G String Quotes

He writes the worst English that I have ever encountered. It reminds me of a string of wet sponges; it reminds me of tattered washing on the line; it reminds me of stale bean soup, of college yells, of dogs barking idiotically through endless nights. It is so bad that a sort of grandeur creeps into it. It drags itself out of the dark abysm of pish, and crawls insanely up the topmost pinnacle of posh. It is rumble and bumble. It is flap and doodle. It is balder and dash. (writing about US President Warren G. Harding)

Stung again by this queen bee of the Loren clan, Marissa shook it off and retorted, “See, that’s just it. I don’t always love Jack Storm. But with all my heart I love Jack Loren.

I have had much experience with the unclean and uncivilized in the recent past. Shall I tell you what I discovered? I am not the state of my feet. I am not the dirt on my hands or the hygiene of my private parts. If I were these things, I would not have been at liberty to pray at any time since my arrest. But I did pray, because I am not these things. In the end, I am not even myself. I am a string of bones speaking the word God.

Happy belated birthday, Cat," he said, giving me a self-deprecating smile. "Aren't you glad Juan picked the place and not me? We wold have had lattes and hors d'oeuvres instead of liquor and G-strings. Anyone get you a gin yet?

She wore an A-line bridal gown with a V-shaped neckline while Apollo playing Bach's Air on the G string.

If he were a piano, all his strings would have snapped

life was only about the ‘what ifs’ when dreaming of the future, not for beating yourself up over the past.

Finally, she took him in, all wet and sexy beneath her. Every breath and groan echoed over the water. She alternated her gaze from the stars in heaven to the rock star that was currently her heaven.

The kiss he laid on her was caring, tender, and forgiving, and the kiss she gave back was convincing, trusting, and fiery with love.

do love you Mariss. I know you have to know that. And if you don’t, if you don’t know that, then I have failed you so bad, so much worse than I thought I would.

A fried shrimp sandwich?” “It is a po’boy.

I do love you Mariss. I know you have to know that. And if you don’t, if you don’t know that, then I have failed you so bad, so much worse than I thought I would.

When I look down at you, or up, or over...I see the mother of my son, I see my best friend, I see the most amazing woman I have ever known, I see my lover, the woman I love.

I told you ‘whatever’ because you know what I always get.

Marissa felt physically sick. Had Jack been married? “The rest of the crew was joking around with him about it, and I don’t remember exactly what was said except one of them said ‘Married now is it? To some chick you met this afternoon?’ And Jack said, ‘We are. She just doesn’t know it yet.

One of the main functions of a push-up bra is to lower the number of mothers who seem like mothers.

Mariss…” She loved her name in that tone… “Mariss… Because by now, she knew his every inflection when he breathed her name, she gave him what he was wanting. Verbal sex… “Mariss…” And that was the sound of satisfaction when her words fed his fever… Incapable of any further thought, she tightened every grip she had on him losing herself as their souls met, melted, and mingled.

Modesty is a learned adaptation. It’s stuck on like decals. As soon as life slams a modest person against the wall, that modesty will fall off faster than a G-string will fall off a stripper.

We have to ask ourselves why we are so focused on silent girly-girls in G-strings faking lust. This is not a sign of progress, it's a testament to what's still missing from our understanding of human sexuality with all its complexity and power. We are still so uneasy with the vicissitudes of sex we need to surround ourselves with caricatures of female hotness to safely conjure up the concept of 'sexy.' When you think about it, it's kind of pathetic.

People who wear G-strings suffer from indecision.

Good luck, Cork thought. In Aurora, a Lincoln Town Car would be as inconspicuous as a nun in a G-string.

Did you know two out of six dollar bills have been shoved down a stripper’s G-string at one point in time?

Hooters McHoulihan, let's get the fuck out of here. This G-string is so far up my ass, it's making my brain hurt," Jane grumbled

Even though I was strung tighter than a g-string on a sumo, I couldn’t help but laugh.

Mr Wooster, I am not ashamed to say that the tears came into my eyes as I listened to them. It amazes me that a man as young as you can have been able to plumb human nature so surely to its depths; to play with so unerring a hand on the quivering heart-strings of your reader; to write novels so true, so human, so moving, so vital!" "Oh, it's just a knack," I said.

I repeat, if the strings of this piano are tuned correctly, and the required vibrations are evoked in the corresponding strings, the resulting blending of vibrations coincides almost exactly, even mathematically, with the law-conformable totality of vibrations of the substances issuing from corresponding cosmic sources, according to the sacred Heptaparaparshinokh.

I’m not interested in any other man’s G-string. In fact,” she slipped her hands down the back of his pants and squeezed his tight, bare ass. “I prefer my man commando.” He nipped at her bottom lip. “In that case, we can search for a she-wolf as soon as I’m finished with you.

I am like a puppet sitting here. It's not just I; all of us are puppets. Nature is pulling the strings, but we believe we are acting. If you function that way (as puppets), then the problems are simple. But we have superimposed on that (the idea of) a "person" who is pulling those strings.

...racial discourse was deployed by elite Europeans and white Americans to create social distinctions between themselves and fat racial Others. Black people, as well as so-called degraded or hybrid whites (e.g., Celtic Irish, southern Italians, Russians), were primary targets of these arguments.

Soroya:“Where are we going? I need to know what to wear.” Graham: “Wear whatever you’re wearing right now.” I looked down. Soraya: “A hot pink lace bra and G-string? Where are you taking me, a strip club?

Zed hissed a breath through his teeth, shaking his head with a silent laugh, and it took me a second to realize he'd just gotten an eyeful of Lucas's secret weapon. "I'm not even fucking surprised," he growled, shooting Lucas an accusing glare. "Of course the fucking teenage stripper has been smuggling a goddamn anaconda in his sequin G-string.

Oh, did I mention I’m a stripper? Some dudes prefer “male entertainer” or “exotic dancer,” but I call a spade a spade. I spend two nights a week shaking my crotch in happy women’s faces and stripping down to a G-string. Ergo, I’m a stripper.

That is what it is all about. Making you my puppet. This is my aim. This is the means to my end of obtaining my fuel from you. As you will no doubt becoming familiar with, the means always justifies the end. Accordingly, by ensuring you become my puppet I am in the optimum position to control you to extract every drop of fuel I can from you. I need to control you so that you admire me when I want it. I need to control you so that I can pull the strings and make you jerk to my tune. I am the puppet master.

Why do the strings make different sounds, Maestro?” “It is simple. They work like life.” “I don’t understand.” “The first string is E. It is high pitched and quick like a child. “The second string is B. It is pitched slightly lower, like the squeaky voice of a teenager. “The third string, G, is deeper, with the power of a young man. “The fourth string, D, is robust, a man at full strength. “The fifth string, A, is solid and loud but unable to reach high tones, like a man who can no longer do what he did.” “And the sixth string, Maestro?” “The sixth is the low E, the thickest, slowest, and grumpiest. You hear how deep? Dum-dum-dum. Like it is ready to die.” “Is that because it is closest to heaven?” “No, Francisco. It is because life will always drag you to the bottom.” Frankie

Hidden all day in impenetrable black burkas, rich Saudi women transformed themselves by night into birds of paradise with their corsets, their see-through bras, their G-strings with multicolored lace and rhinestones. They were exactly the opposite of Western women, who spent their days dressed up and looking sexy to maintain their social status, then collapsed in exhaustion once they got home, abandoning all hope of seduction in favor of clothes that were loose and shapeless.

Some strings of marks or noises are meaningful sentences. It is an amazing fact that any normal person can instantly grasp the meaning of even a very long and novel sentence. Each meaningful sentence has parts that are themselves meaningful. Though initially attractive, the Referential Theory of Meaning faces several compelling objections.

The cardinal directions are north, west, south, and east. The cardinal temperatures are 35º Fahrenheit, 67º Fahrenheit, 3º Celsius, and 10º Kelvin. The cardinal locations are a cave, a long-abandoned cabin, the bottom of an oceanic trench, and City Hall. The cardinal emotions are wild abandon, guarded affection, directionless jealousy, and irritation. The cardinal birds are hawk, sparrow, finch, and owl. The cardinal names are Jeremy, Kim, Trigger, and Jamie. And, finally, the cardinal sounds are a door slamming, slight movement in still water, popcorn popping, and a standard guitar G string being snipped with wire cutters. This has been the Children’s Fun Fact Science Corner.

a fridge magnet. It said, Music teachers do it in G-strings.

A G-string is a permanent self-inflicted wedgie.

How could such a picture be in a national newspaper The model had ridiculous breasts the size of pumpkins and lips fat and wet and all that she was wearing was a spangled G-string.

design will play an important role in stringing the collective team’s efforts together in a cohesive way to optimize impact in the marketplace.

If he were a piano, all his strings would have snapped” ― C.G. Drews, A Thousand Perfect Notes

Love is a strange thing, and I yearn for it once more. I don't need to give it much thought, I just need to give it sunlight and space to grow--to run in a field of tall grass and be free.

So far, being dead is about as much fun as a barbed-wire G-string. Yes, there is such a thing. They invented it in Hell, which is where I am. I already said I was dead. Where else would I be? Try to keep up.

Modesty is a learned adaptation. It’s stuck on like decals. As soon as life slams a modest person against the wall, that modesty will fall off faster than a G-string will fall off a stripper.” ― Maya Angelou

Kimrean sighted purple caged dancers, mud wrestlers, tattooed devils, G-stringed Atlases erected like Pillars of Hercules out of a liquid crowd waving in worship of ancient twerk masters summoning cellulite tsunamis.

Every crew brings its own small, tethered "g meter", a toy or figurine we hang in front of us so we know when we are weightless. Ours was Klyopa, a small knitted doll based on a character in a Russian children's television program, courtesy of Anastasia, Roman's 9-year-old daughter. When the string that was holding her suddenly slackened and she began to drift upward, I had a feeling I'd never felt before in space: I'd come home.

The low E is at the top, the second string is A, then it's D, G, B, and the last one is high E." A mnemonic device he once heard came to mind and, plucking the strings, he said, "Eddie Ate Dynamite... Good Bye Eddie,.

Men DO NOT emotionally process love anything close to the way that women process love. When expressing your sincere devotion and love for a man---the best way to say it, is to put on G-string panties, and then SHOW HIM with a swallow.

I trace the box’s lid where a gold ribbon binds it. With one tug, the bow poofs into a golden, glittering fall of letters that form a message in midair— Things I once hoped to give you: 1. A magical wedding . . . Choking back tears, I take out the ring and loop it onto the string alongside the diary’s key at my neck, tucking it under my shirt to keep it safe. A picnic basket sits at my feet beneath the bench. There’s another ribbon, and when I untie it, more letters form a glimmering parade through the air: 2. Picnics at the lake with your mom and dad . . . I sniffle and make my way to the middle of the room, where reproductions of my mosaics float next to Sold signs. I tug a ribbon loose and free another message: 3. A lifetime of shared successes and laughter . . .

The thing [Henry James'] novel is about is always there. It is like a church lit but without a congregation to distract you, with every light and line focused on the high altar. And on the altar, very reverently placed, intensely there, is a dead kitten, an egg-shell, a bit of string.

Hidden all day in impenetrable black burkas, rich Saudi women transformed themselves by night into birds of paradise with their corsets, their see-through bras, their G-strings with multicolored lace and rhinestones. They were exactly the opposite of Western women, who spent their days dressed up and looking sexy to

You can spend all day trying to think of some universal truth to set down on paper and some poets try that. Shakespeare knew that it’s much easier to string together some words beginning with the same letter. It doesn’t matter what it’s about. It can be the exact depth in the sea to which a chap’s corpse has been sunk; hardly a matter of universal interest, but if you say, ‘Full fathom five your father lies’, you will be considered the greatest poet that ever lived. Express precisely the same thought in any other way – e.g. ‘your father’s corpse is 9.144 metres below sea level’ – and you’re just a coastguard with some bad news.

You are blazing to me. You are so blazing. No, you are better than blazing: you're blazin'. No G just an apostrophe. You don't need a G, cause i'm your G. So we dropped the G, and tonight you're gonna drop your G, String. Let me see that crack girl, I bet it aint whack girl. Love, your not so secret admirer-er

There’s an old joke about a man who buys a cookbook for his wife and a negligee for his mistress. Somehow, though, the two parcels get mixed up and he fears that all will be lost. But on the contrary both women are delighted: the wife thrilled to be viewed in a sexual manner after years of domestic tedium, the mistress overjoyed that her lover considers her as more than just a body. I imagined the scenario as I trudged my way through Myer and David Jones. Should I look for lingerie for Cress, reassure her that despite all the hiccups of the past few months I still loved and wanted her? I thought I did, but a leopard-print G-string didn’t seem the right way to express that.

Yes. You do understand, you do. I knew you would. It was that analogy you made to the Quran that got me thinking in the first place. Metaphors: knowledge existing in several states simultaneously and without contradiction. The stag and the doe and the trap. Instead of working with linear strings of ones and zeroes, the computer could work with bundles that were one and zero and every point in between, all at once. If, if, if you could teach it to overcome its binary nature." "That sounds very complicated indeed." "It should be impossible, but it isn't." Alif began typing furiously. "All modern computers are pedants. To them the world is divided into black and white, off and on, right and wrong. But I will teach yours to recognize multiple origin points, interrelated geneses, systems of multivalent cause and effect.

That doesn’t explain this weird nudity thing.” “Well, it’s not like we change shapes fully clothed.” “That can get awkward,” Hayder added. “A lioness in a G-string is a dangerous sight to see.” “Dangerous how?” Kira dared asked. “Because the Instagram pic I took of it got me pounced on by a trio of them, and they waxed me from head to toe.” Hayder shook his head, in rueful remembrance. Kira snickered. “I would have used Nair. It lasts longer.

Tegmark argues that "our universe is not just described by mathematics-it is mathematics" [emphasis added]. His argument starts with the rather uncontroversial assumption that an external physical reality exists that is independent of human beings. He then proceeds to examine what might be the nature of the ultimate theory of such a reality (what physicists refer to as the "theory of everything"). Since this physical world is entirely independent of humans, Tegmark maintains, its description must be free of any human "baggage" (e.g., human language, in particular). In other words, the final theory cannot include any concepts such as "subatomic particles," "vibrating strings," "warped spacetime," or other humanly conceived constructs. From this presumed insight, Tegmark concludes that the only possible description of the cosmos is one that involves only abstract concepts and the relations among them, which he takes to be the working definition of mathematics.

-"You are unbelievable." -"I hear that a lot from my lady friends," he agreed with a wink. -"And I'll bet you have plenty as a pole dancer. Like I said before, I need a tracker, not a Chippendale demon. So why don't you run off and hand-wash your gold lame G-string while I get on with the job. Don't worry. I won't tell Lucifer on you. He might try to stick me with someone worse, like your even more annoying twin brother." -"No need to wash anything, little witch, I prefer to go commando.

When she turns to leave, the bottom of her slip snags on the bed frame, revealing a tight, round ass and tiny G-string. Shit. My throat tightens, my skin burns, and the energy pulsing through my veins spikes so fast my vision blurs. I blink, and she’s tugging at the snag. Another blink, and she’s twisting around, her bare, plump ass facing me head on. Another blink, and my hand is wrapped around her throat, pulling her slowly toward me and onto the bed. I never claimed to be a predator, but right now she’s certainly the prey.

AMONG the compensations of advancing age is a wholesome pessimism, which, though it takes the fine edge off of whatever triumphs may come to us, has the admirable effect of preventing Fate from working off on us any of those gold bricks, coins with strings attached, and unhatched chickens, at which ardent youth snatches with such enthusiasm, to its subsequent disappointment. As we emerge from the twenties we grow into a habit of mind that looks askance at Fate bearing gifts. We miss, perhaps, the occasional prize, but we also avoid leaping light-heartedly into traps.

In 1994 another bombshell was dropped. Edward Witten of Princeton's Institute for Advanced Study and Paul Townsend of Cambridge University speculated that all five string theories were in fact the same theory-but only if we add an eleventh dimension. From the vantage point of the eleventh dimension, all five different theories collapsed into one! The theory was unique after all, but only if we ascended to the mountaintop of the eleventh dimension. In the eleventh dimension a new mathematical object can exist, called the membrane (e.g., like the surface of a sphere). Here was the amazing observation: if one dropped from eleven dimensions down to ten dimensions, all five string theories would emerge, starting from a single membrane. Hence all five string theories were just different ways of moving a membrane down from eleven to ten dimensions. (To visualize this, imagine a beach ball with a rubber band stretched around the equator. Imagine taking a pair of scissors and cutting the beach ball twice, once above and once below the rubber band, thereby lopping off the top and bottom of the beach ball. All that is left is the rubber band, a string. In the same way, if we curl up the eleventh dimension, all that is left of a membrane is its equator, which is the string. In fact, mathematically there are five ways in which this slicing can occur, leaving us with five different string theories in ten dimensions.)

faithfulness  c put an end to them.     6 With a freewill offering I will sacrifice to you;         I will give thanks to your name, O LORD,  d for it is good. 7    For he has delivered me from every trouble,         and my eye has  e looked in triumph on my enemies. Cast Your Burden on the LORD To the choirmaster: with  f stringed instruments. A Maskil [1] of David.     PSALM 55  g Give ear to my prayer, O God,         and hide not yourself from my plea for mercy! 2    Attend to me, and answer me;         I am restless  h in my complaint and I  i moan, 3    because of the noise of the enemy,         because of the oppression of the wicked.     For they  j drop trouble upon me,         and in anger they bear a grudge against me.     4 My heart is in anguish within me;

Among the compensations of advancing age is a wholesome pessimism which, while it takes the fine edge off whatever triumphs may come to us, has the admirable effect of preventing fate from working off on us any of those gold bricks, coins with strings attached, and unhatched chickens that which ardent youth snatches with such enthusiasm to its subsequent disappointment. As we emerge from the twenties, we grow into a habit of mind which looks askance at fate bearing gifts. We miss perhaps the occasional prize but we also avoid leaping lightheartedly into traps. Ash Marsin had yet to reach the age of tranquil mistrust and when fate seemed to be treating him kindly, he was still young enough to accept such kindnesses on its face value and rejoice in them. --Something Fresh

He knew exactly what this was. A severe panic attack. “Princess?” She glanced at him, shook her head and clutched even tighter at herself. “Please, leave me alone. I can’t breathe.” His heart went out to her and her fear. He closed the distance between them and placed his hands on her arms to help steady her. “Kiara? Hauk wears women’s underwear.” Kiara froze at his words, not quite sure she’d heard what he said. “Come again?” “Hauk wears women’s underwear. Pink and really girly. You know, one of those skimpy things that tucks into the crack of his fat ass.” In spite of her terror, she laughed at the image of the huge, fierce Andarion in a tiny pink G-string. “Hauk wears women’s underwear?” Nykyrian’s grip loosed on her arms. “Better?” Surprisingly enough, she was. Somehow that unexpected image had managed to break through her panic and center her back in the real world. No one had ever been able to do that before. Her

It was the magnesium. The addition of the ion was critical: with the solution supplemented with magnesium, the ribosome remained glued together, and Brenner and Jacob finally purified a miniscule amount of the messenger molecule out of bacterial cells. It was RNA, as expected-but RNA of a special kind. The messenger was generated afreah when a gene was translated. Like DNA, these RNA molecules were built by stringing together four bases-A,G,C, and U (in the RNA copy of a gene, remember, the T found in DNA is substituted for U). Notably, Brenner and Jacob later discovered the messenger RNA was a facsimile of the DNA chain-a copy made from the original. The RNA copy of a gene then moved from the nucleus to the cytosol, where its message was decoded to build a protein. The messenger RNA was neither an inhabitant of heaven nor of hell-but a professional go-between. The generation of an RNA copy of a gene was termed transcription-referring to the rewriting of a word or sentence in a language close to the original. A gene's code (ATGGGCC...) was transcribed into an RNA code (AUGGGCC...).

9A writing of Hezekiah king of Judah, after he had been sick and had recovered from his sickness: 10 I said,  x In the middle [4] of my days I must depart; I am consigned to the gates of Sheol for the rest of my years. 11 I said, I shall not see the LORD, the LORD  y in the land of the living; I shall look on man no more among the inhabitants of the world. 12 My dwelling is plucked up and removed from me z like a shepherd’s tent; a like a weaver b I have rolled up my life;  c he cuts me off from the loom;  d from day to night you bring me to an end; 13 e I calmed myself [5] until morning; like a lion  f he breaks all my bones; from day to night you bring me to an end. 14 Like  g a swallow or a crane I chirp; h I moan like a dove.  i My eyes are weary with looking upward. O Lord, I am oppressed;  j be my pledge of safety! 15 What shall I say? For he has spoken to me, and he himself has done it.  k I walk slowly all my years because of the bitterness of my soul. 16  l O Lord, by these things men live, and in all these is the life of my spirit. Oh restore me to health and make me live! 17  m Behold, it was for my welfare that I had great bitterness;  n but in love you have delivered my life from the pit of destruction,  n for you have cast all my sins behind your back. 18  o For Sheol does not thank you; death does not praise you; those who go down to the pit do not hope for your faithfulness. 19 The living, the living, he thanks you, as I do this day;  p the father makes known to the children your faithfulness. 20 The LORD will save me, and we will play my music on stringed instruments all the days of our lives,  q at the house of the LORD.

You’re mine,” he said when he drew back, gazing down at her with a hunger that should have made her run. “No one else’s.” He gripped her hips and set her on the edge of his desk. Before she could figure out what he was doing, he brushed her dress up, spread her thighs, and ripped her thong. “Gavin, what—?” His tongue slipped into her vagina, and her mind went blank with shock. He dragged her to the edge of the desk and ate her as if his life depended on it. One hand pinned her thigh open while the other cupped her ass, drawing her tight to his intimate kiss. She couldn’t think as pleasure ricocheted through her. His talented mouth suckled her clit. Before she could counteract the pleasure or get a hold on it, her climax, violent and unstoppable, blasted through her. She wrapped her legs around his head, body bowing as he slammed his fingers into her, eliciting mind-numbing pleasure so great, her mind shut down and her body took over. When it became too much, she yanked on his hair, trying to get his mouth away from her. He moaned but didn’t budge. She could hear him swallow as he lapped up her juices. “G-Gavin, please stop,” she said hoarsely, shuddering. Without moving his head, he pushed her, so she sprawled on her back in a boneless heap on the slick surface of his desk. He used his fingers this time, curling and stroking. The heat began to build again. She tried to kick him, but his hands pinned her wide, and she had no defense as he teased oversensitive nerves. “I-I can’t,” she panted even as another climax punched through her. She erupted, body jerking as he pulled the strings like the master he was. When rational thought returned, she found him standing over her, fingers still buried between her legs. His eyes were ablaze with lust. “I didn’t ask the first time. You say I raped you. Will you let me have you?” It would feel damn good, but... “No.

The key point is that these patterns, while mostly stable, are not permanent: certain environmental experiences can add or subtract methyls and acetyls, changing those patterns. In effect this etches a memory of what the organism was doing or experiencing into its cells—a crucial first step for any Lamarck-like inheritance. Unfortunately, bad experiences can be etched into cells as easily as good experiences. Intense emotional pain can sometimes flood the mammal brain with neurochemicals that tack methyl groups where they shouldn’t be. Mice that are (however contradictory this sounds) bullied by other mice when they’re pups often have these funny methyl patterns in their brains. As do baby mice (both foster and biological) raised by neglectful mothers, mothers who refuse to lick and cuddle and nurse. These neglected mice fall apart in stressful situations as adults, and their meltdowns can’t be the result of poor genes, since biological and foster children end up equally histrionic. Instead the aberrant methyl patterns were imprinted early on, and as neurons kept dividing and the brain kept growing, these patterns perpetuated themselves. The events of September 11, 2001, might have scarred the brains of unborn humans in similar ways. Some pregnant women in Manhattan developed post-traumatic stress disorder, which can epigenetically activate and deactivate at least a dozen genes, including brain genes. These women, especially the ones affected during the third trimester, ended up having children who felt more anxiety and acute distress than other children when confronted with strange stimuli. Notice that these DNA changes aren’t genetic, because the A-C-G-T string remains the same throughout. But epigenetic changes are de facto mutations; genes might as well not function. And just like mutations, epigenetic changes live on in cells and their descendants. Indeed, each of us accumulates more and more unique epigenetic changes as we age. This explains why the personalities and even physiognomies of identical twins, despite identical DNA, grow more distinct each year. It also means that that detective-story trope of one twin committing a murder and both getting away with it—because DNA tests can’t tell them apart—might not hold up forever. Their epigenomes could condemn them. Of course, all this evidence proves only that body cells can record environmental cues and pass them on to other body cells, a limited form of inheritance. Normally when sperm and egg unite, embryos erase this epigenetic information—allowing you to become you, unencumbered by what your parents did. But other evidence suggests that some epigenetic changes, through mistakes or subterfuge, sometimes get smuggled along to new generations of pups, cubs, chicks, or children—close enough to bona fide Lamarckism to make Cuvier and Darwin grind their molars.

He nodded against my neck and his hands came around to cup my breasts, grinding into me again from behind. I ground back. He moaned, slipping a hand down the front of my panties. “Tell me what you like,” he whispered against my ear, moving against me. Oh my fucking God… What didn’t I like? It had been so long and I was so deprived I was afraid he was going to finish me right there. My body began to tremble at the build. I couldn’t take it anymore. He seemed to sense it because he pulled his fingers back right before I disintegrated in his hand, and he laid me down on the bed, sliding over me. He hovered on his forearms and ran a thick, muscular thigh up between my legs until it hit my core and I sucked in air against his lips. Oh my God, he was so good at this… And he fucking knew it. He smiled and kissed me, his tongue darting in my mouth, his rough hands canvassing my skin like he wanted to feel every inch of me. I did the same. It felt so good to touch him. My eyes had spent so much time learning his body, and my hands wanted to map him. I ran fingers along his chest, over the curve of his broad freckled shoulders, down the muscles of his back, along the valley of his spine. I breathed in his scent as I grabbed his firm ass and pulled him into me and he groaned, rubbing hard against my leg. I couldn’t believe this was real, that I got to touch him, that he was kissing me, that there was nothing between us but my thin G-string. His bare skin pressing into mine was the most exquisite feeling of my life, a million nerve endings connecting with his, little electrical shocks that merged into one huge surge. He sat up and kneeled between my legs, picking up my foot and putting it on his shoulder. The view was fucking spectacular. The definition of his chest continued down with a line of hair into a V muscle that pointed at his divine penis like an arrow. I reached out and took him in my hand and his breathing went ragged. My gaze came back up to his hooded eyes. He kissed my ankle and I watched him do it, biting my lip, stroking him, my need unraveling into something so starved I wanted to beg him to have mercy on me and just fuck me already. I thought of the way he’d touched me in the car, his strong hands massaging my calf, and I couldn’t help but feel like he was continuing something he started earlier. He ran his palms from my ankle, behind my knee, up my thigh, and he hooked my panties in his thumbs and pulled them down and off. Then he balled them in his hand, shut his eyes, and put them to his nose, breathing in. When his eyes opened again, they’d gone primal. He came at me like a wild animal. He lowered onto me, his jaw clenched tight, every muscle of his body tense, and I lifted my hips. He held my gaze as he eased himself in, slow and deliberate, and I wrapped my legs around his waist, feral with need, frantically urging him deeper. One… Two… I wasn’t going to last a minute and it was all overload, his naked body pressed to mine, the feel of him inside me, rhythmically thrusting against my core, deeper and deeper, his quivering breath over my collarbone, his hips grinding between my legs, his scent, his sounds, the heat of his skin, the rocking of the bed, the moaning in my throat—my back arched and I fell apart at the same time he did, clutching at everything, pulling him into me, pulsing with his release. He collapsed on top of me and I was decimated. I lay there like a rag doll, twitching with aftershocks. He gasped for breath, his face by my ear. “Holy…fucking…shit,” he panted. I just nodded. I couldn’t even speak. I’d never had sex that good. Never in my life—and I’d had my share of good sex. It was like we’d been foreplaying for weeks and I’d been sexually malnourished, starving, waiting for him to feed me.

In DNA, the alphabetic instructions are adenine, thymine, cytosine, and guanine. One way to recognize mRNA in the cell is that it does not contain thymine, but substitutes uracil instead. The mRNA is then composed of a collection of these four bases (a, u, c, and g). It takes only three bases to form what is called a “codon.” This codon corresponds to an amino acid. A large protein called a ribosome works like a tiny machine, moving along the mRNA strand, while transfer RNA (tRNA) units attach, encoding one of twenty amino acids. The string of amino acids form into a protein.[353]

Images of white, semi clad women in colour would be very conspicuous in an otherwise unintelligible newspaper to Nanaki. It was somewhat incongruous to see little pictures, sourced from foreign news agencies, of white women in bikinis, sun tanning on a beach in Zakynthos or a procession of revellers in Sao Paulo complete with exotic costume regalia: trailing pheasant feathers for tails, operatic masks tantalisingly revealing pouty red lips, breasts protruding out of sequinned two pieces, women’s toned derrieres jutting out of glitzy g-strings vibrating animalistically to the samba, shapely legs fitting snugly into gold stilettos. Others showed women walking down the ramp in skimpy lingerie at a Missoni fashion show in Milan. At times these sights would intrigue Nanaki. For her, Urdu was unintelligible, just black marks on paper. Who reads this newspaper? And who are these pictures for? Whose reality is this?

Later, I sat down drunk on the corner of Carondelet and Canal Streets, listening for the rumble of the streetcar that would take me back uptown to my apartment, watching the evening sun bleed from the streets, the city shifting into night, when it truly became New Orleans: the music, the constant festival, the smell of late evening dinners pouring out, layering the beer-soaked streets, prostitutes, clubs with DJs, rowdy gay bars, dirty strip clubs, the insane out for a walk, college students vomiting in trash cans, daiquiri bars lit up like supermarkets, washing-machine-sized mixers built into the wall spinning every color of daiquiri, lone trumpet players, grown women crying, clawing at men in suits, portrait painters, spangers (spare change beggars), gutter punks with dogs, kids tap-dancing with spinning bike wheels on their heads, the golden cowboy frozen on a milk crate, his golden gun pointed at a child in the crowd, fortune-tellers, psycho preachers, mumblers, fighters, rock-faced college boys out for a date rape, club chicks wearing silver miniskirts, horse-drawn carriages, plastic cups piling against the high curbs of Bourbon Street, jazz music pressing up against rock-and-roll cover bands, murderers, scam artists, hippies selling anything, magic shows and people on unicycles, flying cockroaches the size of pocket rockets, rats without fear, men in drag, business execs wandering drunk in packs, deciding not to tell their wives, sluts sucking dick on open balconies, cops on horseback looking down blouses, cars wading across the river of drunks on Bourbon Street, the people screaming at them, pouring drinks on the hood, putting their asses to the window, whole bars of people laughing, shot girls with test tubes of neon-colored booze, bouncers dragging skinny white boys out by their necks, college girls rubbing each other’s backs after vomiting tequila, T-shirts, drinks sold in a green two-foot tube with a small souvenir grenade in the bottom, people stumbling, tripping, falling, laughing on the sidewalk in the filth, laughing too hard to stand back up, thin rivers of piss leaking out from corners, brides with dirty dresses, men in G-strings, mangy dogs, balloon animals, camcorders, twenty-four-hour 3-4-1, free admission, amateur night, black-eyed strippers, drunk bicyclers, clouds of termites like brown mist surrounding streetlamps, ventriloquists, bikers, people sitting on mailboxes, coffee with chicory, soul singers, the shoeless, the drunks, the blissful, the ignorant, the beaten, the assholes, the cheaters, the douche bags, the comedians, the holy, the broken, the affluent, the beggars, the forgotten, and the soft spring air pregnant with every scent created by such a town.

She ran away from home at age seventeen and hooked up with three outlaw bikers who gang-raped her on the way to Sturgis. She had an abortion in Memphis and spent three months in jail for soliciting at a truck stop on I-40. The next two stops were Big D and New Orleans and runway gigs with a G-string and pasties, then Acapulco and Vegas with oilmen who could buy Third World countries with their credit cards. Miami was even more lucrative. She went to work for a former CIA agent turned political operative who set up cameras in hotel rooms and blackmailed corporate executives and Washington insiders. She helped destroy careers and lives and woke up one morning next to the corpse of a married man who died from an overdose in his sleep and whose family she had to face at the police station. One week later, she swallowed half a bottle of downers, turned on the gas in the oven, and stuck her head in. Three weeks later, she slashed her wrists. One month after that, she helped a pimp roll a blind man. It’s not the kind of personal history you forget.

Yeah I'm one broken mofo. I still care for myself tho. Keep it tidy. Still fit. No one does blip for me. I still eat and mingle with nature. Still recovering. Depression is a bear. It doesn't help that my ever best friend spits bullets. I asked one innocent thing. I begged to drop g's no strings attached. I knew we'd hit it off, maybe for life. I ached for it. Your gift, my trampoline. A hug. Some fun. Some delightful brain food. A happy that would last ages. It's a catch-22 scenario. I begin in the negative to someday find happiness, but I need happiness to get me out of the negative. What am I supposed to do? Take drugs? I teemed for 24 hours anticipating you. That was quite a drug. You call it a conversation? Nah, we be flingin. It's something; a dash of hope. You guesser, judge, jury, executioner. Thinkin I'm some monster by default. Guesser of what I meant. Guessed wrong. It's a choice. You could help pull out the knife or stick it in deeper and twist it around. You do what you enjoy killa. For years I was the only one with a stable income. They told me I was too stupid for school. Instead, I worked to support my family. I worked near 24/7. Then wham, catastrophe. Eugenics at play. Without a support system or tools to defend, you're tossed. I had a lawsuit but I failed to act in time. From zero and stranded in the sticks, I failed lots, threw away lots, I managed to make some money with my skills. Eventually I helped get a house in a decent neighborhood. They let a drug addicted hooker in. I fought the drug fiends. I paid the mortgage debt, several months behind, to save the place, but in the end, I couldn't win. They insisted on moving here. I was the only one with money. I came with to battle the new crisis and to recoup my losses until I figured out what to do next. Couldn't just abandon the kids. Over time the situation improved. Drugs were defeated. I didn't intend to stay. This place got to me. I am ashamed and battered by it all. No, I don't mess with drugs. I found the landscape of my field where most of the jobs are at has changed extensively over the years. I wasn't concentrated on that area. I'm obsolete. Without a degree, you're auto discarded. Still ways in, but I need to be on my A-game. Not going anywhere without exuding confidence. I'm all twisted up inside. Loneliness eating at me. Cold cruel world. My best friend dodgin me. All work, all alone, as it's always been. Can't do it all alone. In the end, what do I get? A hostile mob? Walked in for a chat. What I got was wacked.

The key shortcoming of the multiverse theory, however, is that it appeals to something outside the universe, namely, a vast ensemble of other universes and a set of meta-laws that exist for no reason (e.g., quantum mechanics, string theory). In this respect, the multiverse theory is little better than a direct theistic explanation where an appeal is made to an external creator/designer.

A son sends his aged father a nubile, attractive prostitute in a G-string. She asks if he is ready for “Super Sex.” The old man takes one look at her up and down and says, “I’ll take the soup.

Did I mention the dolphin? As a unique selling point the boys in Tahiti had caught themselves a big grey beasty which spent all day on its back, in a lagoon, being pawed by overweight American women with preposterous plastic tits and unwise G-string bikini bottoms. ‘Would you like to see his penis?’ asked the man in a skirt when I climbed into the water. No. What I’d like to do is spear you through the heart with a harpoon and let the miserable thing have a taste of freedom.

The beauty, the majesty of the five-string open G tuning for an electric guitar is that you’ve only got three notes—the other two are repetitions of each other an octave apart. It’s tuned GDGBD.

Find a piece of it, and watch it grow. Anything that you are wanting: don't stand in the lack of it and lament that it isn't there and expect it to come to you. It cannot. Find a little piece of it, a little string of it, a little trail of it, a little clue of it -- look for something about it, and focus upon that little piece, and by Law of Attraction, watch it grow! Abraham -- G 2/16/91

When it’s off, I’m left in just my G-string. He looks down at me, fucking me with just a stare.

i hang out with war vets in a hospital they will never leave alive.i was out in the garden with the alzheimers and asked them if god wears pnts, G my adopted father answered immediately,"No he wears a G'String. we all laughed so loud it brought the nurses running and then pretended to be discussing a stringed bridge over a river and all sat straight faced. an original thought God wears a G-String.

I have a new nickname. A few of the guys have noticed that I am reading the bible on my free time. I am now ‘preacher.’ Not very fitting, if you ask me. Don’t preachers have to stand up and teach people? I guess it could be worse. Some of the guys were talking about their favorite kind of music. Nobody said classical. I wasn’t surprised, and I didn’t volunteer my preference. Later on, I was talking to Tyler Young, and he asked me what I liked to listen to, so I told him about Beethoven. He asked me what songs I liked. I told him I especially liked Air on a G String - big mistake!! He thought I was talking about women’s underwear. He’s calling me ‘G’ now. I think I prefer Preacher. Tyler has a big mouth, especially when he thinks he’s going to get laughs, and before I knew it, he’d told everyone about Air on a G String. Now I’m ‘Preacher G.

Cool. I haven’t been in a church in years!” “No kidding? I’d never have guessed. Well, people will have certain expectations…” “Okay, no swearing. I’ll be totally polite. And I’ll leave my pasties and G-string at home.” Noah went completely red and she burst out laughing. “I don’t have pasties and G-strings. That club? It wasn’t that bad.” “Just out of curiosity, what was your part?” he asked. “Well,” she said, rolling her eyes upward. “That’s the interesting thing—sometimes a certain costume or look does more for the guys than being totally naked. The two most popular outfits were the cheerleading costume and the candy striper’s costume. The men—they really go for pom-poms.” Ellie looked at Noah. “Hey—are you all right?” “Fine. I’m fine,” Noah said weakly. He’d been in his share of strip clubs, but not for a while. And he hadn’t had much female companionship lately, either. Until today, he hadn’t realized how much he missed that.

So far, being dead is about as much fun as a barbed-wire G-string. Yes,

She shielded her eyes from the sun, her truck keys dangling down the back of her free hand, as Cooper lowered the passenger window and leaned forward so he could see her. “G’day, Starfish. Need a lift?” She needed a lot of things. Hot coffee, sisters who weren’t nosy, a clear vision about what should be next on her life agenda. Being inside a small, sporty vehicle, trapped mere inches from Cooper Jax, even for the short ride down to Half Moon Harbor? That she definitely did not need. “I’m good, thanks. And can we retire the nickname? Please?” He’d begun calling her that after she’d regaled him with a steady string of childhood stories of life lived by the sea, and he’d commented that she seemed too big a fish for such a small pond. A starfish, as it were. She’d rolled her eyes at the very bad pun, but the nickname had stuck. Aussies were big on nicknames. And the honest truth of it was, she hadn’t minded hearing him call her that, even though it had been a joke, delivered as a ribbing, not an endearment. Now? Now she wasn’t sure how he meant it, or what it made her feel when he said it. Better to just bury it right, Ker? Like you do everything that makes you uncomfortable. She really needed to find a way to strangle her little voice. “I’ve got a meeting,” she went on, not giving him a chance to respond. He nodded to the basket in her arms. “Yes, I can see that. Demanding lot, laundry.” She glanced down, then back at him. “No, with my sisters. About Fiona’s wedding.” “Yes, I heard about it.” She didn’t ask how he could possible know that, or who he’d been talking to this time, because any person in town could have brought him up to speed on the goings-on about pretty much any person he wanted to know about. The downside to being home. One of the great things about being a wanderer was that folks only knew whatever parts of her story she opted to share with them. Cooper, she realized now, had already known more than pretty much anyone she’d met in her travels up to that point. God only knows what he’d learned in the twenty-four hours he’d been in the Cove. She didn’t want to examine how that made her feel either. “Three McCrae weddings in less than a year,” he commented, as if casually discussing the weather. Then he grinned. “Is it catching?

The wise men know what wicked things are written on the sky; They trim sad lamps, they touch sad strings, hearing the heavy purple wings, Where the forgotten Seraph kings still plot how God shall die.

She’d waxed and waned like some consumptive moon for years, chasing normal life just like a cat after a string. (Daddy Used to Drink Too Much)

I walked the short distance to Nogizaka, then strolled up and down Gaienhigashi-dori. It took awhile, but I finally spotted it. There was no sign, only a small red rose on a black awning. The entrance was flanked by two black men, each of sufficient bulk to have been at home in the sumo pit. Their suits were well tailored and, given the size of the men wearing them, must have been custom-made. Nigerians, I assumed, whose size, managerial acumen, and relative facility with the language had made them a rare foreign success story, in this case as both middle management and muscle for many of the area’s entertainment establishments. The mizu shobai, or “water trade” of entertainment and pleasure, is one of the few areas in which Japan can legitimately claim a degree of internationalization. They bowed and opened the club’s double glass doors for me, each issuing a baritone irasshaimase as they did so. Welcome. One of them murmured something into a microphone set discreetly into his lapel. I walked down a short flight of stairs. A ruddy-faced, prosperous-looking Japanese man whom I put at about forty greeted me in a small foyer. Interchangeable J-Pop techno music was playing from the room beyond. “Nanmeisama desho ka?” Mr. Ruddy asked. How many? “Just one,” I said in English, holding up a finger. “Of course.” He motioned that I should follow him. The room was rectangular, flanked by dance stages on either end. The stages were simple, distinguished only by mirrored walls behind them and identical brass poles at their centers. One stage was occupied by a tall, long-haired blonde wearing high heels and a green g-string and nothing more. She was dancing somewhat desultorily, I thought, but seemed to have the attention of the majority of the club’s clientele regardless. Russian, I guessed. Large-boned and large-breasted. A delicacy in Japan. Harry hadn’t mentioned floorshows. Probably he was embarrassed. My sense that something was amiss deepened.

The audience clapped and cheered as if witnessing a gladiatoress in combat with a savage brute. The Lion’s throbbing penis was clearly visible against his mistress’s G-string as the couple rolled around the dance floor, desperately trying to subjugate each other. Pinning her wrists above her head, the beast penetrated her moistness in a single stroke, causing her to moan in waves of ecstasy before she reluctantly relinquished herself to the animal she was trying to tame. Tilting her hips to receive his unrestrained pounding, she enjoyed the animalistic dance. Waves of orgasm traversed her capitulating body. Her sublime submissiveness aroused his raw animal instinct to tactile heights of pre-ejaculatory stimulation. His bouncing buttocks intimated his imminent climax. No longer able to stave off his insistent emissions he erupted jets of oozing intoxicants into her luscious sex.

You would never thereby learn that Africans first domesticated the sheep, goat, and cow, developed the idea of trial by jury, produced the first stringed instruments, and gave the world its greatest boon in the discovery of iron. You would never know that prior to the Mohammedan invasion about 1000 A.D. these natives in the heart of Africa had developed powerful kingdoms which were later organized as the Songhay Empire on the order of that of the Romans and boasting of similar grandeur.

Here are some musical selections you can play quietly for the fetus. Since these pieces may calm the baby after birth, it’s good to have a small but well-rehearsed repertoire. These are recommended by Dr. F. Rene Van de Carr and musician and retired professor Dr. Donald Shetler. Music for the Royal Fireworks, Handel “Spring,” from The Four Seasons, Vivaldi Air on the G String,J. S. Bach The Brandenburg Concertos, J. S. Bach Canon in D Major, Pachelbel Pictures at an Exhibition, Mussorgsky Slow steady pieces by Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, or Vivaldi Popular music by Tom Paxton, Burl Ives, Tom Chapin, and Raffi

In his deathbed delirium, Jackson had cried out, “Order A.P. Hill to prepare for action . . . Pass the infantry to the front.” These laurels were richly deserved, for Hill was inseparable from Jackson’s string of victories. He effected a system of command and discipline within his division which made it a model within the Army of Northern Virginia. His emphasis on speed led it to become known as the “Light Division,” despite its large size (six brigades).

Our zero-g talisman, a stuffed snowman belonging to Gennady’s youngest daughter, floats on a string. We are in weightlessness. This is the moment we call MECO, pronounced “mee-ko,” which stands for “main engine cutoff.” It’s always a shock. The spacecraft is now in orbit around the Earth. After having been subjected to such strong and strange forces, the sudden quiet and stillness feel unnatural.

Atbilde nebija tālu. Tai bija viduklis, izteiksmīgi gurni un g-string. Un vēl piecas citas. Ģitāra.

I knew you were married. I knew you were separated but I didn’t know she still had you fastened to her G-string's strings.

Digital computers have either two states, on or off, and so respond only to binary messages, which consist of ones (on) and zeros (off). Every term in a program ultimately must be expressed through these two numbers, ensuring that ordinary mathematical statements quickly grow dizzyingly complex. In the late 1940s, programming a computer was, as one observer put it, “maddeningly difficult.” Before long programmers found ways to produce binary strings more easily. They first devised special typewriters that automatically spit out the desired binary code. Then they shifted to more expansive “assembly” languages, in which letters and symbols stood for ones and zeros. Writing in assembly was an advance, but it still required fidelity to a computer’s rigid instruction set. The programmer had to know the instruction set cold in order to write assembly code effectively. Moreover, the instruction set differed from computer model to computer model, depending on its microprocessor design. This meant that a programmer’s knowledge of an assembly language, so painfully acquired, could be rendered worthless whenever a certain computer fell out of use. By

In 1951, Grace Murray Hopper, a mathematician with the U.S. Navy’s Bureau of Ordnance Naval Reserve, conceived of a program called a compiler, which translated a programmer’s instructions into the strings of ones and zeroes, or machine language, that ultimately controlled the computer. In principle, compilers seemed just the thing to free programmers from the tyranny of hardware and the mind-numbing binary code. Hopper

Shame" It is a cramped little state with no foreign policy, Save to be thought inoffensive. The grammar of the language Has never been fathomed, owing to the national habit Of allowing each sentence to trail off in confusion. Those who have visited Scusi, the capital city, Report that the railway-route from Schuldig passes Through country best described as unrelieved. Sheep are the national product. The faint inscription Over the city gates may perhaps be rendered, "I'm afraid you won't find much of interest here." Census-reports which give the population As zero are, of course, not to be trusted, Save as reflecting the natives' flustered insistence That they do not count, as well as their modest horror Of letting one's sex be known in so many words. The uniform grey of the nondescript buildings, the absence Of churches or comfort-stations, have given observers An odd impression of ostentatious meanness, And it must be said of the citizens (muttering by In their ratty sheepskins, shying at cracks in the sidewalk) That they lack the peace of mind of the truly humble. The tenor of life is careful, even in the stiff Unsmiling carelessness of the border-guards And douaniers, who admit, whenever they can, Not merely the usual carloads of deodorant But gypsies, g-strings, hasheesh, and contraband pigments. Their complete negligence is reserved, however, For the hoped-for invasion, at which time the happy people (Sniggering, ruddily naked, and shamelessly drunk) Will stun the foe by their overwhelming submission, Corrupt the generals, infiltrate the staff, Usurp the throne, proclaim themselves to be sun-gods, And bring about the collapse of the whole empire.

A few seconds later, five buff dudes walked in, wearing nothing but G-strings–some fuckin faggots that I hired offline, just for an occasion like this one. I watched as Fred’s eyes bulged with fear. “Don’t