Excuses Sports Quotes

Excuses are tools of incompetence used to build bridges to nowhere and monuments of nothingness, and those who use them seldom specialize in anything else.

True sportsmanship is… Knowing that you need your opponent because without him or her, there is no game. Acknowledging that your opponent holds the same deep-rooted aspirations and expectations as you. Knowing that, win or lose, you will walk off the course with pride. Always taking the high road. And always, always, always being a good sport.

When the horrors of anarchy force us to set up laws that forbid us to fight and torture one another for sport, we still snatch at every excuse for declaring individuals outside the protection of law and torturing them to our hearts content.

Wow, Angela and Holly,” Ash said, sounding awed. “Hot.” “Excuse me, what is wrong with you?” Kami demanded. “Other people’s sexuality is not your spectator sport.” Ash paused. “Of course,” he said. “But—” “No!” Kami exclaimed. “No buts. That’s my best friend you’re talking about. Your first reaction should not be ‘Hot.’ ” “It’s not an insult,” Ash protested. “Oh, okay,” Kami said. “In that case, you’re going to give me a minute. I’m picturing you and Jared. Naked. Entwined.” There was a pause. Then Jared said, “He is probably my half brother, you know.” “I don’t care,” Kami informed him. “All you are to me are sex objects that I choose to imagine bashing together at random. Oh, there you go again, look at that, nothing but Lynburn skin as far as the mind’s eye can see. Masculine groans fill the air, husky and..." "Stop it," Ash said in a faint voice. "That isn't fair.

You drop that load too when you find yourself an excuse. Then, afterward, all you got to do is learn to feel sorry for yourself—and lots of people learn to get their kicks that way. It’s one of the best indoor sports, feeling sorry.” Bert’s face broke into an active grin. “A sport enjoyed by all. Especially the born losers.

We need to stop excusing mediocre and downright pernicious art, stop 'taking it for what it’s worth' as we take our fast foods, our overpriced cars that are no good, the overpriced houses we spend all our lives fixing, our television programs, our schools thrown up like barricades in the way of young minds, our brainless fat religions, our poisonous air, our incredible cult of sports, and our ritual of fornicating with all pretty or even horse-faced strangers. We would not put up with a debauched king, but in a democracy all of us are kings, and we praise debauchery as pluralism. This book is of course no condemnation of pluralism; but it is true that art is in one sense fascistic: it claims, on good authority, that some things are healthy for individuals and society and some things are not.

Let's talk about the homoerotic undertones in sports," she said. Paul thrust his head forward as if he hadn't heard right. "Excuse me?

Le voilà le grand drame de notre société: Même les riches ne font plus envie. Ils sont gros, moches, et vulgaires, leurs femmes sont liftées, ils vont en prison, leurs enfants se droguent, ils ont des goûts de ploucs, ils posent pour Gala. Les riches d'aujourd'hui ont oublié que l'argent est un moyen non une fin. Ils ne savent plus quoi en faire. Au moins quand on est pauvre, on peut se dire qu'avec du fric, tout s'arrangerait. Mais quand on est riche, on ne peut pas se dire qu'avec une nouvelle baraque dans le Midi, une autre voiture de sport, une paire de pompes à 12000 balles, ou un mannequin supplémentaire, tout s'arrangerait. Quand on est riche, on n'a plus d'excuse. C'est pour ça que tout les milliardaires sont sous Prozac ; parce qu'ils ne font plus rêver personne, même pas eux !

In sports, I win because your better. You win because your better. That's it I don't accept excuses.

Jiu-Jitsu is just an excuse Brazilians came up with to hug people for a few hours a day.

If you want to make history, then first stop making excuses- the only thing that lagging u behind. Analyze capabilities, take first step & choose a different way of making things happen.

We are experiencing a dangerous time in our country, with a political environment where basic facts are disputed, fundamental truth is questioned, lying is normalized, and unethical behavior is ignored, excused, or rewarded. This is not just happening in our nation’s capital, and not just in the United States. It is a troubling trend that has touched institutions across America and around the world—boardrooms of major companies, newsrooms, university campuses, the entertainment industry, and professional and Olympic sports.

I’m home now. And fate would have it that you’re here, too. And I’m done with this friend bullshit, Red. I’m dong pretending I don’t want you. I’m done making excuses to see you. And I sure don’t give a shit that you’re Ella’s teacher. I want you and I’m done fucking around.

You might want to pop your collar." "Hey if the biker doesn't pop his, I'm not popping mine. Also? We're thirty years past that fashion faux pas." "Yeah, but it still comes in handy when you're sporting a hickey." "What?" My hands flew to my neck, and I found the tender spot. "Shit. No, that's not-- I burned it. My hair wasn't cooperating, so I dragged out the curling iron." "Gabriel has a curling iron?" "No, I meant--Damn it." I rooted through my bag for concealer. "I'm sorry. If I'd noticed, I'd have hidden it." "I know." His lips twitched. "It is kinda funny, though, watching you guys scramble with excuses. Gabriel told me you weren't answering my calls because you forgot your phone in the car. Which is about as likely as you leaving your arm behind. He dried his hair so fast the back was sticking up. And then he scarfed down half the food I brought for lunch. I've never seen him eat like that." He smiled. "But I do appreciate he's being circumspect." "He's not going to wave it in your face." "No, but we are talking about Gabriel, who never goes out of his way to cushion anyone's feelings but yours. He's being very thoughtful. It's sweet. Just don't tell him I said that." "I won't." I finished applying the concealer. "Better?" "Yep." He leaned over for a better look and then stopped. "Is that a bite on your collarbone?" "Shit! No. Damn it. Ricky laughed as I frantically applied more makeup.

Thud of metal on fishbone, skull, neckless headbody, the fish is whole, I couldn’t anymore, I had no right to. We didn’t need it, our proper food was tin cans. We were committing this act, violation, for sport or amusement or pleasure, recreation they call it, these were no longer the right reasons. That’s an explanation but no excuse my father used to say, a favorite maxim.

Less than 1 percent of lynchers were ever convicted of a crime. Only a fraction of those ever served a sentence. Teddy Roosevelt claimed the main cause of lynching was Black men raping White women. You know what? That didn’t happen.” “Why do you think White people are so afraid of that?” “Who knows. Sexual inadequacy, maybe. An amplification of their own desire to rape, which they did.” Mama Z puffed out smoke. “But I think rape was just an excuse.” “You think Whites are just afraid of Black men?” “I think it’s sport.” 73 Sheriff Red Jetty sat in a booth in the back of the Dinah.

The term ‘political correctness’ has evolved out of the Marxist and Freudian philosophies of the 1930s to become a tool for multicultural-ism, multisexualism, multitheism, and multi-anythingism. It was created to discourage bias and prejudiced thinking that discriminates against an individual or group. It has become society’s way of not offending anyone, whether it is an individual, a group, or a nation. In many instances, however, it is a simple, disarming way of ignoring or deflecting the truth about a situation. Today, the use of political correctness has become so abused that anyone who voices his or her opinion contrary to ‘politically correct think’ is immediately tagged with some form of disparaging label, such as racist and bigot. This exploitation has gotten so out of control that this name-calling accusation is used as a simple and mindless means to manipulate academic, social, or political discussion. The result is a social paranoia which discourages free thought and expression. It’s like living in a totalitarian state in which you are afraid to say what you think. Now who wants to suffer that? So people keep quiet. Their opinions are held captive to fear. How handy for the Islamo-fascists, the American-hating, Jew-killing, Israel-destroying, women-abusing, multireligious-intolerant Muslims. Oh! Excuse me. Did I say something not quite PC? This social paranoia is similar to the attitude that developed in the late 1980s and 1990s, when people became so concerned about children’s self-esteem that failure could not be acknowledged or misbehavior corrected. ‘Now, let’s not hurt their feelings’ was the standard approach. This degree of concern led to teachers giving passing grades for poor performance and youth sport activities where no one kept score. And what has been the fallout of all that psychobabble? High school kids who can’t read their diploma or make change for a dollar, internationally embarrassing scholastic performance scores, and young adults ill equipped to face the competitive lifestyle the world has to offer. They are left watching the television show The Apprentice, not competing to be an apprentice. America got itself into a mess by not upholding the high standards and expectations it once had, instead giving in to mediocrity; and we’re getting into a mess now with political correctness.

It is strange when we expect all students to do well academically and ignore the fact that individuals' abilities vary. If a child/kid/teenager cannot do well in academics and shows signs of distraction, it is an indication that his mind isn't in the strict form and obligations of the school curriculum. His cleverness and creativeness could show in other aspects of life. It could be in arts, sports, photography, computer world, gardening, carpentry, or any other field in life. Judging students' based on their grades and accusing them of failure is an excuse for the limited space the educational system provides to students to succeed in life.

Nonsense, Cosmo, how can you talk so?’ exclaimed his sister. ‘I’m sure he isn’t sickly, even if he has got a little headache!’ She smiled encouragingly at Ambrose, sublimely unconscious of having offended all three Cliffes: Ambrose, because, however much he might dislike having an incipient boil pointed out, he was proud of his headaches, which often earned for him a great deal of attention; Cosmo, because he had for some years subscribed to his wife’s view of the matter, finding in Ambrose’s delicacy an excuse for his sad want of interest in any manly sport; and Emma, because she regarded any suggestion that her only child was not in a deplorable state of debility as little short of an insult.

He needs to be talked to." "This is funny, but I know how to talk, too." Brian swore under his breath. "He prefers singing." "Excuse me?" "I said,he prefers singing." "Oh." Keeley tucked her tongue in her cheek. "Any particular tune? Wait, let me guess. Finnegan's Wake?" Brian''s steely-eyed stare had her laughing until she had to lean weakly against the gelding.The horse responded by twisting his head and trying to sniff her pockets for apples. "It's a quick tune," Brian said coolly, "and he likes hearing his name." "I know the chorus." Gamely Keeley struggled to swallow another giggle. "But I'm not sure I know all the words.There are several verses as I recall." "Do the best you can," he muttered and strode off.His lips twitched as he heard her launch into the song about the Dubliner who had a tippling way. When he reached Betty's box, he shook his head. "I should've known. If there's not a Grant one place, there's a Grant in another until you're tripping over them." Travis gave Betty a last pat on the shoulder. "Is that Keeley I hear singing?" "She's being sarcastic, but as long as the job's done. She's dug in her heels about grooming Finnegan." "She comes by it naturally.The hard head as well as the skill." "Never had so many owners breathing down my neck.We don't need them, do we, darling?" Brian laid his hands on Beetty's cheek, and she shook her head, then nibbled his hair. "Damn horse has a crush on you." "She may be your lady, sir, but she's my own true love.Aren't you beautiful, my heart?" He stroked, sliding into the Gaelic that had Betty's ears pricked and her body shifting restlessly. "She likes being excited before a race," Brian murmured. "What do you call it-pumped up like your American football players.Which is a sport that eludes me altogether as they're gathered into circles discussing things most of the time instead of getting on with it." "I heard you won the pool on last Monday nights game," Travis commented. "Betting's the only thing about your football I do understand." Brian gathered her reins. "I'll walk her around a bit before we take her down. She likes to parade.You and your missus will want to stay close to the winner's circle." Travis grinned at him. "We'll be watching from the rail." "Let's go show off." Brian led Betty out.

By those who get a kick out of this sort of thing (and they are very numerous) inhumanity is enjoyed for its own sake, but often, nonetheless, with a bad conscience. To allay their sense of guilt, the bullies and the sadists provide themselves with a creditable excuses for their favorite sport. Thus, brutality toward children is rationalized as discipline, as obedience to the Word of God - "he that spareth the rod, hateth his son". Brutality toward criminals is a corollary of the Categorical Imperative. Brutality toward religious or political heretics is a blow for the True Faith. Brutality toward members of an alien race is justified by arguments drawn from what may once have passed for Science. Once universal, brutality toward the insane is not yet extinct - the mad are horribly exasperating. But this brutality is no longer rationalized, as it was in the past, in theological terms. The people who tormented Surin and the other victims of hysteria or psychosis did so, first, because they enjoyed being brutal and, second, because they were convinced that they did well to be brutal. And they believed that they did well, because, ex hypthesi, the mad had always brought their own troubles upon themselves. For some manifest or obscure sin, they were being punished by God, who permitted devils to besiege or obsess them. Both as God's enemies and as temporary incarnations of radical evil, they deserved the be maltreated. And maltreated they were - with a a good conscience and a heart-warming sense that the divine will was being done on earth, as in heaven.

They have confirmed my belief that the ideas people choose to have about themselves largely determine the quality of the lives they lead. We can choose to believe in ourselves, and thus to strive, to risk, to perse- vere, and to achieve. Or we can choose to cling to security and medi- ocrity. We can choose to set no limits on ourselves, to set high goals and dream big dreams. We can use those dreams to fuel our spirits with pas- sion. Or we can become philosophers of the worst kind, inventing ways to rationalize our failures, inventing excuses for mediocrity. We can fall in love with our own abilities and our own potential, then choose to maximize those abilities. Or we can decide that we have no special tal- ents or abilities and try to be happy being safe and comfortable.

Wow, Angela and Holly,” Ash said, sounding awed. “Hot.” “Excuse me, what is wrong with you?” Kami demanded. “Other people’s sexuality is not your spectator sport.” Ash paused. “Of course,” he said. “But—” “No!” Kami exclaimed. “No buts. That’s my best friend you’re talking about. Your first reaction should not be ‘Hot.’ ” “It’s not an insult,” Ash protested. “Oh, okay,” Kami said. “In that case, you’re going to give me a minute. I’m picturing you and Jared. Naked. Entwined.” There was a pause. Then Jared said, “He is probably my half brother, you know.” “I don’t care,” Kami informed him. “All you are to me are sex objects that I choose to imagine bashing together at random. Oh, there you go again, look at that, nothing but Lynburn skin as far as the mind’s eye can see. Masculine groans fill the air, husky and—” “Stop it,” Ash said in a faint voice. “That isn’t fair.” Behind them, Jared was laughing. Kami glanced back at him and caught his eye: for once, it made her smile, as if amusement could still travel back and forth like a spark between them. “Ash is right, this is totally unfair,” Jared told her. “If you insist on this—” “Oh, I do,” Kami assured him. “Then I insist on hooking up with Rusty instead of Ash. It’s the least you can do.” “Ugh,” Ash protested. “You guys, stop.” “She’s making a point,” Jared said blandly. “I recognize her right to do that. But considering the alternative, I want Rusty.” Ash gave this some thought. “Okay, I’ll have Rusty too.” The sound of the door opening behind them made them all look up the stairs to where Rusty stood, with one eyebrow raised. “Don’t fight, boys,” he remarked mildly. “There’s plenty of Rusty to go around.

If you want anything just ask for it, old sport,” he urged me. “Excuse me. I will rejoin you later.” When he was gone I turned immediately to Jordan—constrained to assure her of my surprise. I had expected that Mr. Gatsby would be a florid and corpulent person in his middle years. “Who is he?” I demanded. “Do you know?” “He’s just a man named Gatsby.” “Where is he from, I mean? And what does he do?” “Now you’re started on the subject,” she answered with a wan smile. “Well,—he told me once he was an Oxford man.” A dim background started to take shape behind him but at her next remark it faded away. “However, I don’t believe it.” “Why not?” “I don’t know,” she insisted. “I just don’t think he went there.” Something in her tone reminded me of the other girl’s “I think he killed a man,” and had the effect of stimulating my curiosity. I would have accepted without question the information that Gatsby sprang from the swamps of Louisiana or from the lower East Side of New York. That was comprehensible. But young men didn’t—at least in my provincial inexperience I believed they didn’t—drift coolly out of nowhere and buy a palace on Long Island Sound. “Anyhow he gives large parties,” said Jordan, changing the subject with an urbane distaste for the concrete. “And I like large parties. They’re so intimate. At small parties there isn’t any privacy.

Interviewing is a team sport and failing to get everyone’s perspective regarding a candidate is not only a lost opportunity in terms of gathering some random piece of perspective, but it also sends an implied message to the team when Dave gets excused.

I have confessed sin over cigars, asked for prayer over cigars, celebrated personal and professional victories over cigars, and mourned personal and professional defeats over cigars. I’ve laughed with those who have laughed, over cigars, and wept with those who have wept. That’s not to elevate the cigar to some kind of exalted religious or cultural level. Here’s what a cigar is, in plain-speak: An excuse to sit down and talk with another guy for an hour. Think about it . . . when does this ever happen outside a cigar lounge? When guys are “hunting together” they’re sitting in a tree stand being quiet. When guys are “watching a ballgame together” they’re sitting in a living room or a sports bar staring slack-jawed at a television. When guys are “shopping for antiques together”[3] they’re walking through a junky antique store making fun of all the ridiculous stuff inside and not really talking about the stuff of life. The cigar lounge removes the awkward stiltedness of the Church Lobby (“How are YOU doing Bob?”), and it’s not as formal and intimidating as a counselor’s office, yet it still works as a place to talk.

The biggest downfall of the cave divers in the 60s and early 70s was deep diving,” said Wes Skiles. “We’d figured out all the other things about the dangers of incorrectly using lines and lights, the air rules, and we now had pressure gauges. We had no excuse. When I came into the sport in 1973, there was really no reason not to operate safely. But deep diving they hadn’t figured out. A number of trained cave divers—all in a short period of time—lost their lives in caves.

All who profess godliness are under the most sacred obligation to guard the spirit, and to exercise self-control under the greatest provocation. The burdens placed upon Moses were very great; few men will ever be so severely tried as he was; yet this was not allowed to excuse his sin. God has made ample provision for his people; and if they rely upon his strength, they will never become the sport of circumstances. The strongest temptation cannot excuse sin. However great the pressure brought to bear upon the soul, transgression is our own act. It is not in the power of earth or hell to compel anyone to do evil. Satan attacks us at our weak points, but we need not be overcome. However severe or unexpected the assault, God has provided help for us, and in his strength we may conquer. [422]

- Excuse-moi de ne pas apprécier un sport où les joueurs passent leur temps à se cogner dessus ! Cette fois-ci, il ne rit pas et se rapprocha d'elle, la dominant de sa haute taille. - Le rugby ce n'est pas ça. Ce n'est pas une bande de gros bras qui se foncent dessus sans réfléchir. Le rugby, c'est une mentalité. C'est tout donner pour son équipe, encaisser les coups pour aider les copains à marquer, jouer pour les autres, avant de jouer pour soi-même. C'est le respect du jeu, de ses règles complexes, de l'arbitre, de l'adversaire. C'est tout donner pour les autres, sur le pré et en dehors. Le rugby, ce n'est pas juste une équipe de joueurs, c'est une famille, un clan une tribu. Il n'y a pas que les joueurs, il y a la famille, les amis, les supporters. On ne gagne pas un match pour nous, mais pour tout le monde. Si tu ne comprends pas ça, inutile d'apprendre les règles, tu ne comprendras jamais rien au jeu.

No more excuses,” he said. “No more feeling sorry for yourselves because of what happened in the past. No more self-pity. And no more quitting!

People wrongly dismiss black achievement in these areas for reasons that can be ascribed only to racism—that our compelling excellence follows from a mere genetic advantage. The fact is that we are good at sports and music because we subject ourselves to unforgiving standards of excellence and then work ferociously to meet those standards. Ruthlessly, we allow absolutely no excuses.

It doesn’t matter who you are or where you come from, those who achieve greatness are those who decide to achieve greatness. They encounter setbacks just like everyone else. They run into “unlucky” circumstances. They face tragedies just like we all do. The only difference between the achievers and everyone else is how they respond to those obstacles.  They don’t make excuses or go looking for someone or something to blame. Instead, they accept full responsibility for how they respond. How you respond to the events you encounter determines your outcome. This is the secret to a successful life.

American fans showed me there could be another way, that attending sports could be about something more important: an excuse to drain light beers and consumer vast quantities of sausage-based product.

sounded to Eve like an excuse for Garvey to suck up to celebrities and studio executives, who were likely to be among the owners of the expensive sports car. “Don’t forget to take selfies,” Eve said. Garvey flipped her off and walked out with Biddle.

If you’re always looking for shortcuts or ways to retreat, you’ll always find excuses for not reaching your destination.

If anything goes bad, I did it. If anything goes semi-good, we did it. If anything goes real good, you did it.’ That’s what being a leader means. The buck stops with you when there are problems. No excuses. No blaming others.

believe there are two types of people in this world: Those who believe success is a choice and those who make excuses for why they’re not successful.

You control your destiny. You deserve success. Don’t ever forget that. Don’t give away your power. Don’t go looking for excuses or hoping for lucky breaks.

You have a donkey, so have I, and they graze in the same field. The day comes when I conceive a dislike for mine. I go to shoot it,draw a bead on it, fire: the brute falls in its tracks. I inspect the victim, and find to my horror that it is your donkey. I appear on your doorstep with the remains and say--what? 'I say, old sport, I'm awfully sorry, &c., I've shot your donkey by adccident'? Or 'by mistake'? Then again, I go to shoot my donkey as before, draw a bead on it, fire-but as I do so, the beasts move, and to my horror yours falls. Again the scene on the doorstep--what do I say? 'By mistake'? Or 'by accident'?

According to research, fathers with children under eighteen spend about three more hours per week on leisure time than mothers. And while leisure activities for men generally include playing sports, exercising, or watching TV or other media, mothers' activities are often expected to be normal day-to-day activities chalked up to self-care. "Go take a bath! Go take a nap! Go to bed early!" Gee, thanks, society. When we aren't momming, we are expected to be working; and when we aren't working we are expected to be momming! Maybe this is why mothers feel more exhausted and stressed during their leisure time than fathers do, and why co-opting a business trip for some R&R is the best excuse there is to do business.

You will perhaps have heard something of a disreputable Brawl occurring in Boston in March of three Years past, which I have often seen in Newspaper and Broadside called a “Massacre,” most irresponsibly—and most inaccurately, to one who has been privy to the actual Occurrence. I was not present myself, but have spoken to numerous of the Officers and Soldiers who were. If they speak truly, and I believe they do, such a View as is given by the Boston Press of the Matter has been monstrous. Boston is by all Accounts a perfect Hellhole of republican Sentiment, with so-called “Marching Societies” at large in the Streets in every Weather, these being no more than an Excuse for the Assembly of Mobs, whose chief Sport is the tormenting of the Troops quartered there. Higgins tells me that no Man would dare go out alone in Uniform, for fear of these Mobs, and that even when in greater Numbers, harassment from the public soon drove them back to their Quarters, save when compelled by Duty to persist. A Patrol of five Soldiers was so beset one Evening, pursued not only by insults of the grossest Nature, but by hurled Stones, Clods of Earth and Dung, and other such Rubbish. Such was the Press of the Mob around them that the Men feared for their Safety, and thus presented their Weapons, in hopes of discouraging the raucous Attentions rained upon them. So far from accomplishing this Aim, the Action provoked still greater Outrages from the Crowd, and at some Point, a Gun was fired. No one can say for sure whether the Shot was discharged from the Crowd, or from one of the Soldier’s Weapons, let alone whether it were by Accident or in Deliberation, but the Effect of it … well, you will have sufficient Knowledge of such Matters to imagine the Confusion of subsequent Events. In the End, five of the Mob were killed, and while the Soldiers were buffeted and badly handled, they escaped alive, only to be made Scapegoats by the malicious Rantings of the mob’s Leaders in the Press, these so styled as to make it seem a wanton and unprovoked Slaughter of Innocents, rather than a Matter of Self-defense against a Mob inflamed by Drink and Sloganeering. I confess that my Sympathies must lie altogether with the Soldiers; I am sure so much is obvious to you. They were brought to Trial, where the Judge discovered Three to be Innocent, but no Doubt felt it would be Dangerous to his own Situation to free them all.

Lily Anderson before she fell to her death three stories down was raped by the sisters, they forced her into acts that most cannot even imagine, or maybe you just do not want to. All the same, I saw everything anyway, and I truly know what it feels, like to be in that state of affairs. If she did not want to engage in all of those activities, they would beat the crap out of her. Lily would always show up with fresh bruises, but she always made up excuses. Conversely, I always knew who did it, but she did not say much about it. She wore them well, and she did not like to tell, mainly because she had- fear. The fear is the alternate drive to stopping anyone from doing anything. Oh yes, fear can break a person, fear can drive a person to drastic solutions or conclusions. Fear can drive some nonsense, and fear can make you brilliant. The fear does it all. Yes, fear is a death sentence, one way or another. Either you fear living, or you fear dying. Fear comes down to a simple choice actually; do I want to live, or when and where do I want to die? Who or what is going to be the cause, and will anybody care afterward, this, or do they now? That is the fear we have when the eyes are upon us, and the spirit lives to talk to us. Lily, had no choice, she either had to do what the sisters wanted… or be beaten with an inch of life, either way, she always ended up with markings on her body. I believe that if things would have pressed on like that, for her she would have lost her mind, yet some say she did? Like I said- time within the hellhole is a slow time, where anybody finds anything to keep their mind busy. Some draw! Some have sex! Some have sports and clubs! Someone like me has nothing to them, and yet I have it all. I know I can do anything, because I have so many god-gifted talents, and just because I am not like you, does not mean I cannot do the unimaginable. (Alliances) So, the question is why do we make groupings? Why do we classify people according to how they will look, speak, or the way they act? Why do we put people in classes regarding what other people think, why do we? These are some of the activities, which some do to keep their mind sharp, and the others have to pay the price. What is your thing? There are some, which cut class for recreational reasons.

Fair enough. But just so you know, I’ve heard a lot, and there’s not much that shocks me.” “Good, because this one’s a doozy.” He hesitated. “There’s really no elegant way to say this. So I’ll just spit it out.” He paused for what seemed like a minute. “Apparently my client has a thing for peeing on men.” Another pause. “She hires them from some sort of ‘service’ in Manhattan.” “Ah, water sports,” I replied, proud of my knowledge in these matters. “Excuse me?” “Urinating on another person for pleasure is known as water sports. The formal name is urolagnia. It’s not as uncommon as you’d think.” “Well, it’s pretty uncommon in my world,” he said.

7.  If he keeps offering up excuses for why he can’t meet your friends and family, he’s sport fishing; if he agrees to go to the family barbecue or a social event where he will be introduced to family, friends, and co-workers, he might consider you a keeper.

of the past. We must only begin. Believe me and you will see.” —EPICTETUS, DISCOURSES, 2.19.29–34 Do you remember, in school or early in your life, being afraid to try something because you feared you might fail at it? Most teenagers choose to fool around rather than exert themselves. Halfhearted, lazy effort gives them a ready-made excuse: “It doesn’t matter. I wasn’t even trying.” As we get older, failure is not so inconsequential anymore. What’s at stake is not some arbitrary grade or intramural sports trophy, but the quality of your life and your ability to deal with the world around you. Don’t let that intimidate you, though. You have the best teachers in the world: the wisest philosophers who ever lived. And not only are you capable, the professor is asking for something very simple: just begin the work. The rest follows.

Sacrifice demands purity, and isn’t worth as much without it. This is why people get so pissed off when athletes get busted for performance-enhancing drugs. If sport were merely a competitive quest for excellence, pharmaceutical augmentations would be considered an innovation, and their side effects would be considered the price of doing business. We would feel the same way about doped-up athletes that we do about doped-up musicians: it might make them better at what they do. It’s part of the world they live in, although it’s a shame when they overdose or die. But if deep down, we know that sport is the sacrifice of a hunter’s energy, then doping destroys the purity of the ritual, and that’s what leaves us feeling robbed. It also spurs people to cheer for younger elite cyclists like Taylor Phinney, who conspicuously eschew not only banned substances but milder performing-enhancing measures like “finish bottles,” the crushed-up caffeine pills and painkillers that riders gulp down in the home stretch.5 The nutritional taboos of the Paleo Diet mesh perfectly with this mythos. The living root of sport is why Jerry Hill does one-legged box jumps in the Games, coaching from the floor of the arena: no excuses. And it’s why, when we see Chris Spealler carrying a 150-pound ball across the stadium, it seems like one of the great, for-the-ages moments in sport.

Winning is the only thing' does not mean 'win at all costs, by any means, fair or foul.' Nor does it mean that losing is without dignity. Every team, even the Green Bay Packers at their best, loses sometimes. It means that losing is, in the end, one's own responsibility. One's own fault. It means there are no excuses. 'Winning is the only thing' is capable of sinister interpretations. But it is also capable of expressing the highest human cravings for perfection. Winning does not simply mean crushing one's foes but being the best one can possibly be--and conquering the fates and adversities that are stronger forces even than opposing teams. Winning is both excellence and vindication in the face of the gods. It is a form of thumbing one's nose, for a moment, at the cancers and diseases that, in the end, strike us all down, every one of us, even spirits as alive as Vince Lombardi's.

Un matin où j’étais à l’école, un incident a eu lieu sur notre parcelle en présence de Papa. Une violente dispute avait éclaté entre Prothé et Innocent. Je ne sais pas de quoi il s’agissait, mais Innocent a levé la main sur Prothé. Papa a immédiatement licencié Innocent, qui ne voulait pas présenter ses excuses et qui menaçait tout le monde. La tension permanente rendait les gens nerveux. Ils devenaient sensibles au moindre bruit, étaient sur leurs gardes dans la rue, regardaient dans leur rétroviseur pour être sûrs de n’être pas suivi. Chacun était aux aguets. Un jour, en plein cours de géographie, un pneu a éclaté derrière la clôture, sur le boulevard de l’Indépendance, et toute la classe, y compris le professeur, s’est jeté à plat ventre sous les tables. À l’école, les relations entre les élèves burundais avaient changé. C’était subtil, mais je m’en rendais compte. Il y avait beaucoup d’allusions mystérieuses, de propos implicites. Lorsqu’il fallait créer des groupes, en sport ou pour préparer des exposés, on décelait rapidement une gêne. Je n’arrivais pas à m’expliquer ce changement brutal, cet embarras palpable. Jusqu’à ce jour, à la récréation, où deux garçons burundais se sont battus derrière le grand préau, à l’abri du regard des profs et des surveillants. Les autres élèves burundais, échaudés par l’altercation, se sont rapidement séparés en deux groupes, chacun soutenant un garçon. « Sales Hutu », disaient les uns, « sales Tutsi » répliquaient les autres. Cet après-midi-là, pour la première fois de ma vie, je suis entré dans la réalité profonde de ce pays. J’ai découvert l’antagonisme hutu et tutsi, infranchissable ligne de démarcation qui obligeait chacun à être d’un camp ou d’un autre. Ce camp, tel un prénom qu’on attribue à un enfant, on naissait avec, et il nous poursuivait à jamais. Hutu ou tutsi. C’était soit l’un soit l’autre. Pile ou face. Comme un aveugle qui recouvre la vue, j’ai alors commencé à comprendre les gestes et les regards, les non-dits et les manières qui m’échappaient depuis toujours. La guerre, sans qu’on lui demande, se charge toujours de nous trouver un ennemi. Moi qui souhaitais rester neutre, je n’ai pas pu. J’étais né avec cette histoire. Elle coulait en moi. Je lui appartenais.

You look healthy,” Dev said. “If I did not know you were sporting the remains of a bullet wound, I would think you in the pink.” “Thank you.” Anna smiled. “I slept well last night.” For the first time in weeks, she truly had. “Well”—Val sat down and reached for the iced lemonade pitcher—“I did not sleep well. We need another thunderstorm.” “I wonder.” Anna’s eyes met Val’s. “Does Morgan still dread the thunderstorms?” “She does,” he replied, sitting back. “She figured out that the day your parents died, when she was trapped in the buggy accident, it stormed the entire afternoon. Her associations are still quite troubling, but her ears don’t physically hurt.” Dev and Anna exchanged a look of surprise, but Val was tucking into his steak. Dev turned his attention back to his plate. “Anna, are you ready to remove to the ducal mansion?” “As ready as I’ll be,” Anna replied, her steak suddenly losing its appeal. “Would you like me to cut that for you?” Dev asked, nodding at the meat on her plate. “I’ve pulled a shoulder now and then or landed funny from a frisky horse, and I know the oddest things can be uncomfortable.” “I just haven’t entirely regained my appetite,” Anna lied, eyeing the steak dubiously. “And I find I am tired, so perhaps you gentleman will excuse me while I catch a nap before we go?” She was gone before they were on their feet, leaving Dev and Val both frowning. “We offered to assist him in any way,” Dev said, picking up his glass. “I think this goes beyond even fraternal devotion.” “He’s doing what he thinks is right,” Val responded. “I have had quite enough of my front-row seat, Dev. Tragedy has never been my cup of tea.” “Nor farce mine.

Hey, brah,” Quinn said. “What is going on, do you know?” Sam asked. “It’s a club.” Quinn grinned. “Man, you must be working too hard. Everyone knows about it.” Sam stared at him. “It’s a what?” “McClub, brah. All you need is some batteries or some toilet paper.” This announcement left Sam baffled. He considered asking Quinn for clarification, but then Albert appeared, formally dressed, like he thought it was graduation or something. He actually had on a dark sports coat and slacks in a lighter shade. His shirt was pale blue, collared, and ironed. Spotting Sam, he extended his hand. Sam ignored the hand. “Albert, what is going on here?” “Dancing, mostly,” Albert said. “Excuse me?” “Kids are dancing.” Quinn caught up then and stepped in front of Sam to shake Albert’s still-extended hand. “Hey, dude. I have batteries.” “Good to see you, Quinn. The price is four D cells, or eight double As, or ten triple As, or a dozen Cs. If you have a mix, I can work it out.” Quinn dug in his pocket and produced four triple A batteries and three D cells. He handed them to Albert, who agreed to the price and dropped the batteries into a plastic bag at his feet. “Okay, the rules are no food, no alcohol, no attitude, no fights, and when I call ‘time,’ there’s no arguing about it. Do you agree to these rules?” “Dude, if I had any food, would I be here? I’d be home eating it.” Quinn put his hand over his heart like he was pledging allegiance to the flag and said, “I do.” He jerked a thumb back at Sam. “Don’t bother with him: Sam doesn’t dance.” “Have a good time, Quinn.

Her favorite color is blue, even though she tells everyone it’s orange. She looks for every excuse possible to get out of going to football games, but she knows the sport pretty well, thanks to her dad. She claims she’s allergic to seafood, but I’m willing to bet that she’s never tried it. And just in case you’re not exactly who we both think you are... She goes to Highland Coffee every morning for an eight-dollar caramel latte that she really can’t afford, but it makes her happy because it reminds her of the lattes she used to buy in her hometown.

We are experiencing a dangerous time in our country, with a political environment where basic facts are disputed, fundamental truth is questioned, lying is normalized, and unethical behavior is ignored, excused, or rewarded. This is not just happening in our nation’s capital, and not just in the United States. It is a troubling trend that has touched institutions across America and around the world—boardrooms of major companies, newsrooms, university campuses, the entertainment industry, and professional and Olympic sports.

Meet Olivier Cheval: When I looked up our eyes met and I felt my heart stop. They were the deepest forest green, encircled in thick, long lashes and placed in round, wide eyes that were so expressive I immediately knew he was aware of, and amused at, my staring. I blinked longer than necessary to collect my thoughts and when I reopened my eyes I took in the rest of him. He was about my age, tall, around six seven, with brown hair that was long but trim and neat. The angular features of his face were slightly hidden by a bit of a five o’clock shadow. His broad nose was somewhat crooked, like it had been broken in the past; supporting a pair of square, slim eye glasses. He was trim and muscular with broad shoulders which couldn’t be hidden under the button up shirt and sports coat, which fit him perfectly. He wore jeans on the absolute longest legs I’d ever seen on a man. While any woman would be excused for momentarily losing her wits at the sight of him, what took me most by surprise was the overwhelming feeling of comfort and calm I felt in his presence. I instantly knew he was right for so much more than just our teacher position and he hadn’t even said a word.

He/She Gets Angry When Questioned Where you were until now just riles him/her up like the Hulk. He/she hates being questioned about their whereabouts. Their stories won’t match, their tone and pitch will change paces and they will try to avoid talking about it altogether. He/She Stays Up Late A sudden shift in their bedtime routine indicates an affair. Cheating partners consider a partner’s sleeping time as the safest to text or message their new love interest. His/Her Stories Seem Inconsistent Sometimes they won’t say a word about where they were and sometimes they would give away too much. When asked if a friend was there with them too, they will not only confirm their presence but also tell you about all the other people who were there, including someone’s pets. Too much information is another sign that there is something fishy going on or else they won’t be this particular about it. There Is No Intimacy Not just physically, but you also find them emotionally distant from you. Even when they are with you, their mind doesn’t seem to be. They have also lost interest in sex and always make excuses like being tired, not in the mood, had chili beef in the office and feeling bloated, etc. They Never Put Their Phone Down If they seem to be stuck with their phone all the time and even taking it with them when taking the trash or going for a bath, it is a sure tell sign that there is something in that phone they don’t want you to know about. He/She Pays Attention to Himself/Herself It’s always appraisable that your spouse dresses up for you, but if they are suddenly worried about how they look naked or whether they should get a bikini wax or not, it’s probably an effort to look good for someone other than you. You Only Get One-Word Answers from Them You sense a barrier in your communications because they have resorted to a yes, no, or hmm at most. When partners lose interest in their spouses or are having an affair, they fear to communicate too much. They want to play it carefully and not say or do something that would get them caught. They Are Spending Too Much If all of a sudden you notice too many credit card bills and receipts in their pockets and yet you don’t receive any supposed gifts, then someone else is on the receiving end of them. When asked, they will always have an explanation over how they had to lend some money to a friend, how they had to pitch in the last minute for an office party for a guy’s farewell or how they had to pay a medical bill of some relative. He/He’s Doing Things They Hated Before Remember the time you asked them to go golfing with you and they flat out refused and joked about how it’s an old man’s sport? Look who is all polo shirts and hats now! If their interests have changed all of a sudden and they are doing stuff they hated, know something is up.

…American men actually engage most in hunting and fishing. The desire of men in wealthy societies to re-create the food-gathering conditions of very primitive people appears to be an appropriate comment on the power of the hunting drives discussed earlier. Not only is hunting expensive in many places – think of the European on safari in Africa – but it is also time-consuming, potentially dangerous, and frequently involves considerable personal discomfort. Men do it because it is ‘fun’. So they say, and so one must conclude from their persistent rendition of the old pattern. What is relevant from our point of view is that hunting, and frequently fishing, are group activities. A man will choose his co-hunters very carefully. Not only does the relative intimacy of the hunt demand some congeniality, but there is also danger in hunting with inept or irresponsible persons. It is a serious matter, and even class barriers which normally operate quite rigidly may be happily breached for the period of the hunt. Some research on hunters in British Columbia suggests the near-piety which accompanies the hunt; hunting is a singular and important activity. One particular group of males takes along bottles of costly Crown Royal whisky for the hunt; they drink only superior whisky on this poignant re-creation of an ancient manly skill. But when their wives join them for New Year's celebrations, they drink an ordinary whisky: the purely formal and social occasion does not, it seems, merit the symbolic tribute of outstanding whisky. Gambling is another behaviour which, like hunting and sport, provides an opportunity in countless cultures for the weaving of and participation in the web of male affiliation. Not the gambling of the London casino, where glamorous women serve drinks, or the complex hope, greed, fate-tempting ritual, and action of the shiny American palaces in Nevada, and not the hidden gambling run by racketeers. Rather, the card games in homes or small clubs, where men gather to play for manageable stakes on a friendly basis; perhaps – like Jiggs and his Maggie – to avoid their women, perhaps to seek some money, perhaps to buy the pleasant passage of time. But also to be with their friends and talk, and define, by the game, the confines of their intimate male society. Obviously females play too, both on their own and in mixed company. But there are differences which warrant investigation, in the same way that the drinking of men in groups appears to differ from heterosexual or all-female drinking; the separation of all-male bars and mixed ones is still maintained in many places despite the powerful cultural pressures against such flagrant sexual apartheid. Even in the Bowery, where disaffiliated outcast males live in ways only now becoming understood, it has been noted that, ‘There are strong indications that the heavy drinkers are more integrated and more sociable than the light. The analytical problem lies in determining whether socialization causes drinking or drinking results in sociability when there is no disapproval.’ In the gentleman's club in London, the informally segregated working man's pub in Yorkshire, the all-male taverns of Montreal, the palm-wine huts of west Africa, perhaps can be observed the enactment of a way of establishing maleness and maintaining bonds which is given an excuse and possibly facilitated by alcohol. Certainly, for what they are worth in revealing the nature of popular conception of the social role of drinking, advertisements stress the manly appeal of alcohol – particularly whisky – though it is also clear that there are ongoing changes in the socio-sexual implications of drinking. But perhaps it is hasty to regard the process of change as a process of female emancipation which will culminate in similarity of behaviour, status, and ideals of males and females. The changes are still too recent to warrant this. Also, they have been achieved under sufficiently self-conscious pressure...

Hello Mrs Cannon,' said Melanie. 'Friday wants me to distract you so that she can get Parker to say something that isn't on his official scripts.' 'Really?' said Mrs Cannon. 'That sounds intriguing. Much more intriguing than this unspeakably boring polo match. Why don't you pretend to sprain your ankle, then I could pretend to be concerned?' 'Okay,' said Melanie. 'Does that mean I can lie down?' 'I wouldn't dream of trying to stop you,' said Mrs Cannon. 'I just wish I could do the same.' 'You could say you had a fainting spell,' suggested Melanie. 'What a good idea,' said Mrs Cannon. 'If you've got a sprained ankle and I have a fainting spell, then we can both have a nice rest on the grass.' 'The Headmaster can't complain about that,' said Melanie as they both made themselves comfortable. 'Of course not,' said Mrs Cannon. 'If he did I'd report him to my union.

He leaned in and rested his forehead to mine. “But make no mistake. I’m home now. And fate would have it that you’re here, too. And I’m done with this friend bullshit, Red. I’m done pretending I don’t want you. I’m done making excuses to see you. And I sure don’t give a shit that you’re Ella’s teacher. I want you and I’m done fucking around.

Yeah, well, I--” He stops and his eyes shift behind me, wide in amusement. I turn my head to find a couple straight out of the 1980s at the end of the gelato line. They’re both sporting mullets and faded jeans. White sneakers. When I notice the matching red fanny packs, I have to look away. “You should take a picture of that,” he says, resting his forearms on the table. “What?” I lean in closer and speak just above a whisper. “No way.” “Do it!” he insists. “Five euros.” He digs into his pocket and clanks down five coins. I sneak a peek at the unsuspecting couple. The man is wiping sweat off his face with a hanky. They’re too close. I’d never get away with it. “I can’t,” I say. “Pansy.” With a grunt, I switch my camera on and set it to automatic. I raise it to my face and start to twist my upper body. “No, wait!” he says. “You’re doing it wrong.” I drop the camera to my lap and face him. “What?” “You’re too obvious. You need stealth. Watch and learn.” He retrieves a small point-and-shoot camera from his pocket and aims it toward me. “Say cheese!” he says so loudly that I’m sure everyone around us is looking. “Uh…cheese?” “Done.” He hits a few buttons and shows me the display screen. There they are. Looked right at him too. Clever. But I can’t let him win. “Wow. That’s pretty pixelated. What kind of setting do you have that on?” He frowns. “It’s just zoomed in.” “Oh.” I reach to zoom out, but he pulls it away too fast. “What? Why can’t I see? Did you actually take a picture of me or something?” “Stealth.” He shrugs and my cheeks turn pink. “Guess these are my winnings.” The coins scrape across the table as he scoops them up to put in his pocket. “You didn’t even give me a chance to redeem myself,” I defend. “Excuses, excuses. Just admit I’m the better photographer.” He laughs, standing to shoot his empty cup in the trash. “Finished?” I nod and he tosses mine too. “Braver maybe, but better? Your camera doesn’t have enough buttons.

Your mother said he was very funny. He gazed at her with his mouth open, turned pale, and sported a considerable member visible through his pants. Your mother excused herself before he spontaneously wet. I wouldn’t be surprised if he spent the rest of the day relieving himself to the mental vision of your naked mother.” He laughed.

I used to tell people, ‘If anything goes bad, I did it. If anything goes semi-good, we did it. If anything goes real good, you did it.’ That’s what being a leader means. The buck stops with you when there are problems. No excuses. No blaming others.

In reality, Edmond loved attention, and admitted to keeping his plane at Sabadell only to have an excuse to drive the winding roads to his home in his favorite sports car—a Tesla Model X P90D that Elon Musk had allegedly hand-delivered to him as a gift. Supposedly, Edmond had once challenged his jet pilots to a one-mile drag race on the runway—Gulfstream vs. Tesla—but his pilots had done the math and declined.