Entertaining Ex Quotes

This is from "Marabou Stork Nightmares". Bernard's Poem: Did you see her on the telly the other day good family entertainment the tabloids say But when you're backstage at your new faeces audition you hear the same old shite of your own selfish volition She was never a singer a comic or a dancer I cant say I was sad when I found out she had cancer Great Britain's earthy northern comedy queen takes the rand, understand from the racist Boer regime So now her cells are fucked and thats just tough titty I remember her act that I caught back in Sun City She went on and on about 'them from the trees with different skull shapes from the likes of you and me' Her Neo-Nazi spell it left me fucking numb the Boers lapped it up with zeal so did the British ex-pat scum But what goes round comes round they say so welcome to another dose of chemotherapy And for my part it's time to be upfront so fuck off and die you carcinogenic cunt.

Cleopatra moreover came of age in a country that entertained a singular definition of women’s roles. Well before her and centuries before the arrival of the Ptolemies, Egyptian women enjoyed the right to make their own marriages. Over time their liberties had increased, to levels unprecedented in the ancient world. They inherited equally and held property independently. Married women did not submit to their husbands’ control. They enjoyed the right to divorce and to be supported after a divorce. Until the time an ex-wife’s dowry was returned, she was entitled to be lodged in the house of her choice. Her property remained hers; it was not to be squandered by a wastrel husband. The law sided with the wife and children if a husband acted against their interests. Romans marveled that in Egypt female children were not left to die; a Roman was obligated to raise only his first-born daughter. Egyptian women married later than did their neighbors as well, only about half of them by Cleopatra’s age. They loaned money and operated barges. They served as priests in the native temples. They initiated lawsuits and hired flute players. As wives, widows, or divorcées, they owned vineyards, wineries, papyrus marshes, ships, perfume businesses, milling equipment, slaves, homes, camels. As much as one third of Ptolemaic Egypt may have been in female hands.

People aren’t really needed for anything else in the Griftopia, but since Americans require the illusion of self-government, we have elections. To make sure those elections are effectively meaningless as far as Wall Street is concerned, two things end up being true. One is that voters on both sides of the aisle are gradually weaned off that habit of having real expectations for their politicians, consuming the voting process entirely as culture-war entertainment. The other is that millions of tenuously middle-class voters are conned into pushing Wall Street’s own twisted greed ethos as though it were their own. The Tea Party, with its weirdly binary view of society as being split up cleanly into competing groups of producers and parasites—that’s just a cultural echo of the insane greed-is-good belief system on Wall Street that’s provided the foundation/excuse for a generation of brilliantly complex thievery. Those beliefs have trickled down to the ex-middle-class suckers struggling to stay on top of their mortgages and their credit card bills, and the real joke is that these voters listen to CNBC and Fox and they genuinely believe they’re the producers in this binary narrative. They don’t get that somewhere way up above, there’s a group of people who’ve been living the Atlas dream for real—and building a self-dealing financial bureaucracy in their own insane image.

and drew her strength directly from our magickal Oklahoma earth. “U-we-tsi-a-ge-ya, it seems I need help at the lavender booth. I simply cannot believe how busy we are.” Grandma had barely spoken when a nun hurried up. “Zoey, Sister Mary Angela could use your help filling out cat adoption forms.” “I’ll help you, Grandma Redbird,” Shaylin said. “I love the smell of lavender.” “Oh, honey, that would be so sweet of you. First, could you run to my car and get into the trunk. There is another box of lavender soaps and sachets tucked back there. Looks like I’m going to sell out completely,” Grandma said happily. “Sure thing.” Shaylin caught the keys Grandma tossed to her and hurried toward the main exit of the school grounds which led to the parking lot, as well as the tree-lined road that joined Utica Street. “And I’ll call my momma. She said just let her know if we get too busy over here. She and the PTA moms will be back here in a sec,” said Stevie Rae. “Grandma, do you mind if I give Street Cats a hand? I’ve been dying to check out their new litter of kittens.” “Go on, u-we-tsi-a-ge-ya. I think Sister Mary Angela has been missing your company.” “Thanks, Grandma.” I smiled at her. Then I turned to Stevie Rae. “Okay, if your mom’s group is coming back, I’m gonna go help the nuns.” “Yeah, no problem.” Stevie Rae, shielding her eyes and peering through the crowd, added, “I see her now, and she’s got Mrs. Rowland and Mrs. Wilson with her.” “Don’t worry. We can handle this,” Shaunee said. “’Kay,” I said, grinning at both of them. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” I left the cookie booth and noticed Aphrodite, clutching her big purple Queenies cup, was right on my heels. “I thought you didn’t want a lecture from the nuns.” “Better than a lecture from PTA moms.” She shuddered. “Plus, I like cats more than people.” I shrugged. “Okay, whatever.” We’d only gotten partway to the Street Cats tent when Aphrodite slowed way down. “Seriously. Effing. Pathetic.” She was muttering around her straw, narrowing her eyes, and glaring. I followed her gaze and joined her frown. “Yeah, no matter how many times I see them together, I still don’t get it.” Aphrodite and I had stopped to watch Shaunee’s ex-Twin BFF, Erin, hang all over Dallas. “I really thought she was better than that.” “Apparently not,” Aphrodite said. “Eeew,” I said, looking away from their way too public display of locked lips. “I’m telling you, there’s not enough booze in Tulsa to make watching those two suck face okay.” She made a gagging sound, which changed to a snort and a laugh. “Check out the wimple, twelve o’clock.” Sure enough, there was a nun I vaguely recognized as Sister Emily (one of the more uptight of the nuns) descending on the too-busy-with-their-tongues-to-notice couple. “She looks serious,” I said. “You know, a nun may very well be the direct opposite of an aphrodisiac. This should be entertaining. Let’s watch.” “Zoey! Over here!” I looked from the train wreck about to happen to see Sister Mary Angela waving me over to her.

We get in and I start the car. “Are you going to be good to Lani?” I ask. I think of Tommy Cook, a pale boy with psoriasis; we used to tie him to a chair with bungee cords and put him in the middle of the road, then hide. Few cars would actually come down Rainbow Drive, but when they did, it always surprised me that the drivers would slow their vehicles and swerve around the chair. None of them ever got out of their cars to help Tommy; it was as though they were in on the prank. I don’t know how Tommy managed to let us catch him more than once. Maybe he liked the attention. “I’ll try,” Scottie says. “But it’s hard. She has this face that you just want to hit.” “I know what you mean,” I say, thinking of Tommy, but realize I’m not supposed to empathize. “What does that mean?” I ask. “The kind of face that you want to hit. Where did you get that?” Sometimes I wonder if Scottie knows what she’s saying or if it’s something she recites, like those kids who memorize the Declaration of Independence. “It’s something Mom said about Danielle.” “I see.” Joanie has carried her juvenile meanness into her adult life. She sends unflattering pictures of her ex-friends to the Advertiser to put in their society pages. She always has some sort of drama in her life, some friend I’m not supposed to speak to or invite to our barbecues, and then I hear her on the phone gossiping about the latest scandal in an outraged and thrilled voice. “You are going to die,” I’ll hear her say. “Oh my God, you will just die.” Is this where Scottie gets it? By watching her mother use cruelty as a source of entertainment? I feel almost proud that I have made these deductions without the blogs and without Esther, and I’m eager to tell Joanie about all of this, to prove that I was capable without her.

Like all Freed musicals and all Astaire musicals, The Band Wagon believes that high and low, art and entertainment, elite and popular aspirations meet in the American musical. The Impressionist originals in Tony’s hotel room, which eventually finance his snappier vision of the show, draw not only a connection to An American in Paris but to painters, like Degas, who found art in entertainers. The ultimate hymn to this belief is the new Dietz and Schwartz song for the film, “That’s Entertainment,” which is to filmusicals what Berlin’s “There’s No Business Like Show Business” is to the stage.11 Whether a hot plot teeming with sex, a gay divorcée after her ex, or Oedipus Rex, whether a romantic swain after a queen or “some Shakespearean scene (where a ghost and a prince meet and everything ends in mincemeat),” it’s all one world of American entertainment. “Hip Hooray, the American way.” Dietz’s lyrics echo Mickey’s theorem in Strike Up the Band. What’s American? Exactly this kind of movie musical from Mount Hollywood Art School.

Don’t cry Meg. It’s not that bad.” “It’s not that bad? Ha! I’m thirty years old, with two black eyes, a swollen nose, a big, honking, yellow knot on my forehead, and the haircut from hell. As if that isn’t enough, I had a transvestite in my bed this morning, my husband is a lying, cheating, cradle robbing, bastard, who at some point slept with my best friend.” Jack scooted over to the middle of the seat, and stopped listening to his head and wrapped his arms around her. Big mistake! From inside, four faces were pressed to the window. “My last orgasm-with a partner- was…hell I can’t remember when! I frequently knock myself out for entertainment purposes, I have little boobs, big feet, squishy panties, nosy neighbors and demon possessed fish. God hates me!” Jack held her tighter. “I have frequent flyer miles at the hospital. I fed my husband marijuana Ex-lax brownies and shoved a marble up his butt.” Jack pulled away to look at her and she was serious. And crying. Big, sad, alligator tears that made his heart swell. “My mother is a holy rolling, Catholic Dr. Ruth, complete with condoms and Rosary beads. I write about relationships and sex, both of which I suck at and I hired a Private Investigator to pimp me out.” Jack burst out laughing and she pushed him away and swatted his shoulder. “And now you’re laughing at me. Could things get any worse?

Why is it that girls so constantly do this,—so frequently ask men who have loved them to be present at their marriages with other men? There is no triumph in it. It is done in sheer kindness and affection. They intend to offer something which shall soften and not aggravate the sorrow that they have caused. "You can't marry me yourself," the lady seems to say. "But the next greatest blessing which I can offer you shall be yours,—you shall see me married to somebody else." I fully appreciate the intention, but in honest truth, I doubt the eligibility of the proffered entertainment. On the present occasion John Eames seemed to be of this opinion, for he did not at once accept the invitation.

I find it quite entertaining that girlfriends and wives of some of my friends and the mistresses of my ex-husband feel the need to keep up with my social media. I didn't realize my life was so interesting since I am a simple person...I guess that's what happens when you have trust issues, bitterness, and/or nothing better to do.

Look, sorry to almost take you out. I thought you were his soon-to-be ex, too.” Syn walked over to the couch to get his jacket. “Sure. Whatever, Captain America,” Doug quipped angrily. Syn barked a laugh, putting his coat on. Furi walked over to him, keeping his back to his friend. Wanting to say something, anything to Syn before he left. “You talked to him about me?” Syn didn’t know if he was upset or not about that. He guessed it depended what Furi said. “A couple days back. When I left upset after those college bastards took a cheap shot at me.” Furi huffed. “I was pissed, okay. I didn’t know what you wanted from me. I thought it was just–” Syn moved in close, looking directly at him. “Just what? That you thought I only wanted to play around and experiment with you? Is that what you think?" “Not after what just happened tonight, no. But at that time, I thought so, yes. I only called Doug for a little comfort.” Furi’s voice was deep and raspy, his tight body pressed up close against Syn's. “I’m sure he comforts you damn good, too,” Syn hissed before he could think better of blurting that out. Wow. Really? "It’s not like that. Doug is my friend.” “A friend who just happened to come by after one in the morning and bust through the door to get to you.” “Stop cutting me off. Doug is straight and not my type even if he weren't. I don’t do jealousy, Syn. So knock it off.” Furi leaned in and brushed Syn’s neck with his lips. “Well, he pops up and it’s late as fuck, so what am I to think?” Syn whispered. “Hey, I’m not gonna fuck around with you if I’m already fucking around with someone else. I’m not that type of guy.” Furi moaned in Syn’s ear when he buried his thick palm in Furi's hair, soothingly massaging his scalp. Syn’s deep whisky-rough voice penetrated his brain. “I’m sorry. I’m just all screwed up right now; with you and me, what happened tonight. I just really wish we hadn’t been interrupted.” “Me too.” Syn wrapped his arms around Furi’s narrow waist. “I want to spend more time with you. I need to spend more time with you.” “We will.” “Why do you look upset?" Syn asked. “I’m nervous about the call you just got.” Furi released a shaky breath. “It’s okay. We’ll catch this person soon.” Syn held Furi’s hand, making his way to the door. “Yeah. Sounds like someone is after Illustra’s entertainers,” Doug piped up from his position on the arm of the couch. “My team is good. We’ll catch 'em.” Syn turned to Doug, “I’ll need you to come back to the precinct first thing tomorrow.” “Why?” the man asked with an exaggerated huff. “Because I said so. You were at Illustra not long ago, right?” Syn pulled out his keys while talking, not letting Doug answer. “That means the murder may’ve happened while you were there. So, like I said, I’ll need you to come back in the morning. For now. Stay here with Furi.” Syn took Furi by the shoulders, turning him to face him. “Any shit comes up, you call me on my cell.” Syn handed Furi a card from his inside jacket pocket. “If you have any problems; and I mean any at all, you call me immediately. I’m going to have the beat officer for this area do regular drive-bys to check for activity. Especially since your door is broken now.” Syn glared in Doug’s direction. Furi nodded his head. “Okay.” “I mean it.” Syn smiled and kissed Furi’s cheek like a perfect gentlemen. He leaned in and inhaled his hair one more time, whispering into it, causing Furi to quiver. “Call me later.” Furi nodded again. “Sure thing, Sergeant.

to [David] Simon and his partner, Ed Burns, The Wire was explicitly a piece of social activism. Among its targets, large and small, were the War on Drugs, the educational policy No Child Left Behind, and the outsize influence of money in America's political sytem, of statistics in its police departments, and of Pulitzer Prizes at its newspapers. The big fish, though, was nothing less than a capitalist system that Burns and Simon had begun to see as fundamentally doome. (If Simon was a dyed-in-the-wool lefly, Burns practically qualified as Zapatista; by ex-cop standards, he might as well have been Trotsky himself.) In chronicling the modern American city, Simon said, they had one mantra, adapted from, of all sources, sports radio personality Jim Rome: "Have a fucking take. Try not to suck." Neither Burns nor Simon would ever seem entirely comfortable acknowledging the degree that The Wire succeeded on another level: as beautifully constructed, suspenseful, heartfelt, reasonant entertainment. [...] "It's our job to be entertaining. I understand I must make you care about my characters. That's the fundamental engine of drama," Simon said dismissively. "It's the engine. But it's not the purpose". Told that The Wire had trascended the factual bounds that, for all its good intentions, had shackled The Corner, he seemed to deliberately misunderstand the compliment: "I have too much regard for that which is true to ever call it journalism." The questioner, of course, had meant the opposite: that The Wire was too good to call mere journalism. As late as 2012, he would complain in a New York Times interview that fans were still talking about their favorite characters rather than concentrating on the show's political message.

We may only imagine the scene, the old man, the rough ex–sea captain who had so loved little Wilberforce as a boy, and who had entertained such hopes for him, only to see them dashed.

There are too many stories, globally, of victims of family violence finally separating only to find themselves going in and out of court to entertain their abusive ex-partner.

Sitting on the couch in the trailer watching TV one late night, I saw an infomercial for a series of audiocassettes called Attacking Anxiety and Depression from the Midwest Center for Stress and Anxiety. Without a moment’s hesitation I reached for the phone, called the 800 number on the TV screen and purchased the tapes. When the tapes arrived a few days later, I popped in the first cassette in the sixteen-cassette self-help series—which was comprised of testimonials from people afflicted with panic attacks—and realized that I wasn’t going crazy, that this was indeed a legitimate psychiatric disorder. As I listened to the remainder of the series in our trailer, I began to grasp that my brain could tell me something so convincingly that I had almost no choice but to believe it. During anxiety attacks I actually believed that I was dying. The attacks were so severe that I would have rather known that I was going to have open heart surgery at 9:00 a.m. the next day than a panic attack. That was the power of the nervous system: we can think things that aren’t true and feel and see things that aren’t real. With the Attacking Anxiety and Depression tapes suddenly the subjective no longer held the power for me that it had once held. Indeed, what I was learning about the power of the mind just might explain some of the experiences I’d had in the past—like speaking with God or hearing his voice. It was neurologically possible to hear an audible voice when there was no voice there. I began to entertain the possibility that there was an objective way of looking at my experiences, and that this objective perspective might prove those experiences to be false. Up until that moment seeing truly was believing, but what did it say about my beliefs if I had not seen or heard anything at all?

They were all in Roan’s home. Although no smaller than Sarah’s roundhouse, it felt cramped, stuffed with all manner of things including: piles of antlers, string, branches, stones, boxes, tusks, bones, sticks, reeds, plants, and an abandoned beehive. Since returning, Persephone no longer felt comfortable imposing on Sarah’s hospitality. Her husband, Delwin, had appeared less than enthusiastic at the prospect of their one guest turning into five. It certainly didn’t help that one was a Dureyan, another a wolf, the third a mystic, the fourth an ex-slave from Alon Rhist, and that Persephone had been accused of murder. In contrast, Roan and Moya were delighted to have them. Roan even rushed out and enlisted Padera’s help to fix their meal. Roan hadn’t entertained before and was clueless about what to do. She wanted everything to be perfect.

entertainment industry, much less

He’d stood there in the snow at Mile-High Pie last night and made me feel sorry for him! He’d made me feel terrible for something I didn’t even do, after he’d lied to me to my face! And then he’d kissed me and I’d let him! Mortifying! Now his lips parted. I waited to hear the next lie. I almost hoped it was a good one, so at least I’d have an entertaining story to share with my friends about what an ass he was.

Death Waits in the Dark finds ex-Shadow Wolf lawman, Arthur Makai, trying to do a favor for the widow of an old Marine Corps buddy and finds himself confronting an old enemy who’s threatening the Native Lands and gets involved in a mystery that shocks Makai to his core. Mark Edward Langley’s style is reminiscent of the great John D. MacDonald. Don’t miss this excellent second novel in this entertaining series. ~ Michael A. Black, author of Legends of the West, and Dying Art and Cold Fury in the Executioner series (as Don Pendleton).

When a person with white privilege uses their proximity to and relationships with BIPOC as proof that they are not racist: “I can’t be racist because my partner/ ex/ children/ family members/ best friends/ teachers/ favorite writers, entertainers, activists, athletes, entrepreneurs, etc. are BIPOC.

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