with a fork to save milk. Yo mama so poor her face is on the front of a foodstamp. Yo mama so poor she was in K-Mart with a box of garbage bags. I said, "What ya doin'?" She said, "Buying luggage." Yo mama so poor she waves around a popsicle stick and calls it air conditioning. Yo mama so poor she has the ducks throw bread at her.

You duck! You flying yellow duck! And you took this long to tell me?!” When Sarah gets excited, random animals pop into her speech like she has an Old MacDonald Had a Farm kind of Tourette syndrome.

Evangelicals hadn’t betrayed their values. Donald Trump was the culmination of their half-century-long pursuit of a militant Christian masculinity. He was the reincarnation of John Wayne, sitting tall in the saddle, a man who wasn’t afraid to resort to violence to bring order, who protected those deemed worthy of protection, who wouldn’t let political correctness get in the way of saying what had to be said or the norms of democratic society keep him from doing what needed to be done. Unencumbered by traditional Christian virtue, he was a warrior in the tradition (if not the actual physical form) of Mel Gibson’s William Wallace. He was a hero for God-and-country Christians in the line of Barry Goldwater, Ronald Reagan, and Oliver North, one suited for Duck Dynasty Americans and American Christians. He was the latest and greatest high priest of the evangelical cult of masculinity.

My flight was announced by Donald Duck noises from a loudspeaker; I arose and shuffled off towards the statistical improbability of dying in an airplane crash. Personally, the thought of such a death appalls me little – what civilized man would not rather die like Icarus than be mangled to death on a Motorway by a Ford Popular?

It looked as though it belonged in some kind of anti-Disneyland where Donald Duck had strangled Huey, Dewey, and Louie and Mickey shot Minnie Mouse full of heroin.

Es sah aus, als gehörte es in irgendein Anti-Disneyland, in dem Donald Duck seine Neffen Tick, Trick und Track erwürgt und Micky Maus seine Minnie mit Heroin voll gepumpt hatte.

Mommy, how come Dona Duck don have no pants?” Will sat on the couch eating cookies. Bree looked up. Then she glanced at the Donald Duck cartoon on the TV. “He have top but he no have bottoms,” “Good point,” she said. And yet the duck always wore a towel after he showered. “Dat’s odd,” Will remarked. He leaned over his plate and began to split his cookies into two piles. “And where his pee pee go? He a boy right, mommy? But he don’ have no pee pee. How he go to bafroom?

The Popeyes Spicy Chicken Sandwich was so popular that customers stabbed each other to get it, and then seeing that passion, McDonald's created its own Spicy Chicken Sandwich. Here on my duck farm, I fully support McDonald's trying to get their customers to stab each other.

He frequently commented on the amount of money I had as a way to throw it in my face that he was so much richer than me. It was like water off a duck’s back to me, but it fed his need to demean people around him who had the temerity to get ahead in life; success was always a zero-sum game for him, and he and he alone had to be the winner.

Sometimes the most powerful understanding comes from someone short, brown feathered and beautiful. "Thank you very much and I do like French fries," said Mrs. Duck politely.

I would love it if we could limit my red carpet topics to my favorite colors, what sound a duck makes, and my thoughts on McDonald’s All-Day Breakfast—blessing or curse?

Mr. Disney, we are returning your Duck. Feathers plucked and well-roasted. Look inside, you can see the handwriting on the wall, our hands still writing on the wall: Donald, Go Home!

No, why, are you their new stepmum?” Lamb said, “Well, this is going well.” He swung his feet to the floor, with an agility that surprised no one bar Emma Flyte. “But I’m overdue for a Donald. You lot squabble amongst yourselves.” He stole Catherine’s newspaper on his way out. “. . . Donald?” Flyte looked disturbed, more at Lamb’s expression than his sudden departure from her custody. “Trump,” Louisa explained. “Thank God for that. I thought he meant Duck.

On Tuesday, I saw Danielle at the Kids Club meeting. Her return was triumphant. She showed up with presents for everyone. Each member of the Kids Club, except Becca and Charlotte, got a Mickey Mouse sticker. Danielle had chosen special presents for Becca, Charlotte, Mr. Katz, and me. For Becca, a Donald Duck T-shirt. For Charlotte, a book about Disney World. For Mr. Katz, mouse ears with “Mr. K.” written on the back. And for me, a delicate silver necklace in the shape of a star. “It’s a wishing star,” Danielle told me. “Because you helped make one of my wishes come true. I’ll never forget that.

Dwight Eisenhower, who watched Churchill at work in operational planning. “Completely devoted to winning the war and discharging his responsibility as Prime Minister of Great Britain, he was difficult indeed to combat when conviction compelled disagreement with his views. . . . He could become intensely oratorical, even in discussion with a single person, but at the same time his intensity of purpose made his delivery seem natural and appropriate. He used humor and pathos with equal facility, and drew on everything from the Greek classics to Donald Duck for quotation, cliché and forceful slang to support his position.

Want your boat, Georgie?” Pennywise asked. “I only repeat myself because you really do not seem that eager.” He held it up, smiling. He was wearing a baggy silk suit with great big orange buttons. A bright tie, electric-blue, flopped down his front, and on his hands were big white gloves, like the kind Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck always wore. “Yes, sure,” George said, looking into the stormdrain. “And a balloon? I’ve got red and green and yellow and blue. . . .” “Do they float?” “Float?” The clown’s grin widened. “Oh yes, indeed they do. They float! And there’s cotton candy. . . .” George reached. The clown seized his arm.

free copy of Donald Duck that fell through the letter box one autumn day, featuring a lottery with a thousand wristwatches (a thousand iPads in today’s youth economy) to give away. Not to mention the content. Donald Duck as a teacher. The nephews squash an ice cream onto their weary uncle’s forehead. Wasting a whole ice cream without a second thought! At some point, from that same America, packets of green-and-white powder arrived that a housewife could instantly transform into a pan of soup. ‘California’, the concoction was called. ‘California,’ we whispered. California. In the provincial town where I grew up, we lugged the cabbage, lettuce and potatoes we’d grown on our allotment past several new factories on the Marshallweg, a road named after a general who, as I understood it, had paid to set up all

I was afraid of anyone in a costume. A trip to see Santa might as well have been a trip to sit on Hitler's lap for all the trauma it would cause me. Once, when I was four, my mother and I were in a Sears and someone wearing an enormous Easter Bunny costume headed my way to present me with a chocolate Easter egg. I was petrified by this nightmarish six-foot-tall bipedal pink fake-fur monster with human-sized arms and legs and a soulless, impassive face heading toward me. It waved halfheartedly as it held a piece of candy out in an evil attempt to lure me into its clutches. Fearing for my life, I pulled open the bottom drawer of a display case and stuck my head inside, the same way an ostrich buries its head in the sand. This caused much hilarity among the surrounding adults, and the chorus of grown-up laughter I heard echoing from within that drawer only added to the horror of the moment. Over the next several years, I would run away in terror from a guy in a gorilla suit whose job it was to wave customers into a car wash, a giant Uncle Sam on stilts, a midget dressed like a leprechaun, an astronaut, the Detroit Tigers mascot, Ronald McDonald, Big Bird, Bozo the Clown, and every Mickey Mouse, Minnie Mouse, Donald Duck, Pluto, Chip and Dale, Uncle Scrooge, and Goofy who walked the streets at Disneyland. Add to this an irrational fear of small dogs that saw me on more than one occasion fleeing in terror from our neighbor's four-inch-high miniature dachschund as if I were being chased by the Hound of the Baskervilles and a chronic case of germ phobia, and it's pretty apparent that I was--what some of the less politically correct among us might call--a first-class pussy.

You’re so bright, Trav, and so intuitive about people. And you have … the gift of tenderness. And sympathy. You could be almost anything.” “Of course!” I said, springing to my feet and beginning to pace back and forth through the lounge. “Why didn’t I think of that! Here I am, wasting the golden years on this lousy barge, getting all mixed up with lame-duck women when I could be out there seeking and striving. Who am I to keep from putting my shoulder to the wheel? Why am I not thinking about an estate and how to protect it? Gad, woman, I could be writing a million dollars a year in life insurance. I should be pulling a big oar in the flagship of life. Maybe it isn’t too late yet! Find the little woman, and go for the whole bit. Kiwanis, P.T.A., fund drives, cookouts, a clean desk, and vote the straight ticket, yessiree bob. Then when I become a senior citizen, I can look back upon …” I stopped when I heard the small sound she was making. She sat with her head bowed. I went over and put my fingertips under her chin. I tilted her head up and looked down into her streaming eyes. “Please, don’t,” she whispered. “You’re beginning to bring out the worst in me, woman.” “It was none of my business.” “I will not dispute you.” “But … who did this to you?” “I’ll never know you well enough to try to tell you, Lois.” She tried to smile. “I guess it can’t be any plainer than that.” “And I’m not a tragic figure, no matter how hard you try to make me into one. I’m delighted with myself, woman.” “And you wouldn’t say it that way if you were.” “Spare me the cute insights.

Waste of what?” “Of you! It seems degrading. Forgive me for saying that. I’ve seen those African movies. The lion makes a kill and then clever animals come in and grab something and run. You’re so bright, Trav, and so intuitive about people. And you have … the gift of tenderness. And sympathy. You could be almost anything.” “Of course!” I said, springing to my feet and beginning to pace back and forth through the lounge. “Why didn’t I think of that! Here I am, wasting the golden years on this lousy barge, getting all mixed up with lame-duck women when I could be out there seeking and striving. Who am I to keep from putting my shoulder to the wheel? Why am I not thinking about an estate and how to protect it? Gad, woman, I could be writing a million dollars a year in life insurance. I should be pulling a big oar in the flagship of life. Maybe it isn’t too late yet! Find the little woman, and go for the whole bit. Kiwanis, P.T.A., fund drives, cookouts, a clean desk, and vote the straight ticket, yessiree bob. Then when I become a senior citizen, I can look back upon …

Recently, I was in New York with most of the Robertson family promoting the season-four premiere of Duck Dynasty. We were staying at the Trump International Hotel, which is a really nice place near Central Park. I was already uncomfortable being in the big city. I don’t like traffic or concrete, and there are a lot of both in New York. After we checked in, we gathered downstairs to go to a Broadway musical show. I know it might seem bizarre for me to be going to a musical, but my very attractive wife can be mightily persuasive, especially when I have nothing else to do. As we were waiting or the others in the lobby, I asked a doorman if there was a nearby bathroom. He gave me directions to the nearest restroom, which included a walk through the hotel restaurant. As I entered the restaurant, a well-dressed staffer offered his assistance. I informed him I was only going to the restroom. But he very nicely continued to offer assistance and took the role of my escort, which I thought was quite courteous and professional. At his direction, we took a quick left turn and walked out of the hotel. Befuddled, I asked him, “Where is the bathroom?” He painted down the street or maybe toward Central Park and said, “Good luck to you, sir. Have a nice day.” I circled back around to the main entrance of the hotel, where I found Missy, who had witnessed the entire episode. “I thought you had to go to the bathroom,” she said. I laughed and told her I had been escorted out of the hotel because of the way I looked. It was no big deal to us, and I laughed about the incident later that night with my family over dinner. I shared the story the next day with Kelly Ripa and Michael Strahan on Live! with Kelly and Michael because I thought it was funny. Well, the story went viral and was all over the news and Internet the next few days. My phone wouldn’t stop ringing and various media outlets were trying to contact me. I’d jokingly labeled the incident “facial profiling” because in my mind that’s exactly what it was. People were surprised that it didn’t bother me, but my family and I have endured those kinds of things our entire lives. I figured the hotel employee was only trying to protect other hotel guests. The incident culminated with a call from Donald Trump’s office. They offered an apology for any inconvenience. I assured them that no apology was needed, and I asked them not to punish my courteous escort.

Bannon thrived on the chaos he created and did everything he could to make it spread. When he finally made his way through the crowd to the back of the town house, he put on a headset to join the broadcast of the Breitbart radio show already in progress. It was his way of bringing tens of thousands of listeners into the inner sanctum of the “Breitbart Embassy,” as the town house was ironically known, and thereby conscripting them into a larger project. Bannon was inordinately proud of the movement he saw growing around him, boasting constantly of its egalitarian nature. What to an outsider could look like a cast of extras from the Island of Misfit Toys was, in Bannon’s eyes, a proudly populist and “unclubbable” plebiscite rising up in defiant protest against the “globalists” and “gatekeepers” who had taken control of both parties. Just how Phil Robertson of Duck Dynasty figured into a plan to overthrow the global power structure wasn’t clear, even to many of Bannon’s friends. But, then, Bannon derived a visceral thrill anytime he could deliver a fuck-you to the establishment. The thousands of frustrated listeners calling in to his radio show, and the millions more who flocked to Breitbart News, had left him no doubt that an army of the angry and dispossessed was eager to join him in lobbing a bomb at the country’s leaders. As guests left the party, a doorman handed out a gift that Bannon had chosen for the occasion: a silver hip flask with “Breitbart” imprinted above an image of a honey badger, the Breitbart mascot. — Bannon’s cult-leader magnetism was a powerful draw for oddballs and freaks, and the attraction ran both ways. As he moved further from the cosmopolitan orbits of Goldman Sachs and Hollywood, there was no longer any need for him to suppress his right-wing impulses. Giving full vent to his views on subjects like immigration and Islam isolated him among a radical fringe that most of political Washington regarded as teeming with racist conspiracy theorists. But far from being bothered, Bannon welcomed their disdain, taking it as proof of his authentic conviction. It fed his grandiose sense of purpose to imagine that he was amassing an army of ragged, pitchfork-wielding outsiders to storm the barricades and, in Andrew Breitbart’s favorite formulation, “take back the country.” If Bannon was bothered by the incendiary views held by some of those lining up with him, he didn’t show it. His habit always was to welcome all comers. To all outward appearances, Bannon, wild-eyed and scruffy, a Falstaff in flip-flops, was someone whom the political world could safely ignore. But his appearance, and the company he kept, masked an analytic capability that was undiminished and as applicable to politics as it had been to the finances of corrupt Hollywood movie studios. Somehow, Bannon, who would happily fall into league with the most agitated conservative zealot, was able to see clearly that conservatives had failed to stop Bill Clinton in the 1990s because they had indulged this very zealotry to a point where their credibility with the media and mainstream voters was shot. Trapped in their own bubble, speaking only to one another, they had believed that they were winning, when in reality they had already lost.

Sartre does a good Donald Duck impression.

There is something cheesy in the state of Denmark

The crowd trails us through the park as we play games at the Penny Arcade and ride Pirates of the Caribbean. Eriku insists on sampling all the foods available. In between Splash Mountain and Big Thunder Mountain, we eat Ukiwaman, shrimp in a doughy bun in adorable Donald Duck packaging. We have curry rice and then a milk tea drink with berries on the bottom and whipped cream and nuts at the top for lunch.

De Donald Duck kaart arriveerde al vroeg, die middag.

Is het niet triest, een heel land, tegen haar en de telefoon.

In Disney, the working class has therefore been split into two groups: criminals in the city, and noble savages in the countryside.

Melanin Maniacs (The Sonnet) White guy writes a couple of sonnets and plays, And he is idolized as an olympian deity. Colored guy smashes the paradigm to ashes, And it warrants absolute unacceptability. Apparently, greatness is only greatness, If it can be credited to a caucasian. Otherwise they only end up pondering, What's the deal with this non-white person! It's a sad, sad world we live in, All the advancement is on the outside. Inside we are dumber than Donald Duck, Which has ruined all hope for real insight. Enough of this obsession with white aphrodisiacs! It's time to act as humans, and not melanin maniacs.

In 2016, nearly three-quarters of white evangelicals believed America had changed for the worse since the 1950s, a more pessimistic view than any other group. They were looking for a man who could put things right, a man who could restore America to a mythical Christian past. Like Bachmann, they believed that God had blessed America and they believed Trump understood this; he wasn’t ashamed of Christian America. Trump wasn’t just a nationalist, he was a Christian nationalist, and he wasn’t afraid to throw his weight around.44 Evangelicals hadn’t betrayed their values. Donald Trump was the culmination of their half-century-long pursuit of a militant Christian masculinity. He was the reincarnation of John Wayne, sitting tall in the saddle, a man who wasn’t afraid to resort to violence to bring order, who protected those deemed worthy of protection, who wouldn’t let political correctness get in the way of saying what had to be said or the norms of democratic society keep him from doing what needed to be done. Unencumbered by traditional Christian virtue, he was a warrior in the tradition (if not the actual physical form) of Mel Gibson’s William Wallace. He was a hero for God-and-country Christians in the line of Barry Goldwater, Ronald Reagan, and Oliver North, one suited for Duck Dynasty Americans and American Christians. He was the latest and greatest high priest of the evangelical cult of masculinity. Chapter 16

In order to attain knowledge, which is a form of power, we cannot continue to endorse, with blinded vision and stilted jargon, the initiation rituals with which our spiritual high priests seek to legitimize and protect their exclusive privileges of thought and expression.

We do not want to be like the scientist who takes his umbrella with him to go study the rain.

Donald Duck must have walked over my grave.

Like millions of Americans, I would have voted for Donald Duck over Donald Trump.

I gagged. It was not air. It was cold, it smelled like the hiss of gas in a cellar, it had echoes in it, it rang like metal footsteps, it hissed, cell doors clanged shut, I heard my voice calling to me down long stone corridors, I could not breathe. I knew I must not lose consciousness. I fought. I shook my head, I could not free myself. And now great swirls of colored light advanced toward me, spinning like pinwheels, revolving so fast they seemed to scream. And then the light was splintering and flying toward me, needles of it stinging me, flying past me, yellow and red stings, and now a roaring sound filled my head and began to pulsate. And all this swirling light and roaring screaming noise popped into Donald Duck looming up from a point, and he spoke and clacks came out of his mouth, and then Mickey Mouse loomed up in front of me and made horrible faces, and spoke in clacks or roars, and they were laughing at me and shaking their fists and showing their teeth. And I couldn’t help it, now I was breathing in this terrible gas in a white tiled swimming pool or corridor whose walls moved in toward me and then outwards. I was falling through my Compton’s Picture Encyclopedia article on the sea and these underwater animals were laughing in my ears, but the laughter pulsated like a machine, and I couldn’t stop breathing even though I knew it was the machine breathing. The smell was cold, the hiss grew softer. I felt as if I were under the sea but breathing under the sea somehow this air that was the only thing left to breathe in all this cold floating.

We were sitting ducks. Not just the Arizona, but every ship in the harbor. And there was nothing we could do about it. The dive bombers were too low for our guns, and, almost two miles above, the horizontal bombers were too high. With few exceptions, our planes, which the Japanese strategically hit first, never got a chance to get off the ground. We couldn’t even make a run for it into open waters, because it took two and a half hours for the boilers of a battleship to fire up.

Starstruck with one buck, your girl look like Donald Duck

Ham raised his hand. 'What is it?' 'I don't understand.' 'What don't yow understand?' Fred asked, his voice impatient. 'You need me to help you get over the wall?' 'Well I can't bloody sprout wings and fly over, can I?' 'How are you going to get back out again?' Ham asked, as he scratched his chin. 'I'll be on this side of the wall, you see.' 'He's got a point,' Jack said, his face ducking down as a truck drove out from the farm, followed by a second. 'I can't be expected to work everything out, can I?' Fred asked, his face annoyed. 'We'll just bloody wing it, alright?' 'What a great idea,' Donald said,

What am I supposed to do with this?’ Donald asked. ‘Well it ain’t a bloody hat? Is it?’ Fred said. ‘If yow have got energy to moan, yow have got energy to work.’ ‘Serves you right, Shakespeare,’ Reg laughed, as Donald stood and started to fill the bucket. ‘Yow can help him,’ Fred said, before ducking into the seating well. ‘Bloody tyrant,’ Reg muttered,

It’s not even twenty-four hours into my college experience and I think my blood pressure has already risen to angry Donald Duck levels.

Recently, evidence of non-compact districts has been stressed in claims of partisan gerrymandering. A notable example was Pennyslvania-7, the ignominious Goofy kicking Donald Duck district as shown in figure 4.2, which at one point narrowed to the width of a restaurant.

Christopher Ingraham also developed a list of the ten least compact districts.9 His choices for ignominy include six of the Azavea districts and has the same worst three, although Ingraham reverses the order of Maryland-3 and Florida-5. He also has two of the most widely criticized (and spoofed) districts which did not make the Azavea list, Pennsylvania-7 (Goofy kicking Donald Duck) and Illinois-4 (Earmuff District). Ingraham’s selections are more heavily weighted toward majority-minority districts with four being longstanding black districts while three others are majority Hispanic

Wally? Alive? Really? Here, try a sip of this, see if I put in too much Donald Duck. Happy to add more Gilbey’s.

However, my next-door neighbors had an entirely different manner of eating. When I’d go over there for dinner, it was buffet style, only a truly global sampling. Beluga caviar from Iran, with each individual egg handpicked with as much consideration as a cabinet post for the White House. Deviled eggs so scrumptious it was as if Satan himself prepared them. Pastries and Danishes made from scratch like a tasty mosquito bite. And finally, bird’s nest soup consisting of more fowl saliva than even Donald Duck ever spat during one of his more vociferous spats.

My parents objected strenuously, but I finally talked them into letting me join up as a Red Cross ambulance driver. I had to lie about my age, of course, but even my grandmother could accept that. In my company, which assembled in Connecticut for training, was another fellow who had lied about his age to get in. He was regarded as a strange duck, because whenever we had time off and went out on the town to chase girls, he stayed in camp drawing pictures. His name was Walt Disney. The armistice was signed just before I was to get on the boat to ship out to France.

Jessica A few weeks after our encounter at the hair salon, Jep and I both attended a concert in our hometown and saw each other again. He walked up to me and said, “I’m Jeptha Robertson. You’re Jessica, right?” We went on to have a conversation that went something like this. Jep said, “My dad is Phil Robertson.” I was unimpressed. Even though I come from a family of hunters, I had never heard of Phil Robertson, and that seemed obvious to Jep, so he continued, “You know, the Duck Commander.” I’d heard of Daffy Duck; Donald Duck; and Duck, Duck Goose, but I had never heard of a Duck Commander. “What is a duck commander?” I asked, not sure if it would be a person, a job title, a tool, or what.

By the next morning I got a call from Charlie Baker wanting to know why I was worried about the duck. “Charlie, because I’m still—I’m on leave from Walt Disney, which owns ABC. I’m an ABC contributor, and it’s their duck. Not my duck. Not the DNC’s duck. It’s their duck and they do not want us to use the duck. Please stop using the fucking duck.

10)  Donald Duck cartoons were banned in Finland because he doesn’t wear any pants  

Walt Disney can take over television any time he likes. Yesterday afternoon, in a special holiday show at 4 o’clock over N.B.C., he momentarily relaxed his ban against television appearances by Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, Pluto and the Seven Dwarfs. The result was one of the most engaging and charming programs of the year, an hour of make-believe that was altogether wonderful. As will surprise nobody, Mickey and his friends in Disneyland are perfect for TV. It’s not just that the cartoons reproduce superbly on the small screen of television. But after several years of video puppets, it is heady wine for a television viewer suddenly to partake of the imaginative fantasy and enticing humor which are the stamp of Mr. Disney’s genius. From 4 to 5 o’clock yesterday all ages could relax and laugh together.

So the UCRW commandeered a bunch of film projectors from Delhi, and set them up in Kurukshetra. Among the movies shown were Disney specials featuring Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck. With large cloth screens allowing for two-way projection, crowds of up to 15,000 could watch a single show. This ‘two-hour break from reality’, commented a social worker, ‘was a lifesaver. The refugees forgot their shock experiences and misery for two golden hours of laughter.

but nothing serious happened until July 28, 1942, when Jones went into the studio to record an amusing anti-Nazi war ditty, Der Fuehrer’s Face. Originally intended for the Walt Disney cartoon, Donald Duck in Axis Land, this became in Jones’s hands a musical riot, rocketing the group to national stardom in less than a month. It demolished Hitler’s claims to genetic superiority and established the raspberry as a respectable part of American radio.

There was no difference between my characters and the life my readers were going to have to face.

The Republican decision to exploit the race issue and abandon the option of becoming a party of reform manifested itself in the 1961 speech in Atlanta by Barry Goldwater to a gathering of Southern Republicans. “We’re not going to get the Negro vote as a bloc in 1964 and 1968, so we ought to go hunting where the ducks are,” he declared.

They’ll have Donald Duck and Goofy and the gang on the wallpaper ready for the first arrival in the nursery, the boy who would be conker champion, and the signed baseball bat and mitt, and his granddad’s fighter plane suspended from the ceiling. And he’ll coach him in baseball, and Phineas in cricket, and Owain will teach him to fish, and later shoot. Phineas would be one godparent, he’d decided, and Annie and Owain, and Jasmine, and the Commander and Priny, and Miss Wyndham and John Beecher, and Tom Parr, there’ll be plenty to go round, enough new trees over the years. And they’ll grow up, their brood, like Jasmine’s and the Owens’, and there’ll be all the Hall and the grounds to chase each other round in, and the river to explore, and picnics on it, and trips to its hidden places, and all that English countryside, and the half that was in Wales, to play in. Humphrey clamped his cigar in his mouth, and scattered sheep feeding by a field gate with a couple more blasts on the horn, singing his way down Batch Valley.

an unlikely pair of guests: Nigel Farage, the leader of the right-wing UK Independence Party, and Phil Robertson, the bandanna’d, ayatollah-bearded Duck Dynasty patriarch who was accepting a free-speech award. CPAC is a beauty contest for Republican presidential hopefuls. But Robertson, a novelty adornment invited after A&E suspended him for denouncing gays, delivered a wild rant about beatniks and sexually transmitted diseases that had upstaged them all, to Bannon’s evident delight.

Just how Phil Robertson of Duck Dynasty figured into a plan to overthrow the global power structure wasn’t clear,

Mr. Disney, we are returning your Duck. Feathers plucked and well-roasted. Look inside, you can see the handwriting on the wall, our hands still writing on the wall: Donald, Go Home!

Inspiration for what we produce comes from reading, observing the world of humans around us and also the animal kingdom

Once the list is developed, pick a dozen names from the list, which are a mix of both current and past celebrities. Then pose the problem and ask, “How would this situation be handled by…” • Donald Trump • Lady Gaga • Muhammad Ali • Bette Midler • Napoleon • Louis Armstrong • Gustave Eiffel • Renoir • Thomas Edison • Madam Curie • Hillary Clinton • Ronald Reagan • Big Bird • Donald Duck • Plato

That's the way They do you. That's the way They set you up for it. There ought to be a warning bell on the happy-meter, so that every time it creeps high enough, you get that dang-dang alert. Duck, boy. That glow makes you too visible. One of Them is out there in the boonies, adjusting the windage, getting you lined up in the cross hairs of the scope.

Donald Trump was asked recently if he knew any bible verses. He replied, “Give a man a fish and he’ll eat for a day. Deport him and you don’t have to feed him again.” Trump 20:17

Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump walk into a bakery. As soon as they enter, Hillary steals three donuts and puts them in her pocket. She remarks to Trump, “See how clever I am? The owner didn’t see anything and I don’t even need to lie.” I will definitely win the election. Donald says to Hillary, “That’s the typical dishonesty you have displayed throughout your entire life, crooked Hillary. I am going to show you a more honest way to get the same result.” Donald goes to the owner of the shop and says, “Give me a donut and I will show you a magic trick.” Intrigued, the owner accepts and gives him a donut. Trump swallows it and asks for another one. The owner gives him another one. Then Donald asks for a third donut and eats it too. The owner is starting to wonder where the magic trick is and asks, “What did you do with the donuts?” Trump replies, “Look in Hillary’s pocket

Donald Trump is looking to paint the White House. He asks Chinese contractors how much they would charge. They say 3 million. He asks European contractors how much they would charge. They say 7 million. He asks Ecuadorian contractors how much they would charge. They say 10 million. Trump goes back to the Chinese and asks "why 3 million?" The Chinese say "1 million for the paint, 1 million for the labor, and 1 million profit." He then goes to the Europeans and asks "why 7 million?" The Europeans reply "2 million for the best quality paint, 3 million for the specialized labor, and 2 million profit" Trump finally goes to the Ecuadorians and asks "why 10 million?" The Ecuadorians reply, "Mr. Trump, let's sit down and have a talk about sincerity. 3 million for you, 4 million for us, and with the last 3 million we hire the damn Chinese.

A man dies, goes to heaven and stands before St. Peter. Behind the saint, the man sees a huge wall of clocks. He asks what all the clocks are for and St. Peter explains, "these are lie clocks. Everyone on earth has a lie clock. Every time a person lies, the clock hands move." Pointing to one, the man says, "Whose clock is that?" "That's Mother Teresa's," St. Peter answers. "The hands have never moved, indicating she never told a lie." "Incredible," the man responds. "And whose clock is that?" St. Peter responds. "That's Abraham Lincoln's. The hands moved twice telling us he told two lies in his entire life." "Where is Donald Trump’s clock?" the man asks. "Oh! Trump’s clock is in Jesus' office," St Peter says. "He's using it as a ceiling fan.

What does Donald Trump tell Obama supporters he’s trying to win over? Orange is the new black.

The initial shows were put together from verbal requests, but soon the mail poured in. For producers Wheaton and Knight, every mailbag was an adventure. One soldier wanted only to hear actress Carole Landis sigh. Another requested that Charles Laughton instruct Donald Duck in the finer points of elocution. The bizarre fed upon itself, and engineers were sent to record the sounds of birds chirping in one soldier’s Indiana hometown and, for another, the sounds of a nickel slot machine paying off a jackpot. The show was described by Bob Burns as “so important and expensive that only Uncle Sam is big enough to sponsor it.

Alright, alright, Mickey's a mouse, Donald's a duck, Pluto's a dog. What's Goofy?