Dude Senior Quotes

Dude,” Austin said as we exited the freeway, “in fifty years, all of the old folks’ homes are going to be filled with seniors listening to Justin Bieber on the oldies station and talking about how movies used to be in two-D.

Brittany Ellis," Mrs. Peterson says, pointing to the table behind Colin. I unenthusiastically sit on the stool at my assigned place. "Alejandro Fuentes," Mrs. Peterson says, pointing to the stool next to me. Oh my God. Alex . . . my chemistry partner? For my entire senior year! No way, no how, SO not okay. I give Colin a "help me" look as I try to avoid a panic attack. I definitely should have stayed at home. In bed. Under the covers. Forget not being intimidated. "Call me Alex." Mrs. Peterson looks up from her class list and regards Alex above the glasses on her nose. ' Alex Fuentes," she says, before changing his name on her list. "Mr. Fuentes, take off that bandanna. I have a zero tolerance policy in my class. No gang-related accessories are allowed to enter this room. Unfortunately, Alex, your reputation precedes you. Dr. Aguirre backs my zero tolerance policy one hundred percent ... do I make myself clear?" Alex stares her down before sliding the bandanna off his head, exposing raven hair that matches his eyes. "It's to cover up the lice," Colin mutters to Darlene, but I hear him and Alex does, too. "Vete a la verga," Alex says to Colin, his hard eyes blazing. "Collate el hocico." "Whatever, dude," Colin says, then turns around. "He can't even speak English." "That's enough, Colin. Alex, sit down." Mrs. Peterson eyes the rest of the class. "That goes for the rest of you, as well. I can't control what you do outside of this room, but in my class I'm the boss." She turns back to Alex. "Do I make myself clear?" "Si, señora," Alex says, deliberately slow.

Coleman, respect your elders!” said Serge. “I know I do. I see some ninety-year-old dude driving ten miles an hour, clutching the steering wheel to his face. Everyone else impatiently honks, but I say, ‘Rock on!’ and shoot him a gray-power fist salute. You have to give a guy like that credit, if only for excellent attendance.” Serge turned to the group of seniors nearest him and waved. “You’re my heroes! I love absolutely everything you’re doing with this whole ‘not dying’ thing!

It’s probably an insult to your proud feminism, too.” “Dude, you have no idea.” He pauses. “Did you just call me ‘dude?’” “I grew up in San Diego. If you’re not properly programmed with surfer slang by your senior year in high school, they don’t let you graduate.

Dude,” he said, adopting the modified surfer patois that binds together much of the more youthful cadre of senior management. “You can’t take me out. This place is nothing without a planning operation that understands and is dedicated to the day to day. Give me a chance to exercise my chops and demonstrate my added value. Besides, I’m no lawyer. I’m no beancounter. I’m a Wharton grad, did six years at KPMG. I was instrumental in the transaction that produced this acquisition, for chrissake. At some point we’re going to need to grow revenue, not just cut costs. That’s when what I do really kicks in.

Do you play?” “Not really. There are these dudes that play everything for me.” He began to sing, “Baby. Baby. Baby.” He hit some more keys in no particular arrangement. “Baby. Baby. Baby.