Goat Mentality Quotes

Every single person is a fool, insane, a failure, or a bad person to at least ten people.

Dante laughed. "No cold soup, no goat cheese. I'll make a mental note. And no Gottfried Curse." "And for you it's no food at all. No sleep. And no tunnels." "I'm low maintenance." "Is that what you are? Because I've been trying to figure it out all semester." "And what have you concluded?" "A mutant. A rare disease. A creature from the inferno. Dante." "And what if you found out you were right?" he asked. "What if it meant that I could hurt you?" "I would say that I'm not scared. Everyone has the ability to hurt. It's the choice that matters.

Normal people who weren’t raised by mentally ill goats probably took the feeling of safety for granted. They only noticed when they suddenly felt unsafe. When the hands reach up for under the bed and grab their ankles, they scream, whereas I’m like “Wait, can you scratch my knee before you kill me?

At the end of his life, which had included financial ruin in the Great Depression, his wife's barbiturate addiction and death by overdose, and then his own lung cancer, Doc said, "It was enough to have been a unicorn." What he meant was that he got to do art. It was magic to him that his hands and mind got to make wonderful things, that he didn't have to be just another goat or horse.

The only problem was, when your whole existence is something you have to cope with, you look back one day and find that your strategy has become a way of life.

Weirdly, D&D didn't encourage my leanings towards trying magic of my own at all. In fact, it frustrated them. Even the most pompous and ambitious historical magicians, from the Zaroastrian Magi through John Dee, Francis Barrett and Aleister Crowley, never claimed to be able to throw fireballs or lightning bolts like D&D wizards can. So D&D was never going to feed the fantasies of practising magic in the real world. That is all about gaining secret knowledge, a higher level of perception or inflicting misfortune or a boon on someone rather than causing a poisonous cloud of vapor to pour from your fingers (Cloudkill, deadly to creatures with less than 5 hit dice, for those who are interested). The game, as we played it, just doesn't support the occult idea of magic. In fact, it might even be argued that, by giving such a powerful prop to my imagination, D&D stopped me from going deeper into the occult in real life. I certainly had all the qualifications—bullied power-hungry twerp with no discernable skill in conventional fields and no immediate hope of a girlfriend who wasn't mentally ill. It's amazing I'm not out sacrificing goats to this day.

The men who pulled the triggers that killed 5 people here on the streets of Greensboro are dangerous men who must be brought to justice. But they are not the cause of our problem, they are the result. The real danger today comes from the people in high places, from the halls of congress to the board rooms of our big corporations, who are telling the white people that if their taxes are eating up their paychecks, it’s not because of our bloated military budget, but because of government programs that benefit black people; those people in high places who are telling white people that if young whites are unemployed it’s because blacks are getting all the jobs. Our problem is the people in power who are creating a scape goat mentality. That, that is what is creating the climate in which the Klan can grow in this country and that is what is creating the danger of a fascist movement in the 1980s in America.

Indeed, techno-humanism may end up downgrading humans. The system may prefer downgraded humans not because they would possess any superhuman knacks, but because they would lack some really disturbing human qualities that hamper the system and slow it down. As any farmer knows, it’s usually the brightest goat in the flock that stirs up the most trouble, which is why the Agricultural Revolution involved downgrading animals’ mental abilities. The

When we mix a practical ability to engineer minds with our ignorance of the mental spectrum and with the narrow interests of governments, armies and corporations, we get a recipe for trouble. We may successfully upgrade our bodies and our brains, while losing our minds in the process. Indeed, techno-humanism may end up downgrading humans. The system may prefer downgraded humans not because they would possess any superhuman knacks, but because they would lack some really disturbing human qualities that hamper the system and slow it down. As any farmer knows, it’s usually the brightest goat in the flock that stirs up the most trouble, which is why the Agricultural Revolution involved downgrading animals’ mental abilities. The second cognitive revolution, dreamed up by techno-humanists, might do the same to us, producing human cogs who communicate and process data far more effectively than ever before, but who can hardly pay attention, dream or doubt. For millions of years we were enhanced chimpanzees. In the future, we may become oversized ants.

He makes the turn into the long gravel lane of my brother Jacob’s farm. The place originally belonged to my parents but was handed down to him, the eldest male child, when they passed away. I mentally brace as the small apple orchard on my right comes into view. The memories aren’t far behind, and I find myself looking down the rows of trees, almost expecting to see the three Amish kids sent to pick apples for pies. Jacob, Sarah, and I had been inseparable back then, and instead of picking apples, we ended up playing hide-and-seek until it was too dark to see. As was usually the case, I was the instigator. Kate, the druvvel-machah. The “troublemaker.” Or so my datt said. The one and only time I confessed to influencing my siblings, he punished me by taking away my favorite chore: bottle-feeding the three-week-old orphan goat I’d named Sammy. I’d cajoled and argued and begged. I was rewarded by being sent to bed with no supper and a stomachache from eating too many green apples. The

Producers may have solved the problem for Brandt, but not for Jack, who was convinced that Columbia had taken a turn for the worse under Harry. Jack, whose filmmaking had consisted almost entirely of one- and two-reelers, decided his brother had become a liability: Either Harry’s extravagancies had to be curbed or Harry had to go—at least as production head. Jack did not understand that product does not come cheap, nor do stars and writers. Mentally, Jack was back at CBC—before CBC moved forward and became Columbia. Jack also knew that if he was to do anything about Harry, he had to find an ally other than Brandt, who, in fall 1931, had become little more than a figurehead.

In the 1940s and 1950s, the grass surface on most miniature golf courses was actually goat hair that had been dyed green.

Fortunately I am in a position to elucidate the mystery, sir. One of the habitués with whom I fraternized at the Goose and Grasshopper chances to be an employee of Mr Cook, and he furnished me with the facts in the case. The cat was a stray which appeared one morning in the stable yard, and Potato Chip took an instant fancy to it. This, I understand, is not unusual with highly bred horses, though more often it is a goat or a sheep which engages their affection.' This was quite new stuff to me. First I'd ever heard of it. 'Goat?' I said. 'Yes, sir.' 'Or a sheep?' 'Yes, sir.' 'You mean love at first sight?' 'One might so describe it, sir.' 'What asses horses are, Jeeves.' 'Certainly their mentality is open to criticism, sir.' 'Though I suppose if for weeks you've seen nothing but Cook and stable boys, a cat comes as a nice change. I take it that the friendship ripened?' 'Yes, sir. The cat now sleeps nightly in the horse's stall and is there to meet him when he returns from his daily exercise.' 'The welcome guest?' 'Extremely welcome, sir.' 'They've put down the red carpet for it, you might say. Strange. I'd have thought a human vampire bat like Cook would have had a stray cat off the premises with a single kick.' 'Something of that nature did occur, my informant tells me, and the result was disastrous. Potato Chip became listless and refused his food. Then one day the cat returned, and the horse immediately recovered both vivacity and appetite.

Just then, Zee heard his name floating down the hallway in a decidedly feminine way. He stiffened. Ashleys! As they floated past him, the two girls waved and smiled at him flirtatiously, and Zee felt his face turn red. What did they want from him, anyway? They didn't know him. They thought he was cool because he was new and an athlete and had a British accent, but they didn't have any idea what he was like. They barely even knew Outside Zee, let alone Real Zee. And what was he supposed to do? Just walk up to them and say hi? He was never going to do that. Because then they would say hi back and expect him to say something else. And Zee had absolutely no idea what that would be. What in the world do you say after hi? And without some kind of plan, some kind of meticulously plotted, carefully researched, thoroughly considered plan, he would just stand there, frozen in time, while the girls slowly realized that he was not at all what they thought, that in fact he was clearly socially--and quite possibly mentally--disabled. Then they would shake their heads slowly, sigh with some combination of disappointment and pity, and walk off, while Zee stood there, still trying to come up with something to say, for a good two or three more weeks.the n he would have no choice but to move to a lonely mountaintop, where he would spend the rest of his days with no one to keep him company but an eagle and a cranky mountain goat named Mr. Thimbles.