Duck Tales Quotes

It doesn't matter if you're born in a duck yard, so long as you are hatched from a swan's egg!

Little James Herondale, age two, was in fact holding a dagger quite well. He stabbed it into a sofa cushion, sending out a burst of feathers. "Ducks," he said, pointing at the feathers.

Conversely, some of the most educated idiots I’ve ever met have a master’s degree or PhD. They couldn’t pour urine out of a boot with the instructions written on the heel!

A sister I’m not allowed to see, a headmaster with questionable intentions, and a duck that wants to kill me. Good doesn’t feel like the right way to put it.

I eventually figured out that a cigarette is nothing more than a pinch of tobacco rolled in paper—with fire at one end and an idiot at the other!

The stupid ducks give me nightmares.

Hey, when two beavers walk into the house, the first one always tells the other one, “Hey, shut the dam door!

little James Herondale, age 2, was intact holding a dagger quite well. He stabbed it into a sofa cushion sending out a burst of feathers. "Ducks", he said pointing to the feathers. Tessa swiftly removed the dagger from his tiny hand and replaced it with a wooden spoon. James had recently become very attached to his wooden spoon and carried it with him everywhere often refusing to go to sleep without it

Hey, doctors have proven that daytime naps improve your memory and help you remember important facts.

Burke was about as muscled as a flashy duck and would be roughly as useful as one. Burke

That was the April my father learned not to trust ducks.

Carelessness was once something to be owned. They wore it around their necks as they joined the springtime breeze while ducking in and out of the forest believing their fairy tale.

I spread my arms. “In the Rainbow Jungles of Ever there lives what I affectionately call, killer ducks.

Proverbs 3:5–6, “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight.

Hey, do you know what happens to a liar when he dies? He lies still, Jack!

I am not going to get eaten by ducks!

Grief is not something you know if you grow up wearing feathers with a Charlie Chaplin boyfriend, a love-child papoose, a witch baby, a Dirk and a Duck, a Slinkster Dog, and a movie to dance in. You can feel sad and worse when your dad moves to another city, when an old lady dies, or when your boyfriend goes away. But grief is different. Weetzie’s heart cringed in her like a dying animal. It was as if someone had stuck a needle full of poison into her heart. She moved like a sleepwalker. She was the girl in the fairy tale sleeping in a prison of thorns and roses.

It's not appropriate," Tessa said to her husband, Will. "He likes it." "Children like all sorts of things, Will. They like sweets and fire and trying to stick their head up the chimney. Just because he likes the dagger..." "Look how steadily he holds it." Little James Herondale, age two, was in fact holding a dagger quite well. He stabbed it into a sofa cushion, sending out a burst of feathers. "Ducks," he said, pointing at the feathers. Tessa swiftly removed the dagger from his tiny hands and replaced it with a wooden spoon. James had recently become very attached to this wooden spoon and carried it with him everywhere, often refusing to go to sleep without it. "Spoon," James said, tottering off across the parlor. "Where did he find the dagger?" Tessa asked. "It's possible I took him to the weapons room," Will said. "Is it?" "It is, yes. It's possible." "And it's possible he somehow got a dagger from where it is secured on the wall, out of his reach," Tessa said. "We live in a world of possibilities," Will said. Tessa fixed a gray-eyed stare on her husband. "He was never out of my sight," Will said quickly. "If you could manage it," Tessa said, nodding to the sleeping figure of Lucie Herondale in her little basket by the fire, "perhapds you won't give Lucie a broadsword until she's actually able to stand? Or is that asking too much?" "It seems a reasonable request," Will said, with an extravagant bow. "Anything for you, my pearl beyond price. Even withholding weaponry from my only daughter.

To be born in a duck's nest in a farmyard is of no consequence to a bird if it is hatched from a swan's egg. He now felt glad at having suffered sorrow and trouble, because it enabled him to enjoy so much better all the pleasure and happiness around him; for the great swans swam round the newcomer and stroked his neck with their beaks, as a welcome.

As recently as 1950, the Scottish pathologist John Glaister included in his text the tale of a man "who was apprehended after having been seen to have unnatural intercourse with a duck," leaving us to wonder precisely what natural intercourse with a duck would involve.

Life is like a hurricane here in Duckburg Race cars, lasers, aeroplanes, it's a duck-blur! Might solve a mystery Or rewrite history! DuckTales! Woo-oo! Everyday they're out there making DuckTales! Woo-oo! Tales of derring do-bad and good Luck Tales! Woo-oo! When it seems they're heading for final curtain, Good deduction never fails, that's for certain! The worst of messes Become successes! D-d-d-danger! Watch behind you! There's a stranger out to find you What to do, just grab on to some DuckTales! DuckTales! Woo-oo! D-d-d-danger! Watch behind you! There's a stranger out to find What to do, just grab on to some DuckTales! Woo-oo!

When I was in second grade, my dad hurt his back and started walking with a cane that had a gold duck’s head for the handle. I think gripping onto a lower life-form’s cranium for support made him feel a lot more empowered about getting old, like, I’m still doing better than this poor fucking thing. Now, support my weight, duck!

On my way back to the town I took a short cut through the forest. A swarm of yellow butterflies drifted across the path. A woodpecker pecked industriously on the bark of a tree, searching for young cicadas. Overhead, wild duck flew north, on their way across Central Asia, all traveling without passports. Birds and butterflies recognize no borders.

I will fly away to them, to the royal birds, and they will beat me, because I, that am so ugly, dare to come near them. But it is all the same. Better to be killed by them than to be pursued by ducks, and beaten by fowls, and pushed about by the girl who takes care of the poultry yard, and to suffer hunger in winter!" And it flew out into the water, and swam towards the beautiful swans; these looked at it, and came sailing down upon it with outspread wings. "Kill me!" said the poor creature, and bent its head down upon the water, expecting nothing but death. But what was this that it saw in the clear water? It beheld its own image; and, lo! it was no longer a clumsy dark-gray bird, ugly and hateful to look at, but a—swan!

What happened was, they put me and my co-marshal, author Ridley Pearson, into an antique fire truck along with Daisy Duck and Clarabelle the Cow. I have nothing against either of these veteran Disney characters, but let's be honest, their careers are not currently sizzling, especially in the case of Clarabelle, who hasn't had a hit cartoon since roughly the Civil War.

Another tale relates how the Iroquois hero Hiawatha, traveling through Mohawk territory, came to the edge of a great lake. As he was wondering how to cross it, a huge flock of ducks descended on the lake and began to drink the water. When the ducks rose up again, the lake was dry, its bed covered in shells. From these shells Hiawatha made the first wampum beads and used them to unite the tribes in peace.

Side by side stood "The Lady of the Lake," "Treasure Island," and "David Copperfield"; and coverless and dogeared lay "Robinson Crusoe," "The Arabian Nights," and "Grimm's Fairy Tales." There were more, many more, and David devoured them all with eager eyes. The good in them he absorbed as he absorbed the sunshine; the evil he cast aside unconsciously—it rolled off, indeed, like the proverbial water from the duck's back.

Which got Thomas thinking. What religious book was any better? The Holy Bible, full of power and poetry, was also filled with tall tales. Thomas had found them enthralling, but in the end they were all just stories, less important than the Sky Woman story, the manidoog at creation, the Nanabozho stories. To them all, especially the humorless book Elnath and Vernon had left, Thomas preferred their supernatural figure Nanabozho, who fooled ducks, got angry at his own butt and burnt it off, created a shit mountain to climb down when stuck high in a tree, had a wolf for his nephew, and no conscience at any time, who painted the kingfisher lovely colors and by trickery fed his children when they starved, who threw his penis over his shoulder and his balls to the west, who changed himself to a stump and made his penis look like a branch where the kingfisher perched, who killed a god by shooting its shadow, and created everything useful and much that was essential, like laughter.

He walked steadily, feeling them behind him. His stride did not falter; he pretended they weren’t there. He pretended that all was well—that those hideous things knew nothing about what he had done earlier in the night. But each pumpkin he passed nearly leapt off its porch or railing or wooden chair, expanded and morphed and throbbed as if in a funhouse mirror, and joined the procession behind him. The wind picked up, suddenly and fiercely, and construction paper decorations adorning the houses that surrounded him flapped helplessly against their doors and windows. The man ducked against the cold wind, and from the pursuing army of the jack-o’-lanterns behind him. Cardboard skeletons with fastener joints and witches with shredded yarn hair and ghosts with cotton ball sheets and black crayon eyes escaped their thumbtacks and scotch tape and newspaper twine and they flashed and danced in his face. He brushed at them desperately with his hands, attempting to tear a hole through them and escape.

Charlie glanced at the poster hanging on the door, which announced the store's annual Hungry Ghost Festival, just four days away. It used to be Charlie's favorite holiday, from the puppet shows at the community center to the paper lanterns that his mom hung outside and to the food- especially the food. Sautéed pea shoots. Roasted duck. Pineapple cakes that fit into the palm of your hand. Then there was his grandma's shaved ice with all the toppings- chopped mangos, condensed milk poured on thick, and her famous mung beans in sugary syrup. He could eat a whole bowl of those.

The boxers were banging away at each other. Go on, go on, go on, keep punching, Antonio, keep punching. I'm blasting away at the Cuban guy. He can't hurt me. I'm made of iron. His fists feel like friendly pats when he manages to land a punch, which he doesn't do too often, 'cause I'm fast on my feet, and I duck and weave. Jack be nimble, Jack be quick. But I'm punching the hell out of him. I'm creaming the bastard, creaming the Cuban, creaming my old man... What?!... Creaming my boss,I mean. That son-of-a-bitch Mr. Hanson. For an instant he saw Janey at the receiving end of his fists. Again. He pushed the image from his mind. It was Mr. Hanson. It was the Cuban champion. And the crowd was cheering. They were on their feet and screaming. They love me. Yes, they love me. Yes they do. They really do.

Forgetting is not at all what forgiveness means. Forgiveness, in the case of our country, is forging ahead together. People from Trieux should intermingle with people from Erlauf. The Erlauf Royal Family should acknowledge they are in what once was Trieux. If they are seen eating a Trieux dish or using a Trieux word to describe something, I can guarantee Trieux citizens will ponder what goods and crops they can sell that people from Erlauf would like,” Cinderella said, her shoulder almost brushing the prince’s. “In other words, we should make an effort to adopt Trieux customs and culture into our lives?” Prince Cristoph asked. “In a way, yes. And we, yours. Right now our countries are saturated with bitterness. If we try being a little less selfish, I think the bitterness can be purged,” Cinderella said, ducking under Prince Cristoph’s arm. “I see. And you are willing to make some of the sacrifices you mentioned?” Prince Cristoph asked, stepping back from her before they came together again. “Of course, or I wouldn’t have the nerve to make these suggestions.

The man glared at the sphere, then a gleam entered his eye. “All right, you hunk of junk, come get me.” He sounded elated, like he was having fun. A man who had fun fighting an assassin bot? He led the bot backward, step by step. It followed him, and he laughed, one of the finest sounds Nella had ever heard. A woman could fall in love with that laugh. But any moment now, he’d fall over Nella’s hiding place, and the bot would get them both, which meant death for her. She held her breath. At the last minute, the man stepped through a narrow doorway into an empty warehouse. The bot skittered into the shadowed opening, then it stopped, confused. The man ducked out and slapped his hand against the wall. A huge metal door slammed down, carrying the startled bot with it. The heavy slab of metal smashed the bot into the floor. Plastic and metal and gold bits flew every which way, clattering against the rusting walls. Then with hiss and a pop, the pieces disintegrated. The man laughed again. “There. See how   you   like it.” But the bot was programmed to kill, no matter what. At the last moment, it released one of its darts, lightning fast, straight at Nella, programmed to seek and find her DNA signature. Nella felt the sting in her bare leg. The poison acted swiftly, and her vision blurred. Through a fog, she saw the big man standing over her, concern in the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. He pulled out the dart and stood holding it in one large hand. She heard him say, “Shit, are you all . . . ?” and then, there was nothing.

We killed them all when we came here. The people came and burned their land The forests where they used to feed We burned the trees that gave them shade And burned to bush, to scrub, to heath We made it easier to hunt. We changed the land, and they were gone. Today our beasts and dreams are small As species fall to time and us But back before the black folk came Before the white folk’s fleet arrived Before we built our cities here Before the casual genocide, This was the land where nightmares loped And hopped and ran and crawled and slid. And then we did the things we did, And thus we died the things we died. We have not seen Diprotodon A wombat bigger than a room Or run from Dromornithidae Gigantic demon ducks of doom All motor legs and ripping beaks A flock of geese from hell’s dark maw We’ve lost carnivorous kangaroo A bouncy furrier T Rex And Thylacoleo Carnifex the rat-king-devil-lion-thing the dropbear fantasy made flesh. Quinkana, the land crocodile Five metres long and fast as fright Wonambi, the enormous snake Who waited by the water-holes and took the ones who came to drink who were not watchful, clever, bright. Our Thylacines were tiger-wolves until we drove them off the map Then Megalania: seven meters of venomous enormous lizard... and more, and more. The ones whose bones we’ve never seen. The megafauna haunt our dreams. This was their land before mankind Just fifty thousand years ago. Time is a beast that eats and eats gives nothing back but ash and bones And one day someone else will come to excavate a heap of stones And wonder, What were people like? Their teeth weren’t sharp. Their feet were slow. They walked Australia long ago before Time took them into tales We’re transients. The land remains. Until its outlines wash away. While night falls down like dropbears don’t to swallow up Australia Day.

You're a hundred years old?" Mouse whispered in awe, her voice carrying up the stone passage, "Oh no," said the cat with a chuckle. "Much older!" "What's funny?" asked Alistair, bringing up the rear and feeling rather ill used. "What did she say?" "She says your breathing is so loud, you might as well blow trumpets to herald our coming," said Eanrin. "So duck your head and keep your mouth shut, eh?

Potentially the weakest link in the long chain that led to Pearl Harbor was actually one of the strongest. This was the busy eyes of Ensign Yoshikawa, the ostensibly petty bureaucrat in the Honolulu consulate of Consul General Nagao Kita. Presenting himself as a Filipino, he washed dishes at the Pearl Harbor Officers Club listening for scuttlebutt. He played tourist on a glass bottom boat in Kaneohe Bay near the air station where most of the Navy’s PBYs were moored. He flew over the islands as a traveler. As a straight-out spy, he swam along the shore of the harbor itself ducking out of sight from time to time breathing through a reed. He was Yamamoto’s ears and eyes. The Achilles heel to the whole operation was J-19, the consular code he used to send his information back to Tokyo. And Tokyo used to give him his instructions. Rochefort, the code breaker in Hypo at Pearl Harbor, besides being fluent in Japanese could decipher eighty percent of J-19 messages in about twelve hours. The most tell-tale of all was message 83 sent to Honolulu September 24, 1941. It instructed Yoshikawa to divide Pearl Harbor into a grid so vessels moored in each square could be pinpointed. This so-called “bomb plot” message was relayed to Washington by Clipper in undeciphered form. The Pan American plane had been delayed by bad weather so 83 wasn’t decoded and translated until October 9 or 10. Washington had five times as many intercepts piling up for decoding from Manila than Honolulu because Manila was intercepting higher priority Purple. When he saw the decrypt of 83, Colonel Rufus Bratton, head of the Far Eastern Section of Army G-2 or intelligence, was brought up short. Never before had the Japanese asked for the location of ships in harbor. Bratton sent the message on to Brigadier General Leonard T. Gerow, chief of the Army’s War Plans Division with General Marshall and Secretary Stimson marked in.

already put me in quite a position. ‘I’ve put you in a position? Just give me the damned divorce and let’s have done with it.’ Before he could answer there was a rustling just inside the house, and our houseboy, Barasa, came onto the veranda, ducking his head to show us he’d not meant to disturb us. ‘Does bwana want the evening meal served here?’ ‘No, in the house, Barasa. We’ll be in directly.’ When the boy had gone, Jock looked at me pointedly. ‘What?’ I asked. ‘The servants won’t tell tales.’ ‘No,’ he said. ‘Usually not. But they always know the score, don’t they?’ ‘I don’t care what anyone knows.’ ‘Maybe not, but you should.’ We ate our meal in strained silence, all of the furniture seeming to lean heavily in from the walls. The servants were very quiet as they came and went, and it was awful to sit there, wanting to scream but saying nothing. Jock was terrified I was going to embarrass him – or embarrass him further. That was all he seemed to think of now as he flexed and cautioned me, running thick strands of wire around the charade of our life together. He’d always been good at fences. I had known that from the beginning, but I hadn’t guessed how desperate I could feel bound up inside one. When I could finally excuse myself to the small guest bedroom where I was sleeping, I felt chapped and raw and prodded at. I barely slept at all that night, and the next morning, though I generally stayed for lunch, I bolted for the wagon at first light.   Back at Soysambu, Jock’s warnings and expectations continued to wear on me, but only in weak moments, when I let myself think of him.

married … the … d … duck.…’ There

TWO TIT MICE WALK INTO A BAR... Bartender says, 'What will ya' have?' The two tit mice say, 'Tat.' 'Tat.' Thank God the tit mice weren't a stutterers as well, or they'd say, 'Tat, Tat, Tat, Tat, Tat!' 'Tat, Tat, Tat, Tat, Tat!' ...and everybody in the bar would duck, except for the two stuttering ducks sitting next to the two tits, who'd just go, 'Quack, Quack, Quack, Quack!' 'Quack, Quack, Quack, Quack!' Then two six trigger happy Texans would whip out their six shooters, openin' fire and shootin' the two tit mice and two ducks deader than a doornail. The moral of this tale told by a fa, fa, fa, fool, is a pair of tits aren't safe in any bar. And whaT about the ducks, you ask? Well, I reckon... they were just sittin' ducks.

Once she’d caught her breath, they started again. He taught her blocks, stabs, and even a few basic flipping moves. Obviously, most of the time he flipped her into the water, and she came up looking like a drowned duck. Finally, Jared let Mina use a hip throw and knock him into the lake. She screamed and ran around in circles with her hands in the air, chanting her name and doing a victory dance. Jared

LENTILS WITH SAUSAGES { LENTILLES AUX SAUCISSES } My friend Fabienne makes this dish at the drop of a hat, because it’s quick, simple, satisfying, and delicious! Traditional vegetables in a dish like this are carrots, celery, onions, and perhaps fennel, which make it so flavorful. Sometimes it’s fun to go a bit wild, though, as Fabienne says. “I use red bell pepper,” she said. “It gives the dish exciting color and flavor.” Whichever vegetables you use, be sure to dice them so they blend in nicely. This calls for a hearty red, from Cahors. NOTE: You need delicious pork for this recipe. I’ve suggested kielbasa and slab bacon; use pork belly or unsmoked bacon, salt pork that you’ve boiled in fresh water twice first, or fresh pork sausages. 1 tablespoon duck fat or extra-virgin olive oil 2 medium onions, diced 1 small red bell pepper, seeds and pith removed Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper 1 large clove garlic, green germ removed, minced 1 cup (250g) green lentils (ideally lentilles de Puy), picked over for small stones, rinsed 1 bouquet garni 1 (8-ounce; 250g) Morteau or kielbasa, cut into ½-inch (1.2cm) rounds 2 to 3 fresh sausages (about 8 ounces; 250g total), cut into 2-inch (5cm) pieces 6 ounces (180g) lean slab bacon, cut into 1-inch (2.5cm) chunks Fresh flat-leaf parsley, for garnish Grainy mustard, for serving Melt the duck fat in a medium, heavy-bottomed saucepan over medium heat. Add the onions and bell pepper and stir. Season with salt and black pepper and cook until the onions are translucent, stirring frequently so they don’t stick, about 6 minutes. Add the garlic and stir. Add the lentils, stir, and add water to cover them by 1 inch (2.5cm). Add the bouquet garni, pushing it under the water. Raise the heat to medium-high and when the water boils, reduce the heat to medium so it is simmering, partially cover, and cook until the lentils begin to soften, about 15 minutes. Add the meats, pushing them into the lentils, and additional water if necessary to make sure that the lentils are moist. Return the liquid to a boil, then reduce the heat to maintain a simmer and cook, partially covered, until the lentils are “al dente” and not too soft, 15 to 20 minutes more. Remove from the heat and ladle into four shallow soup bowls. Garnish with a generous grind of black pepper and a parsley leaf. Serve immediately with the mustard alongside. SERVES 4

found

We dip beneath an underpruned flowering vine that threatens to overthrow the very trellis that has given it life. A crimson flower tickles my cheek as I duck under it. The scene just ahead is like something out of a fairy tale, or at least a fairy tale I'd like to read: at our feet a patch of wooly thyme, so soft it looks like a green pillow, and all around, roses, hydrangeas, alliums as large as dinner plates- flowers everywhere. But the view of Paris from this magical little perch is what really takes my breath away.

The lamb was as good as any he had ever eaten, and the duck was even better, cooked with cherries and lemons and not near as greasy as most. The innkeep brought buttered pease as well, and oaten bread still hot from her oven. This is what it means to be a knight, he told himself as he sucked the last bit of meat off the bone. Good food, and ale whenever I want it, and no one to clout me in the head. He had a second tankard of ale with the meal, a third to wash it down, and a fourth because there was no one to tell him he couldn’t, and when he was done he paid the woman with a silver stag and still got back a fistful of coppers.

Evidently, rigging cables is therapy for the Swiss: or part of their theology. What was it that he used to say? A balanced arc between mountain rows / as servant to his master shows / the power of besieged belief / in something something something, something something something-something to do with ducks, or rainbows.

She crossed her arms and ducked her head against the wind as she slowly hobbled back.

When it comes to food, by Bourdain standards, I’m no connoisseur. I don’t eat fetal duck eggs and describe them as delicious.

The faerie's creamery was not too deep, happily, or at least it did not feel so; a chimneylike skylight cut into the stone roof admitted the warm gold-green light of the forest. Given the faerie's size, the workspace was expansive--- even Wendell, the tallest among us, did not need to duck--- with a hard-packed earthen floor and an array of shelves, some of which held blocks of butter wrapped in paper and twine. In the middle of the workshop was the butter churn, beside which was a tin bucket of milk with condensation forming on the side--- which I think is what the faerie had been worrying about, for she immediately rushed over to it and carried it into her cellar. The air was cool, on the edge of cold, and the smell of the place made my mouth water. Not only of butter, but thyme and lavender, strawberries and honey, which the faerie used to flavor some of the blocks. Those on the nearest shelf had leaves tucked beneath the twine--- basil, I think.