Fargo Sayings And Quotes

Intelligence is knowing the right answer. Wisdom is knowing when to say it.

Because some roads you shouldn’t go down. Because maps used to say, “There be dragons here.“ Now they don’t. But that don’t mean the dragons aren’t there.

When someone says you can't, look at where they are sitting. Perhaps they meant they can't.

You know what’s really fucked-up?” she says. “I used to wish he would hit me.” I’d had this same thought about my father. His abuse was all emotional and psychological; the only marks it left were internal. Impossible to see, easy to deny.

Yeah, like this one carny up in Fargo. It had a big sign saying 'See the Siamese twins,' and everybody pays a buck, thinking they're gonna see two people hooked together. And when they get there it's a cage with two Siamese kittens in it. Like that.

New Rule: Republicans must stop pitting the American people against the government. Last week, we heard a speech from Republican leader Bobby Jindal--and he began it with the story that every immigrant tells about going to an American grocery store for the first time and being overwhelmed with the "endless variety on the shelves." And this was just a 7-Eleven--wait till he sees a Safeway. The thing is, that "endless variety"exists only because Americans pay taxes to a government, which maintains roads, irrigates fields, oversees the electrical grid, and everything else that enables the modern American supermarket to carry forty-seven varieties of frozen breakfast pastry.Of course, it's easy to tear government down--Ronald Reagan used to say the nine most terrifying words in the Englishlanguage were "I'm from the government and I'm here to help." But that was before "I'm Sarah Palin, now show me the launch codes."The stimulus package was attacked as typical "tax and spend"--like repairing bridges is left-wing stuff. "There the liberals go again, always wanting to get across the river." Folks, the people are the government--the first responders who put out fires--that's your government. The ranger who shoos pedophiles out of the park restroom, the postman who delivers your porn.How stupid is it when people say, "That's all we need: the federal government telling Detroit how to make cars or Wells Fargo how to run a bank. You want them to look like the post office?"You mean the place that takes a note that's in my hand in L.A. on Monday and gives it to my sister in New Jersey on Wednesday, for 44 cents? Let me be the first to say, I would be thrilled if America's health-care system was anywhere near as functional as the post office.Truth is, recent years have made me much more wary of government stepping aside and letting unregulated private enterprise run things it plainly is too greedy to trust with. Like Wall Street. Like rebuilding Iraq.Like the way Republicans always frame the health-care debate by saying, "Health-care decisions should be made by doctors and patients, not government bureaucrats," leaving out the fact that health-care decisions aren't made by doctors, patients, or bureaucrats; they're made by insurance companies. Which are a lot like hospital gowns--chances are your gas isn't covered.

I wish I could answer your question. All I can say is that all of us, humans, witches, bears, are engaged in a war already, although not all of us know it. Whether you find danger on Svalbard or whether you fly off unharmed, you are a recruit, under arms, a soldier." "Well, that seems kinda precipitate. Seems to me a man should have a choice whether to take up arms or not." "We have no more choice in that than in whether or not to be born." "Oh, I like choice, though," he said. "I like choosing the jobs I take and the places I go and the food I eat and the companions I sit and yarn with. Don't you wish for a choice once in a while ?" She considered, and then said, "Perhaps we don't mean the same thing by choice, Mr. Scoresby. Witches own nothing, so we're not interested in preserving value or making profits, and as for the choice between one thing and another, when you live for many hundreds of years, you know that every opportunity will come again. We have different needs. You have to repair your balloon and keep it in good condition, and that takes time and trouble, I see that; but for us to fly, all we have to do is tear off a branch of cloud-pine; any will do, and there are plenty more. We don't feel cold, so we need no warm clothes. We have no means of exchange apart from mutual aid. If a witch needs something, another witch will give it to her. If there is a war to be fought, we don't consider cost one of the factors in deciding whether or not it is right to fight. Nor do we have any notion of honor, as bears do, for instance. An insult to a bear is a deadly thing. To us... inconceivable. How could you insult a witch? What would it matter if you did?" "Well, I'm kinda with you on that. Sticks and stones, I'll break yer bones, but names ain't worth a quarrel. But ma'am, you see my dilemma, I hope. I'm a simple aeronaut, and I'd like to end my days in comfort. Buy a little farm, a few head of cattle, some horses...Nothing grand, you notice. No palace or slaves or heaps of gold. Just the evening wind over the sage, and a ceegar, and a glass of bourbon whiskey. Now the trouble is, that costs money. So I do my flying in exchange for cash, and after every job I send some gold back to the Wells Fargo Bank, and when I've got enough, ma'am, I'm gonna sell this balloon and book me a passage on a steamer to Port Galveston, and I'll never leave the ground again." "There's another difference between us, Mr. Scoresby. A witch would no sooner give up flying than give up breathing. To fly is to be perfectly ourselves." "I see that, ma'am, and I envy you; but I ain't got your sources of satisfaction. Flying is just a job to me, and I'm just a technician. I might as well be adjusting valves in a gas engine or wiring up anbaric circuits. But I chose it, you see. It was my own free choice. Which is why I find this notion of a war I ain't been told nothing about kinda troubling." "lorek Byrnison's quarrel with his king is part of it too," said the witch. "This child is destined to play a part in that." "You speak of destiny," he said, "as if it was fixed. And I ain't sure I like that any more than a war I'm enlisted in without knowing about it. Where's my free will, if you please? And this child seems to me to have more free will than anyone I ever met. Are you telling me that she's just some kind of clockwork toy wound up and set going on a course she can't change?" "We are all subject to the fates. But we must all act as if we are not, or die of despair. There is a curious prophecy about this child: she is destined to bring about the end of destiny. But she must do so without knowing what she is doing, as if it were her nature and not her destiny to do it. If she's told what she must do, it will all fail; death will sweep through all the worlds; it will be the triumph of despair, forever. The universes will all become nothing more than interlocking machines, blind and empty of thought, feeling, life...

More often, I’d meet people like Brett Favre. Not literally like Brett Favre, in the sense that they were forty-year-old football players, but that they were people who loved Wisconsin but couldn’t find a way to make it work there, took off for NewYork, crashed and burned, and then found a home for themselves here in the City of Lakes. Minneapolis is where the drama queens and burnouts and weirdos and misfits of the rural and suburban Upper Midwest wind up. It’s a city full of people who, though they’d never say it, secretly suspect they don’t belong here, that they’re not Minneapolis enough, because they didn’t go to a city high school, or because they didn’t hang out at First Avenue when they were teenagers, or because they came from the suburbs, or from outstate.They came from the Iron Range or Fargo–Moorhead or Bloomington or White Bear Lake or Collegeville, or from Chicago or California or the Pacific Northwest or Mexico or Somalia. Wherever they came from, Minneapolis is their home now, and it belongs to them. It belongs to us.

Asheville Citizen-Times newspaper, which reported how a man – his name isn’t given – walked into a branch of Bank of America, picked up a deposit slip and wrote on it: This is a stickkup. Put all you muny in this bag. Then, like all polite robbers, he waited in a queue to hand the note to the teller. As he stood there, he started worrying that someone might have seen him write the note, and that the police could be called before he reached the window. Thinking quickly – or as quickly as he was able – he left the Bank of America and hurried across the street to a branch of the Wells Fargo Bank. There he again waited in a queue for a few minute, until it was his turn to see the teller. He handed her the note and she read it. Realising that he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, she told him that, unfortunately, she couldn’t accept the demand because it was written on rival bank’s stationary; he would either have to rewrite the note on a Wells Fargo slip, or go back to the Bank of America. ‘Looking somewhat defeated, the man left the Wells Fargo Bank,’ says the Citizen-Times. He was arrested a few minutes later – in the queue back over at the Bank of America.

The temperature in the room seems to have gone up about ten degrees. My armpits are sweating and I notice myself vigorously massaging my left hand with my right hand. I am clenching my jaw tight and my body seems rigidly fit for a casket. But enough relaxing, it’s time to do what I have to do. I pull out my keyboard and log in to my bank account. Wells Fargo’s website takes about as long as the Mesozoic era lasted to load. In that time the atmosphere in my shirt seems to have sweltered to that of the Sahara desert. Finally, my account information fills the screen. $12.72 is the amount the bank says is in my account. This is great news. With this much money, it means that my net worth is only negative $74,987.28, as opposed to the negative $75,000 I imagined. All my fears were completely unfounded!

sit on a man’s back, choking him and making him carry me, and yet assure myself and others that I am very sorry for him and wish to ease his lot by all possible means—except by getting off his back.”[1] True then and there, and true now and here. There is so much poverty in this land not in spite of our wealth but because of it. Which is to say, it’s not about them. It’s about us. “It is really so simple,” Tolstoy wrote. “If I want to aid the poor, that is, to help the poor not to be poor, I ought not to make them poor.”[2] How do we, today, make the poor in America poor? In at least three ways. First, we exploit them. We constrain their choice and power in the labor market, the housing market, and the financial market, driving down wages while forcing the poor to overpay for housing and access to cash and credit. Those of us who are not poor benefit from these arrangements. Corporations benefit from worker exploitation, sure, but so do consumers who buy the cheap goods and services the working poor produce, and so do those of us directly or indirectly invested in the stock market. Landlords are not the only ones who benefit from housing exploitation; many homeowners do, too, their property values propped up by the collective effort to make housing scarce and expensive. The banking and payday lending industries profit from the financial exploitation of the poor, but so do those of us with free checking accounts at Bank of America or Wells Fargo, as those accounts are subsidized by billions of dollars in overdraft fees.[3] If we burn coal, we get electricity, but we get sulfur dioxide and nitrogen oxide and other airborne toxins, too. We can’t have the electricity without producing the pollution. Opulence in America works the same way. Someone bears the cost.

If you pay your people well, you have to charge a healthy amount for the product,” says Matt Nemer, managing director of equity research at Wells Fargo Securities. “It’s Walmart in reverse.” That’s one reason the Container Store works so closely with its suppliers and

In 2011, a man in San Francisco attempted to rob the local Bank of America. The man wrote out a deposit slip, which read "this iz a stikkup put all your muny in this bag." While waiting in the particularly long line for the teller, the robber became concerned that someone could have seen him write the note and would alert the authorities, before he reached the teller. He quickly left the bank, and crossed the street to enter the Wells Fargo bank. He soon reached a teller, and handed over the deposit slip.   When the teller read the note, she immediately realized the robber was most likely not particularly intelligent, due to all of the grammatical errors. The teller then explained to the robber that she could not accept his stickup note, due to the fact that it was written on a Bank of America deposit slip.   The teller then told the robber to fill out a Wells Fargo deposit slip, or to return to Bank of America. The robber left in frustration, returning to the Bank of America. Needless to say, it didn't take long for the police to catch up with him after he returned to the long line at Bank of America.

I've been waiting for you to use your gavel all evening, Your Honor." God, please, no! Those were the last words on earth Vansh ever, ever, wanted to hear his oldest sister say to her judge husband. Ever. Yash, who was generally not the sort of guy who snorted with laughter, snorted with laughter so violently that Nisha and Neel jumped apart like someone had fired a cannon. Nisha's hands pressed into her face. "No. No. Nononono. What the hell are you all doing here?" "Not waiting for Neel to use his gavel, that's for sure," Yash said, still howling like a hyena. Which, to be fair, Vansh was doing as well. Nisha charged at Yash. Neel grabbed her around her waist. As a circuit court judge (with a gavel), Neel obviously saw enough crazy shit on a daily basis that he was entirely unfazed by any Raje family shenanigans. He held Nisha in check while laughing into her hair, and in the end she broke down and started laughing too, embarrassed though the laughter was. "If either one of you tells anyone, I'm going to chop you into little pieces and pass you through a mulch shredder," their sister threatened. "Who let her watch Fargo?" Vansh asked, and Neel looked heavenward.

I want to look her in the eyes and say: It’s me, I’m the one, and I did it all to protect women like us. I did it, and I’d do it again.

Tell you what,” Wes says. “I’ll make you a mix.” “Oh, you don’t have to—” “Just some of my favorites, and you can let me know if you like any of them.

Oh, are you calling the cops, bitch? Maggie says, Yeah, I actually am! There is a counterprotest that same day. “West Fargo for Knodel.” Maggie watches it on television. It’s led by eight of Aaron Knodel’s current students. Most are female. They play sports and their Facebook profile pictures are assertive and tongue ridden. They wear short shorts and their legs are tan. They hold signs that say, Best teacher we’ve ever had #WF4Knodel Not Guilty #WF4Knodel Passing drivers slow and honk or speed up and scream. Cheers and sunshine. Now the Knodel family station wagon drives past. A photo is snapped. Marie is in the passenger seat, her hair up like a mom’s, her skin considerably brighter than it was in the courthouse, her mouth open like it’s whooping, Yeah! A boy is in the seat behind her, thumbs-upping out the open window, with a smaller boy beside him, looking confused. And Aaron is in the driver’s seat with a little white dog pressed between his rib cage and the steering wheel. On his face is a look of slightly embarrassed yet utterly exultant pride, like a sun over the funeral of an enemy.

Unfortunately, this story may not have a happy ending, and the last word could likely be that of Altman, who says, "You get tired painting your pictures and going down to the street corner and selling them for a dollar. You get the occasional Fargo, but you've still got to make them for nothing, and you get nothing back. It's disastrous for the film industry, disastrous for film art. I have no optimism whatsoever.

He's just like the rest of them. Bash, Alex. My father. They want us to bend and bend, let them say and do whatever they want to us. They get away with it, over and over again.