Ds Best Quotes

it funny how in school, the best grade is an A, but in the breast department, you never want an A? You want the breasts that get bad grades? The Breast School dropouts? The ones that get Ds and Fs? Hilarious.

1. Bangladesh.... In 1971 ... Kissinger overrode all advice in order to support the Pakistani generals in both their civilian massacre policy in East Bengal and their armed attack on India from West Pakistan.... This led to a moral and political catastrophe the effects of which are still sorely felt. Kissinger’s undisclosed reason for the ‘tilt’ was the supposed but never materialised ‘brokerage’ offered by the dictator Yahya Khan in the course of secret diplomacy between Nixon and China.... Of the new state of Bangladesh, Kissinger remarked coldly that it was ‘a basket case’ before turning his unsolicited expertise elsewhere. 2. Chile.... Kissinger had direct personal knowledge of the CIA’s plan to kidnap and murder General René Schneider, the head of the Chilean Armed Forces ... who refused to countenance military intervention in politics. In his hatred for the Allende Government, Kissinger even outdid Richard Helms ... who warned him that a coup in such a stable democracy would be hard to procure. The murder of Schneider nonetheless went ahead, at Kissinger’s urging and with American financing, just between Allende’s election and his confirmation.... This was one of the relatively few times that Mr Kissinger (his success in getting people to call him ‘Doctor’ is greater than that of most PhDs) involved himself in the assassination of a single named individual rather than the slaughter of anonymous thousands. His jocular remark on this occasion—‘I don’t see why we have to let a country go Marxist just because its people are irresponsible’—suggests he may have been having the best of times.... 3. Cyprus.... Kissinger approved of the preparations by Greek Cypriot fascists for the murder of President Makarios, and sanctioned the coup which tried to extend the rule of the Athens junta (a favoured client of his) to the island. When despite great waste of life this coup failed in its objective, which was also Kissinger’s, of enforced partition, Kissinger promiscuously switched sides to support an even bloodier intervention by Turkey. Thomas Boyatt ... went to Kissinger in advance of the anti-Makarios putsch and warned him that it could lead to a civil war. ‘Spare me the civics lecture,’ replied Kissinger, who as you can readily see had an aphorism for all occasions. 4. Kurdistan. Having endorsed the covert policy of supporting a Kurdish revolt in northern Iraq between 1974 and 1975, with ‘deniable’ assistance also provided by Israel and the Shah of Iran, Kissinger made it plain to his subordinates that the Kurds were not to be allowed to win, but were to be employed for their nuisance value alone. They were not to be told that this was the case, but soon found out when the Shah and Saddam Hussein composed their differences, and American aid to Kurdistan was cut off. Hardened CIA hands went to Kissinger ... for an aid programme for the many thousands of Kurdish refugees who were thus abruptly created.... The apercu of the day was: ‘foreign policy should not he confused with missionary work.’ Saddam Hussein heartily concurred. 5. East Timor. The day after Kissinger left Djakarta in 1975, the Armed Forces of Indonesia employed American weapons to invade and subjugate the independent former Portuguese colony of East Timor. Isaacson gives a figure of 100,000 deaths resulting from the occupation, or one-seventh of the population, and there are good judges who put this estimate on the low side. Kissinger was furious when news of his own collusion was leaked, because as well as breaking international law the Indonesians were also violating an agreement with the United States.... Monroe Leigh ... pointed out this awkward latter fact. Kissinger snapped: ‘The Israelis when they go into Lebanon—when was the last time we protested that?’ A good question, even if it did not and does not lie especially well in his mouth. It goes on and on and on until one cannot eat enough to vomit enough.

So tell me, Morrison, what kind of Dominant do you want to be?” Dylan asked from above. “The kind that I was born to be. The absolute fucking best.

beSt frenDS.

Munro gave her a wink. ‘We’d best order those steaks, lassie,’ he said, grinning, ‘if you’ve your eye on a Scotsman, you’ll need to keep your strength up.

40. Be Defiant In our opinion, most search engine optimization (SEO) is bullshit. It involves trying to read Google’s mind and then gaming the system to make Google find crap. There are three thousand computer science PhDs at Google trying to make each search relevant, and then there’s you trying to fool them. Who’s going to win? Tricking Google is futile. Instead, you should let Google do what it does best: find great content. So defy all the SEO witchcraft out there and focus on creating, curating, and sharing great content. This is what’s called SMO: social-media optimization.

I am water, the earth’s first daughter Oh human, Learn from me where you belong on this planet You live high or low, in a palace or ghetto Be versatile, flowing with life’s needs Solid as a rock when life hits you hard Melting like snow when a comrade sob Living selflessly, giving with no expectations Bringing more smiles than regrets Your deeds hold stead while thou leave the earth Return as the best or enjoy a long rest!

Mr. Townsend quirks a brow at the other man, and when our boss walks away he sticks his tongue out to his back. I push my hair over my shoulder and look this man over a bit closer. His dark hair reaches his shoulders and falls in soft waves around his face. He has a strong jaw lined with stubble and high cheekbones under his impossibly dark eyes. His perfect teeth are framed beautifully with full lips and a dark goatee, which only highlight the voluptuous color of his mouth. He’s wearing a dark blue button up shirt that fits loosely around his arms and chest, but the fitted dark jeans show off the chiseled lines of his thighs. He pushes his chair back slightly and stands, extending his large hand toward me. “I’m Reid. Reid Townsend.” He’s tall, about 6’0”, with a smile right out of a toothpaste commercial, and when I take his hand (surely with a stupid look on my face) it’s rough from heavy use. “Nice to meet you. I’m Danielle Delaney,” I reply. “You can call me Dani… Or anything you’d like except DD, um, in high school some people called me Double D’s because of that name and because I have big boobs—” I cut off abruptly with a slightly choked sound, feeling the blood rush over my chest, face and ears. I’ve never blurted something like that before in my life, and I especially have never blurted anything because I’m standing in front of a beautiful guy—I’m the player, not the played.

In our opinion, most search engine optimization (SEO) is bullshit. It involves trying to read Google’s mind and then gaming the system to make Google find crap. There are three thousand computer science PhDs at Google trying to make each search relevant, and then there’s you trying to fool them. Who’s going to win? Tricking Google is futile. Instead, you should let Google do what it does best: find great content. So defy all the SEO witchcraft out there and focus on creating, curating, and sharing great content. This is what’s called SMO: social-media optimization

Winning is not important. Participating and, more importantly, competing by giving your best is important. You toil hard to dig the ground to plant a sapling, to nurture it by watering it regularly, protecting it from harm’s way and then one day, it bears fruits. Some sweet, some of it sour. Results are like those fruits. The important thing is the ability to grow a tree with immense patience, unbridled hard work, and die-hard commitment.

English and half Nigerian, Stacey had never set foot outside the United Kingdom. Her tight black hair was cut short and close to her head following the removal of her last weave. The smooth caramel skin suited the haircut well. Stacey’s work area was organised and clear. Anything not in the labelled trays was stacked in meticulous piles along the top edge of her desk. Not far behind was Detective Sergeant Bryant who mumbled a ‘Morning, Guv,’ as he glanced into The Bowl. His six foot frame looked immaculate, as though he had been dressed for Sunday school by his mother. Immediately the suit jacket landed on the back of his chair. By the end of the day his tie would have dropped a couple of floors, the top button of his shirt would be open and his shirt sleeves would be rolled up just below his elbows. She saw him glance at her desk, seeking evidence of a coffee mug. When he saw that she already had coffee he filled the mug labelled ‘World’s Best Taxi Driver’, a present from his nineteen-year-old daughter. His filing was not a system that anyone else understood but Kim had yet to request any piece of paper that was not in her hands within a few seconds. At the top of his desk was a framed picture of himself and his wife taken at their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. A picture of his daughter snuggled in his wallet. DS Kevin Dawson, the third member of her team, didn’t keep a photo of anyone special on his desk. Had he wanted to display a picture of the person for whom he felt most affection he would have been greeted by his own likeness throughout his working day. ‘Sorry I’m late, Guv,’ Dawson called as he slid into his seat opposite Wood and completed her team. He wasn’t officially late. The shift didn’t start until eight a.m. but she liked them all in early for a briefing, especially at the beginning of a new case. Kim didn’t like to stick to a roster and people who did lasted a very short time on her team. ‘Hey, Stacey, you gonna get me a coffee or what?’ Dawson asked, checking his mobile phone. ‘Of course, Kev, how’d yer like it: milk, two sugars and in yer lap?’ she asked sweetly, in her strong Black Country accent.

The best way to live your life is by doing everything slowly and patiently.

To fail is the best that can happen to anyone, especially at the beginning of a new task

Did I spell the word “did” right? Of course not! I got my D’s mixed up.

You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,

She thinks life is best passed in a blur: imprecise and anaesthetised from the sharper feelings

People liked to offload to her, share gossip too. Of course she never said anything to anyone, so she had garnered a certain trust among the regular tenants, often being seen as a confidante. Her eyes and ears were the best things she had

What can we do now? How many words are left with Ds in it? Not many, I bet. Probably al the best ones have already been ruined.' .. .. 'And if I ever find my dad, what will he be? Just a sound. A sound without any meaning.' p 208

The Wayfarer. Let me be an innocent wayfarer traversing the roads of life without preconceived notions. Without an ounce of anger toward the men I meet along the way Without judging them for who they are Embracing everyone as equals Lending a helping hand to needy Cherishing whatever little love bestowed upon me. Carrying with me only the fragrance of the best moments Let me walk unhindered by emotions. My joy shall come from the walk itself rather than from the expectations in my mind. My joy shall soar from every step taken. Let me be the humble wanderer in nature’s abode. Loving all, living every moment I shall not differentiate pleasure and pain, for they are brothers entwined. I shall not worry while I’m teary-eyed. I shall not hurry while I’m fury-eyed. Patience and silence—the two essentials of eternal wisdom I shall master them or die trying while I walk the promenade of life!

Evil in its best form, disguised as our fellow human possessed by greed, envy, lust, and power, chase me wherever I go. I’m always on the run, hiding desperately in the dark to protect myself. Silly of me for not realising that the darkness is the thriving kingdom of the villainous monsters. I run to the meadows, then into a forest, and then into a land of thorny shrubs. When I run, I regret being a coward, ashamed of being unable to slay the demon chasing me. I know how I lost a part of me because of its trickery, yet I run, yet I hide in shame with regret for allowing evil to play its trick on me. I regret being the fool.

I was akin to Francis Bacon’s ‘Merchant of Light’ collecting experiences in the few days I spent with wonderful people and my dearest. Imbibing everything the mystically beautiful place revealed. I did it every year instead of every twelve years, as professed by Bacon. I brought with me the optimism, energy, compassion, humility, love and aroma of the wood and leaves. Best experiences of my life.

When we win, we always think we are performing at our best. Only when we meet our match will we know our weaknesses

Yes, you have survived, but it is bittersweet; some of the best minds of your generation have been wasted, the children that grew up with the safety blankets of money and whiteness have gotten twice as far working half as hard, they are still having the same cocaine parties that they were having twenty years ago and they still have not ever been searched by the police once, let alone had their parties raided or been choke-slammed to death. They have just bought a flat in Brixton; they go to one of the new white bars there. They pop up to the new reggae club in Ladbroke Grove, the one that serves Caribbean food but also gets nervous when more than two black guys turn up. They have no idea that the building used to be a multi-storey crack house. By twenty-five, even if you don’t read Stuart Hall, if you grew up both black and poor in the UK you will have come to know more about the inner workings of British society, about the dynamics of race, class and empire than a slew of PhDs ever will. In fact, PhDs and scriptwriters will come to the hood to drain your wisdom for their ethnographic research, as will journalists next time there is a riot. They will have careers, you will get a job. Wash, rinse, repeat.

Jamie got back to her apartment in nineteen minutes and forty-nine seconds.  It wasn’t a personal best for a five-kilometre run, but it was still fast.  She showered and dressed, pulled on her boots, and was out the door in seventeen minutes flat. Which probably was close to a personal best.  She was wearing jeans she picked up from a supermarket. She liked them because they had a three percent lycra content woven into the denim, which stretched a little and meant that she could more easily crouch, walk, and kick someone in the side of the head if the situation called for it. It hadn’t yet, but she had a long career ahead of herself, she hoped.  She jumped into her car — a small and economical hybrid hatchback which squeezed around the city easily — and headed north towards the Lea.  It took nearly forty minutes to get there in rush hour traffic, and by the time she pulled up, Roper was leaning against the bonnet of his ten-year-old Volvo saloon, smoking a cigarette. He was tall with thinning, short hair, and a face that looked like he was always squinting into a stiff wind.  His long black coat was pinned to his right leg in the breeze and his shirt looked like it’d been pulled out of the laundry hamper rather than a clean drawer. He was perpetually single, and it showed. There was no one to hold him accountable when he decided it was okay to skip a morning shower for an extra ten minutes sleeping off his hangover. What she hated most about him, beyond the cigarette stink and the pissed-at-life attitude, was that she always had to look twice to make sure he wasn’t her father.  Her mother had dragged her away from him in Sweden, and now, she’d been thrown together with a guy who seemingly had inherited all his bad habits. Her mum said it was because all detectives were like it if they did the job long enough. They saw too much and didn’t talk about it enough. Which led inevitably to drink, and drugs, and other women. She’d spoken from experience of course. And Jamie knew she hadn’t exaggerated.  Though moving them both to Britain seemed like a bit of a dramatic reaction. But then again, her father had given her mother gonorrhoea and couldn’t say which woman he’d gotten it from. So Jamie figured it was reasonable.  He would have turned sixty-one this year. Roper pushed off the Volvo and ground out his cigarette under the heel of his battered Chelsea boot. Jamie looked at it, stopping short of his odour-radius. ‘You gonna just leave that there?’ He looked between his feet, rolling onto the outsides of them as he inspected the flattened butt. ‘It’ll wash away in the rain.’ ‘Into the ocean, yeah, where some poor fish is going to eat it,’ Jamie growled, coming to a stop in front of him.

Leon always felt second best, like the poor relation. Eddie said something and he had to go with it. Well, not any more. He’d had enough of being second in command. He wanted things to be equal or it was over.

They may have been the same rank, but he was still technically her senior — in both age and experience — and sometimes he liked to flex. Make himself look like he gave a damn. She leaned forward, hit the keyboard shortcut to minimise the windows, and got up. ‘Nothing,’ she said, pulling her jacket on. ‘That’s helpful.’ She ignored the comment, downed half her now-tepid coffee and bit lightly into her bagel, holding it between straight white teeth as she powered off her monitor and tucked her chair in.  ‘I don’t know why you bother,’ Roper said, flicking a hand at the now-black screen. ‘Not while all this is burning.’ He gestured around the room at the other desks and detectives working away. Dozens of screens were lit, the photocopier was buzzing, the lights were humming, and phones and devices were charging on every surface.  She shrugged. ‘If you leave a monitor on standby overnight it wastes enough energy to—’ ‘Yeah, yeah,’ he said, dismissing her with his hand. ‘And the polar ice caps are melting and penguins are getting sunburn. Come on, we’ve got a murder to solve.’ He walked forward, draining what was left in his coffee cup, and put it down on a random desk — much to the disgust of the guy sitting behind it. Roper swaggered towards the lifts, finally shrugging off the hangover, his caffeine quota for the next hour filled. Once his nicotine level had been topped off, he might actually be capable of some decent police work. Jamie fell in behind him, trying to get her mind off the other missing kids and back on Grace Melver. Whatever the hell was going on, Jamie had a feeling that Grace Melver knew something about it. Whether she realised or not.  Chapter 7 She walked with Roper without thinking about it.  Jamie had dropped him back at the crime scene after the shelter so he could pick his car up. The medical examiner was there and the scene of the crime officers, or SOCOs, were crawling all over in their plastic-covered boots, snapping photos and putting things in evidence bags.  They hadn’t stuck around.  It was best to leave the SOCOs do their jobs, and anyway Jamie and Roper had paperwork that needed to be done.  Her fingers typed on autopilot now. She’d had her prelim licked before she’d finished her first cup of coffee. Roper headed for his Volvo without asking and got into the driver’s seat.  Jamie pulled the door open and got in, closing the door only when he’d cranked the ignition so she could crack the window. The seats were covered

Mary was standing behind it, emptying minestrone out of tins into the vat.  An entire slab was resting on the stage behind her with half of the cans missing. They looked to be wholesale and cheap. But the folks outside wouldn’t complain. A stack of plastic bowls and spoons had been set on the table next to the heater. Once it was full and hot, she’d call them in. Jamie was surprised that they hadn’t flooded in already. The door was open, after all.  That said something to her about Mary, and about the respect these people had for her. ‘Detectives,’ Mary said, a little surprised. ‘Did I call you?’ She seemed to be asking herself as much as Jamie and Roper.  ‘No,’ Roper said. ‘But we wanted to be here when Grace arrived.’ Mary took it in, stirring the soup with a ladle. ‘Oh, well she’s not here yet — as far as I know. I won’t be serving lunch for another half an hour or so.’ ‘That’s fine, we’ll wait,’ Roper said, smiling. He thought he was charming at times. But he never was. Silence hung in the air while Mary popped and emptied in another tin with a dull slap.  Jamie looked at the slab and saw that the soup was best before August last year. It was out of date — probably salvaged from a food bank. Jamie thought about the phrase, beggars can't be choosers, and then immediately felt bad about it. ‘There was a guy outside this morning,’ Roper said, pushing his hands into his pockets. ‘Smartly dressed, short black hair, glasses.’ ‘Oh, um,’ Mary said, not sure where he was going with it. ‘He bumped into Jamie, said some pretty nasty things — about the good people who rely on this shelter. Didn’t seem too excited about them being there.’ Mary’s face lit up and then drooped as she realised who he meant. ‘Ah, yes — I don’t know

Have you had any recent contact with Oliver?’ She started quickly. ‘Did he reach out to you, to tell you he was in trouble, or—’ ‘We hadn’t heard from him in months…’ He swallowed again, fighting the catch in his throat. ‘The last time we… the last time I spoke to him, he asked me for… God… money.’  Jamie didn’t press him. It was best to just to let people speak sometimes.  ‘He wouldn’t tell me what for, but… but we knew that he was… you know… using that stuff…’ Acceptance was hard. He went on. ‘We knew he was. We had a call from the hospital — he’d been admitted for an overdose. That was when we confronted him, and — since, he just… We didn’t know where he was, or…’ His voice was barely a whisper, the words near incoherent. She thought he meant back when Oliver had first started using. But she didn’t interrupt. ‘That was why he left, you know? We thought that… I thought that giving him an ultimatum would… would… make him see, you know?’ She set her jaw, trying to keep perspective. She’d been through this herself. Felt this herself. ‘I know.’  She felt like saying ultimatums don’t work on addicts — they never do. But it’s not your fault for trying. It’s what everyone does. It makes sense to us. But addicts think differently. Their logic works differently.  ‘We barely heard from him after he left. Once he turned up at Maggie’s work — you know? Asking for money. Thought that if I wasn’t there… Of course she gave him some — told him to come home for dinner. But that night we had a call from you — the police, I mean — saying that he’d been found… And… Uh… I’m sorry —’ ‘Take your time,’ Jamie said softly. ‘It’s okay.’ ‘So we said that we wouldn’t, you know, help him any more — give him anything else. But that

Yet another reason Jamie was willing to pay out for expensive, hard-capped boots. You never knew where you’d be stepping. Right in the centre of the settlement a side-path led down a narrow little alley between the backs of two squats made out of shipping pallets, and opened into a little square where three tents all opened towards each other. Two of them looked ancient, propped up by sticks and other rigid objects, tied off and hanging from the bridge overhead with their support strings.  But the third tent looked pretty new.  It was a modest green and orange striped thing — big enough to fit no more than two people. But it matched the description that Reggie had given. He said that it looked too nice to be there, and this one did.  ‘Grace?’ Jamie called softly. Roper was right at her shoulder. She could smell the cigarettes on his breath. There was no answer. She stepped forward a little. ‘Grace? Are you in there? Can you hear me?’ There was an equal chance that the tent was empty, or that Grace was strung out and unresponsive. Either way, she needed to take a look. Jamie glanced at Roper, whose face she couldn’t read. His nose was wrinkled in disgust, but his flushed cheeks told her that he was as nervous as she was.  As much as she hated to generalise — confronting homeless people was never an easy thing to do. They could be unpredictable at best, and it was always smart to tread lightly. She steadied her heart, took a breath and then clenched her hand to stop it from shaking. The zipper toggle hung at the top of the entrance, shimmering gently in the half-light. Jamie couldn’t tell if it was from movement inside, or from vibrations coming through the other squats around them.  She swallowed and reached for it, taking it lightly between her fingers, not wanting to startle whoever was inside. Roper’s breath was short and sharp in her ear. ‘Grace?’ she tried again, but there was no response. She tugged left and the zipper began to unfurl, grinding its way along the teeth. Roper exhaled behind her, filling the already ripe gap with hot air.  Jamie craned her neck to look through the widening gap as the flap began to fold down, but inside was shaded and dark. The smell of urine wafted out and stung her nostrils. She was aware of her boots in the mud, aware of the sounds around her, of the closeness of Roper as he looked over her head.  Everything was still, the zipper not seeming to move at all.

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