Good Comebacks Quotes

Right before the game, she strolled up to me. "Hey, Seaweed Brain." "Will you stop calling me that?" She knows I hate that name, mostly because I never have a good comeback. She's the daughter of Athena, which doesn't give me a lot of ammunition. I mean, "Owl-head" and "Wise Girl" are kind of lame insults.

you're so full of shit, you ought to be a cow manure

I argued that she wasn't even alive when My Little Pony originally aired, but she retorted that she wasn't alive now, either, and there's just no good comeback to that.

If you are trying to decide among a few people to fill a position hire the best writer. it doesn't matter if the person is marketer, salesperson, designer, programmer, or whatever, their writing skills will pay off. That's because being a good writer is about more than writing clear writing. Clear writing is a sign of clear thinking. great writers know how to communicate. they make things easy to understand. they can put themselves in someone else's shoes. they know what to omit. And those are qualities you want in any candidate. Writing is making a comeback all over our society... Writing is today's currency for good ideas.

I'd always found goodness more interesting then evil, though I was aware this wasn't the most general view. To my mind, it took more work and more courage to be good, an opinion continually reinforced by my own shortcomings.

When you’re in the midst of a storm, it’s hard to remember that God is always good and glorious, and that God’s plans will always prevail, even when yours don’t.

He walked away through the crowd before i could decide if i'd been insulted or not. Just as well. For the life of me, i couldn't think of a good comeback line.

Kiss me, Regina.” He continues rubbing his lips along the curve of my jaw. He plants a kiss on my pulse point below my ear. “Give me a good morning kiss, baby,” he continues, looking heatedly at me. “Ha…” I try to laugh through his teasing but I’m having difficulty thinking of a good comeback. “I’m not used to being charged for coffee I can make on my own.” “Really?” he asks, his hands pushing my little silk dress up my thighs. - Tahoe Roth

Love hurts, but that isn’t a good enough reason not to love. The truth is, it hurts even more not to love

You’re too much of a bitch to go gently into that good night.” “You should put that on a greeting card.

Our lives are always safest, not when we have a good paying job or a big retirement account or when we live in the suburbs with a white picket fence, but when our lives are firmly placed in the hands of God.

Our children don't have to have drinking problems. They don't have to go through divorce or live defeated lives. You can be the one to stir them up, shake them up, and tell them there is a champion inside of them just waiting to come out. Tell them God has a plan for their lives, and they are destined to do greater things than we ever thought of doing.... You can decide to be the role model and reverse your whole generational pattern from a bad one to a good one.

Annabeth is not somebody you want as an enemy. Right before the game, she strolled up to me. “Hey, Seaweed Brain.” “Will you stop calling me that?” She knows I hate that name, mostly because I never have a good comeback. She’s the daughter of Athena, which doesn’t give me a lot of ammunition. I mean, “Owl-head” and “Wise Girl” are kind of lame insults.

One good reason to only maintain a small circle of friends is that three out of four murders are committed by people who know the victim. —GEORGE CARLIN, AMERICAN COMEDIAN

Sex makes things messy.” “Messy is good.” “And according to you, so is greed and we won’t even get a chance to be greedy if we’re too preoccupied with sex.” “Believe me, you’ll be greedy,” he says lazily. “You’ll have the greediest cunt around once I’ve gotten through to you.” My cheeks flame. Damn. “You’re speechless,” he says after a beat. I clear my throat a few times. “I’m trying to think of a witty comeback.” “Don’t think so much then.

There’s no great dividing line between being a kid and an adult. We’re not all caterpillars turning into butterflies. You are what you are. When you grow up, you may be more careful than when you were a kid. You don’t say what you think as much as you once did. You learn to play nice. But you’re still the same person who did good things or rotten things when you were young. Whether you feel good about them or bad … whether you regret them. Well, that’s a different thing. But it’s not like they disappear forever.

She knows I hate that name, mostly because I never have a good comeback. She’s the daughter of Athena, which doesn’t give me a lot of ammunition. I mean, “Owl-head” and “Wise Girl” are kind of lame insults. “You know you love it.” She bumped me with her shoulder, which I guess was supposed to be friendly, but she was wearing full Greek armor, so it kind of hurt. Her gray eyes sparkled under her helmet. Her blond ponytail curled around one shoulder. It was hard for anyone to look cute in combat armor, but Annabeth pulled it off.

And when the time finally comes to say good-bye, she'll swallow hard against the tightness of her throat and the weight of her heart. She'll think I'll miss you and she'll think don't go and she'll think please. But what she'll finally say is simply thank you, and it will mean all of these things - everything promised and remembered, everything wordless and spoken and understood - and so much more.

It’s like saving up that perfect comeback you read in a book or heard on TV—it always sounds good in your head, but it never quite fits in real life.

Theo wanted to call him back. But then he thought, oh let him go, there's no mending a fruitless love, it just has to be endured.

I have abstained from expressing any opinion, so far," says Mr. Superintendent, with his military voice still in good working order. "I have now only one remark to offer, on leaving this case in your hands. There IS such a thing, Sergeant, as making a mountain out of a mole-hill. Good-morning." "There is also such a thing as making nothing out of a mole-hill, in consequence of your head being too high to see it." Having returned his brother-officer's compliment in those terms, Sergeant Cuff wheeled about, and walked away to the window by himself.

Chances are good that you once had a dream—a big, noble, beautiful dream—that you could envision coming true, but that dream was snatched away. An experience like that leaves you longing for a comeback.

Therefore, I have a mammoth library of sharp, quick-witted comebacks for just about any occasion. Simply put, I possess a veritable Batman utility belt of ready-to-go comebacks that is perpetually available.

If they do what missionaries do—study and learn language, become part of culture, proclaim the Good News, be the presence of Christ, and contextualize biblical life and church for that culture—they are missional churches.

In the end, the record companies have the power to control the quality that is served online. Online service has been problematic in that it actively or discreetly promotes trading and duplication of music. It is not offensive to me that the MP3-quaility sound is traded around. It is, in my opinion, the new radio and serves a great purpose: making music lovers away of the content tat is out there to buy. If the consumers want it, let tham take it, whatever quality they prefer. Ultimately, nothing can stop absolute quality from making a big comeback. The stage is well set. I believe in what I am trying to do and that good Karma will come from it. It is just a matter of time.

That’s the lesson for us. It’s never too late. We’re never too far gone. We haven’t strayed too far. God is always good, and he always remembers us. Our prayer isn’t to get revenge on a group of people, but it’s to be strengthened once more so we might live for God’s glory.

Joseph said to them, “ ‘You meant evil against me, but God meant it for good, to bring it about that many people should be kept alive, as they are today. So do not fear; I will provide for you and your little ones.’ Thus he comforted them and spoke kindly to them” (vv. 20–21).

Many fear that this is only a temporary victory, and that some unknown cousin of the Black Death is waiting just around the corner. No one can guarantee that plagues won’t make a comeback, but there are good reasons to think that in the arms race between doctors and germs, doctors run faster.

Masters: Situation appears dire. Look around. Do you see any adults? Me: My ball size indicates I’m the adultest thing here. Me: I haven’t been rejected this hard since I tried to block the punt in that game against OSU last semester. Masters: My wife says rejection is good for you. Makes you mentally tough. Me: You love saying that phrase “my wife.” Masters: You bet your fat ass I do. Me: You don’t think it’s completely strange that you’re 21 and acting like a Taylor Swift song? Masters: Bro, sorry you feel left out. Stop by later and I’ll give you a hug. Me: Fuck off. Masters: I have MY WIFE to do that for me. Thanks, though. Hug still stands. I’ll even let you smell me. MY WIFE says I smell delicious. Me: I’ve smelled you before, which is why I’m not sure how you convinced Ellie to marry you. She must have defective olfactory senses. Masters: Me and MY defective WIFE will be getting it on tonight. While u have only Rosie Palm. Me: Don’t worry. I get plenty of variety. Left-hand Laura sometimes steps in. Masters: Heard you were out with Josie Weeks. Be careful. She eats little linebackers like you for breakfast. And the fact that I don’t even want to make a sexually charged comeback tells me exactly how I feel about Josie. Hope she doesn’t mind being just study partners.

I know it’s difficult. But, yes, God is working even in the midst of whatever problem you’re going through. He’s working in both seen and unseen ways. He’s working to put you on a path that you’ll never regret, a path of extraordinary goodness that’s a reflection of his character. In the meantime, your task is to dwell in the land and cultivate faithfulness.

The new home fashion will be spare. This will be the return of an old WASP style: the good, frayed carpet; dogs that look like dogs and not a hairdo in a teacup, as miniature dogs back from the canine boutique do now. A friend, noting what has and will continue to happen with car sales, said America will look like Havana—old cars and faded grandeur. It won't. It will look like 1970, only without the bell-bottoms and excessive hirsuteness. More families will have to live together. More people will drink more regularly. Secret smoking will make a comeback as part of a return to simple pleasures. People will slow down. Mainstream religion will come back. Walker Percy again: Bland affluence breeds fundamentalism. Bland affluence is over.

Wait, sweetheart, you're not gonna card me?" He looked, bright eyed, at his table mates to join in the joke. "What, do I look old or something?" She'd dealt with this before. "No, you look honest." The guy to his left- this time central casting's Joseph (as in Jesus, Mary, and)- slapped his back and crowed at her response. "You thought you had her! She got you good, buddy!

Canada is now the oldest continuous democratic federation in the world, in good part because most of our leaders, and certainly the best ones, have respected most of these written and unwritten rules. Other countries – almost all our allies and friends – have suffered civil wars, coups, dictatorships, sharp breaks, because they could not maintain the flexibility and respect for the Other that these rules, in particular the unwritten rules, create.

There is no linear way out of grief, and life after loss is not an event with a finish line. While you may notice recurring themes or experiences in your grief, they don’t always appear in order, and they don’t always make sense to your brain. Grief is more like a zigzagging mountain trail than a line on a graph. It’s a mix of uphill and downhill paths, with some switchbacks tossed in for good measure. Know that it’s okay to feel like you’re “back at square one,” because in grief, there are no squares at all.

What was the payoff? It obviously kept me in my cozy zone of being in control, being a good mother, with a good daughter. Most of all, I realize, is that it allowed me to maintain the lie that she was healed, that Nick hadn't permanently damaged her, that I'd truly saved her. Because if I did, if there was no lasting residue of him, it meant that the denial that kept me in the marriage long enough for him to hurt her didn't help create the situation she's in now. The person who I worked hardest to keep safe seems to have been me.

Pain has an odd way of expressing itself in the acts of business. No matter how many setbacks a leader might experience, there always seems to be a new opaque watermark of endurance testing, invisibly triggered for erratic combustion in each compounding decision. Every CEO in the world knows this, yet few have the good sense to walk away from the table when their cards are hot. Why win in Act Two when a comeback in Act Three gives you a longer biography? Ego is not so much about immortality as it is about demonstrating stately resistance to nightmarish attacks in public forums. Any good smack to the head is a continuity wake up call, or at least another invitation to be interviewed by Charlie Rose.

Chris and I told the story of how we met in American Sniper. Briefly, I was living in Long Beach at the time. A girlfriend wanted to go down to San Diego--nearly a two-hour drive--to check out some bars and relax. I almost didn’t go; it was a long drive and I was tired. But I went. We ended up in a bar in Coronado, where I found myself drinking Scotch and offering sarcastic comebacks to an admittedly good-looking but obnoxious young man hitting on me. The man’s friend came over and interrupted us, joking that I was abusing his friend. Now this was a handsome man. A bit over six feet, solidly built, he had a warm smile and broad shoulders to go with a sweet Texas accent and an easygoing, aw-shucks manner that instantly melted my cynical heart. His name was Chris Kyle.

Joan [Blondell] had always kept it real, always kept her priorities straight. “I wasn’t that ambitious. I enjoyed a home life more than a theatrical career. I just took what they gave me, because I wanted to get home quickly.” Joan, said one writer, personified everyone’s “good friend,” on- and off-camera. “Of all the stars I have interviewed,” wrote Charles Higham, “I have liked Joan Blondell the best. She is unique in my experience in being an actress who is devoid of ego, self-congratulation and self-pity, and would not dream of quoting a favorable review of herself. She is down-to-earth and human and real. This is almost unheard of in Saran-wrapped Hollywood.” Her accessibility, straightforwardness and her quick-with-a-comeback attitude was her appeal, and it never diminished as she got older.

You called?" Sounding casual is difficult when it feels like you're heart's river-dancing in your rib cage. "Yes. I just wondered where you were. You didn't answer your cell. Is everything okay?" She sighs, but I can't tell if it's in relief or parental aggravation. "Everything's fine. My battery is dead, but Galen bought me a charger to keep over here, so it's charging." "How sweet of him," she says, knowing good and well she instructed him to do so. "Well, just wanted to check in. Should I wait up for you? I don't appreciate you missing curfew the last few nights. Technically, staying over there until four in the morning is a coed sleepover, which I don't allow, or had you forgotten? Your trip to Florida with Galen's family was a special circumstance." "I stayed the night at Chloe's all the time with JJ there." JJ is Chloe's eight-year-old brother. Not a great comeback, but it will have to do.

Excuse me," a breathy female voice came from beside her, and she lifted her head. A stunning blonde in a dress cut down to her belly button and up to her crotch hovered beside the table. "Yes?" she asked, not certain whether to scream or laugh. "Are you Richard Addison?" the woman breathed, ignoring Sam. Rick blinked. "Oh, me. I thought you were talking to her. Yes, I am." "Could I have your autograph?" "Certainly. Do you have a pen?" The woman held out a napkin and a pen, and Rick signed his name. "There you go." "How about your phone number?" The woman gave a low giggle, but pressed the napkin back into Rick's hand. Sam would have stood, but Rick kicked her under the table. "Ouch," she grumbled, glaring at him. "I'm sorry, but I don't give out my phone number." "Are you sure?" Belly Button Girl licked her lips. "If I might make a comment," Rick continued, granting her a warm smile, though Sam noted that his eyes remained cool and untouched, "I'm a bit occupied right now, enjoying the company of a very lovely young lady with whom I enjoy spending my every spare moment." He straightened further, lowering his voice to a bare murmur. "So I thank you for your interest, but I am never in a million years going to give you my phone number. Good evening." Her face turning scarlet under its inch of makeup, the woman turned away, departing with a sway of her perfect hips. "You're so cool," Sam breathed. "You could at least pretend to be jealous," he said, pulling her hand across the table to kiss her knuckle. She had been jealous, but no way was she going to tell him that. Not until she could figure out for herself what the hell it meant. At least she hadn't panicked and tried to belt a near-naked woman for sneaking up behind her. "She's not your type." "And what precisely is my 'type'?" he asked. "The kind who could have handed you a comeback instead of just stomping away.

To be precise, you and I pay government lawyers to fight as hard as they can to get as much Aboriginal land as possible and to give as little as possible in return. They act like rapacious divorce lawyers. Why? We must ask ourselves why they are doing this for us. First, our governments seem to be arguing that these negotiations are all about saving the taxpayer money. This is lunacy. You don’t save money by dragging out complex legal negotiations for twenty-five years. Protracted legal battles are the equivalent of throwing taxpayers’ money away. And you force Canadian citizens – Aboriginals – to waste their own money and their lives on unnecessary battles. Second, our governments more or less argue that a few thousand or a few hundred Aboriginals shouldn’t have control over land that might have great timber or mineral or energy value. They argue as if it were all about the interests of a few thousand Aboriginals versus that of millions of Canadians. As if the Aboriginals were invaders come to steal our land. The question we should be asking is quite different. If there is value in these territories, don’t you want it controlled by Canadians who feel strongly that this is their land? By people who want to live there and want their children and grandchildren to live there? Surely they are the people most likely to do a good long-term job at managing the land. And why shouldn’t they profit from it? Wouldn’t that be a good thing? Is there any reason why Canadians living in the interior and in the north should profit less than urban Canadians do in the south? And if those Canadians are Aboriginal, is there some reason why they should profit less than non-Aboriginals?

our government is still breaking our treaty obligations. If you coolly strip away the endless administrative rhetoric about budgets and governance, the endless studies and the endemic lack of broad policies coming from the Department of Indian Affairs, you begin to realize that we are still caught up in the racist assimilation policies of a century ago. Let me take a broader example. We all know that the treaties involved a massive loss of land for First Nations. What most of us pretend we don’t know is that this remarkable generosity was tied to permanent obligations taken on by colonial officials, then by the Government of Canada; that is, by the Crown; that is, by you and me. So we got the use of land – and therefore the possibility of creating Canada – in return for a relationship in which we have permanent obligations. We have kept the land. We have repeatedly used ruses to get more of their land. And we have not fulfilled our side of the agreement. We pretend that we do not have partnership obligations. It’s pretty straightforward. We criticize. We insult. We complain. We weasel. Surely, we say, these handouts have gone on long enough. But the most important handout was to us. Bob Rae put it this way at the Athabasca Chipewyan First Nation Treaty Conference in June 2014: “It’s ridiculous to think people would say: ‘I have all this land, millions and millions and millions of acres of land, I’m giving it to you for a piece of land that is five miles by five miles and a few dollars a year.’ To put it in terms of a real estate transaction, it’s preposterous. It doesn’t make any sense.” So the generosity was from First Nations to newcomers. And we are keeping that handout – the land – offered in good faith by friends and allies.

Except then a local high school journalism class decided to investigate the story. Not having attended Columbia Journalism School, the young scribes were unaware of the prohibition on committing journalism that reflects poorly on Third World immigrants. Thanks to the teenagers’ reporting, it was discovered that Reddy had become a multimillionaire by using H-1B visas to bring in slave labor from his native India. Dozens of Indian slaves were working in his buildings and at his restaurant. Apparently, some of those “brainy” high-tech workers America so desperately needs include busboys and janitors. And concubines. The pubescent girls Reddy brought in on H-1B visas were not his nieces: They were his concubines, purchased from their parents in India when they were twelve years old. The sixty-four-year-old Reddy flew the girls to America so he could have sex with them—often several of them at once. (We can only hope this is not why Mark Zuckerberg is so keen on H-1B visas.) The third roommate—the crying girl—had escaped the carbon monoxide poisoning only because she had been at Reddy’s house having sex with him, which, judging by the looks of him, might be worse than death. As soon as a translator other than Reddy was found, she admitted that “the primary purpose for her to enter the U.S. was to continue to have sex with Reddy.” The day her roommates arrived from India, she was forced to watch as the old, balding immigrant had sex with both underage girls at once.3 She also said her dead roommate had been pregnant with Reddy’s child. That could not be confirmed by the court because Reddy had already cremated the girl, in the Hindu tradition—even though her parents were Christian. In all, Reddy had brought seven underage girls to the United States for sex—smuggled in by his brother and sister-in-law, who lied to immigration authorities by posing as the girls’ parents.4 Reddy’s “high-tech” workers were just doing the slavery Americans won’t do. No really—we’ve tried getting American slaves! We’ve advertised for slaves at all the local high schools and didn’t get a single taker. We even posted flyers at the grade schools, asking for prepubescent girls to have sex with Reddy. Nothing. Not even on Craigslist. Reddy’s slaves and concubines were considered “untouchables” in India, treated as “subhuman”—“so low that they are not even considered part of Hinduism’s caste system,” as the Los Angeles Times explained. To put it in layman’s terms, in India they’re considered lower than a Kardashian. According to the Indian American magazine India Currents: “Modern slavery is on display every day in India: children forced to beg, young girls recruited into brothels, and men in debt bondage toiling away in agricultural fields.” More than half of the estimated 20.9 million slaves worldwide live in Asia.5 Thanks to American immigration policies, slavery is making a comeback in the United States! A San Francisco couple “active in the Indian community” bought a slave from a New Delhi recruiter to clean house for them, took away her passport when she arrived, and refused to let her call her family or leave their home.6 In New York, Indian immigrants Varsha and Mahender Sabhnani were convicted in 2006 of bringing in two Indonesian illegal aliens as slaves to be domestics in their Long Island, New York, home.7 In addition to helping reintroduce slavery to America, Reddy sends millions of dollars out of the country in order to build monuments to himself in India. “The more money Reddy made in the States,” the Los Angeles Times chirped, “the more good he seemed to do in his hometown.” That’s great for India, but what is America getting out of this model immigrant? Slavery: Check. Sickening caste system: Check. Purchasing twelve-year-old girls for sex: Check. Draining millions of dollars from the American economy: Check. Smuggling half-dead sex slaves out of his slums in rolled-up carpets right under the nose of the Berkeley police: Priceless.

So the indigenous–immigrant relationship was carefully developed over hundreds of years and largely in good faith. What followed from the 1870s on was quite different. Increasingly, non-Aboriginals did not act in good faith. And each of these betrayals we undertook in order to help them disappear. For their own good. Most of us believe that we are now free of these attitudes. We condemn them. But it isn’t as simple as that. To free ourselves, two things must happen. We must reinstall a national narrative built upon the centrality of the Aboriginal peoples’ past, present and future. And the policies of the country must reflect that centrality, both conceptually and financially.

The Canadian government’s point of view was set in the imperial/colonial era. Our dominant mythologies were shaped in the same era. All our governments – federal and provincial – must simply let go of their paternalistic mindset. Aboriginals are not wards of the state. They don’t need charity. They want the power that our own history says is theirs by right. And that power contains economic solutions. What this means is that our governments should stop wasting our money fighting to maintain systems of injustice. What they need to do is digest reality and embrace reconciliation, which, as Taiaiake Alfred says, begins with restitution. This is more than good intentions. It involves a shift in power and in economic wealth. That shift in economic wealth is the solution to Aboriginal poverty.

In 1972, my idol Gordon Banks was seriously injured in a car accident and lost an eye. He was still England goalkeeper and the world’s Number One. I was absolutely gutted for Banksie. His career was over prematurely. He did make a comeback in America for a time, but he said he felt like people were coming to watch a bit of a circus act: ‘Roll up, roll up! The world’s only one-eyed goalkeeper.’ And so he retired from football for good. When he lost his eye, I wanted to give him one of mine, that’s how much I thought of him.

wristband). The gospel is not a message about what we need to do for God, but about what God has done for us. So get them with the good news about who God is and what he has done for us.

He rolled over until he was on top of me, bracing his weight on his elbows. "Kisses or sleep?" "Kisses," I said. "Good answer." He dipped his head down and captured my laugh with his lips.

How do you come to understand that what people intended for evil, God intended for good?

Special Agent Recht looked at me, then stared across the room to where Deborah was talking to the captain. “What a family,” she said, and walked past me to rejoin her generic-looking partner. I thought of several very good comebacks that would have put her neatly in her place, but after all, her place was actually several rungs above mine on the food chain, so I just called out, “Have a nice day,” to her back and headed out the door to my car.

Trust in the LORD, and do good; dwell in the land and befriend faithfulness. Delight yourself in the LORD, and he will give you the desires of your heart. Commit your way to the LORD; trust in him, and he will act. (Psalm 37:3–5)

Do all the good you can, By all the means you can, In all the ways you can, In all the places you can, At all the times you can, To all the people you can, As long as ever you can.

What do you hope we’ll be studying for History Day?” Bruce asks. “Pioneer times would be nice,” I reply. “I like the books by Laura Ingalls Wilder. They’re ever so lovely, don’t you think?” Oh my God. Why am I talking like that? Ever so lovely?! Bruce nods. “What about studying the Great Depression? That could be fun to learn about.” “Or depressing,” I add. Whew. OK. Good comeback. “What caused the Great Depression, anyway? Was there a therapist shortage?

Money talks. For instance, mine keeps saying “good bye.

Holy crap,” I whispered. That was a good comeback too, perhaps a little on the personal side, but a good one. “I don’t even know what that means and I’ll say you can say that again,” Narinda whispered.

It's sausage to me

The social system does not and never can exist which allows no harm to come to anybody. Conflict of impulse and desire is an inescapable fact of human existence, and where there is conflict there will always be losers and wounds. Utopian systems premised on a world of loving harmony—communism, for instance—fail because in the attempt to obliterate conflict they obliterate freedom. The chore of a social regime is not to obliterate conflict but to manage it, so as to put it to good use while causing a minimum of hurt and abuse. Liberal systems, although far from perfect, have at least two great advantages: they can channel conflict rather than obliterate it, and they give a certain degree of protection from centrally administered abuse. The liberal intellectual system is no exception. It causes pain to people whose views are criticized, still more to those whose views fail to check out and so are rejected. But there are two important consolations. First, no one gets to run the system to his own advantage or stay in charge for long. Whatever you can do to me, I can do to you. Those who are criticized may give as good as they get. Second, the books are never closed, and the game is never over. Sometimes rejected ideas (continental drift, for one) make sensational comebacks.

You know at some point you have to make a choice. Life can be cruel, and even worse, random, and if the only way to get through it is to protect yourself, to find the good where you can and just forget about the rest, is that such a bad thing?

Complete With A Container Word The container word denotes that this offer is a bundle of lots of things put together. It’s a system. It’s something that can’t be held up to a commoditized alternative. Examples: Challenge, Blueprint, Bootcamp, Intensive, Incubator, Masterclass, Program, Detox, Experience, Summit, Accelerator, Fast Track, Shortcut, Sprint, Launch, Slingshot, Catapult, Explosion, System, Getaway, Meetup, Transformation, Mastermind, Launch, Game Plan, Deep Dive, Workshop, Comeback, Rebirth, Attack, Assault, Reset, Solution, Hack, Cheatcode, Liftoff,

Even when you have a setback, God has already prepared your comeback. The God who works all things together for good will leverage every experience, every skill, every mistake, and every bit of knowledge you have acquired.

Whole different story this time,' Bosco began. 'I'm going to make you work, Stephi-babe. This album is going to be my comeback.' Stephanie assumed he was joking. But he met her gaze evenly from within the folds of black leather. 'Comeback?' she asked. Jules had been wandering the loft, eyeing the framed gold and platinum Conduit albums paving the walls, the few guitars Bosco hadn't sold off, and his collection of pre-Columbian artifacts, which he hoarded in pristine glass cases and refused to sell. At the word 'comeback,' Stephanie felt her brother's attention suddenly engage. 'The album's called A to B, right?' Bosco said. 'And that's the question I want to hit straight on: how did I go from being a rock star to being a fat fuck no one cares about? Let's not pretend it didn't happen.' Stephanie was too startled to respond. 'I want interviews, features, you name it,' Bosco went on. 'Fill up my life with that shit. Let's document every fucking humiliation. This is reality, right? You don't look good anymore twenty years later, especially when you've had half your guts removed. Time's a goon, right? Isn't that the expression?' Jules had drifted over from across the room. 'I've never heard that,' he said. '"Time is a goon"?' 'Would you disagree?' Bosco said, a little challengingly. There was a pause. 'No,' Jules said. 'Look,' Stephanie said, 'I love your honesty, Bosco - ' 'Don't give me "I love your honesty, Bosco,"' he said. 'Don't get all PR-y on me.' 'I'm your publicist,' Stephanie reminded him. 'Yeah, but don't start believing that shit,' Bosco said. 'You're too old.

I’ve got a few things to say, and I don’t want you running for the hills. Can you listen before you freak out?” Not ominous at all. “Okaaayyyy.” “I talked to Sebastian.” His mouth twists as he sort of spits out the name. “You shouldn’t have.” His hand flies up to halt my protest. “Yes. I should have. I’m your friend and I kind of wanted to punch that guy in the face, but he’s pretty big, so…” A snicker sneaks out. “Sorry, Abs. Wasn’t willing to risk my pretty face for you. Although maybe a broken nose would give me that extra bad boy edge. I don’t like it any more than you do. I’d love nothing more than for you to punch this guy yourself and move on with your life, but I don’t think you can. Abby, trust me. I know what it’s like to care about someone so deeply you can’t shake them from your system. You need to talk to him and figure out what’s going on. Then you can make the choice. Either ditch him for good or maybe you’ll understand him a little better.” “He doesn’t deserve my time.” I repeat myself. “Maybe not, but you deserve it. The closure, or whatever. I still want to punch the guy for being an idiot, but I think he has some genuine reasons for his actions, and I think it’ll help you out to hear them. I can’t stand seeing you so upset.” “He’s been avoiding me. How do I even know he’ll talk to me?” He takes a long pause without turning to face me, and the words slip out on a whisper. “Because I can see it in his eyes, his mouth. Every single feature says he’s fighting his feelings for you.” “But…” His eyes meet mine as he cuts off my protest. “He’s the one you never got over, Abby. Don’t waste your chance.

Fab.” Suddenly I’m not so sure of myself. “Is it ok if I call you that?” She drags a breath deep into her lungs and tilts her head up, shining eyes almost a navy blue in the lighting backstage. “Yes, Bastian.” “Good, because I plan on using that name every day for the rest of our lives. Fab, I’m so sorry. For everything I did back in high school. And for not chasing after you. I should have fought for you. I thought that hockey was the only thing I needed in my life, but I was wrong. All I could think of during the game was you. Up here on stage. I needed to be here with you. That last goal I scored. It was for you. So I could show up for you, like you’ve shown up for me so many times. And from now on, every goal I score is for you. Every win is for you. Every day is for you. I will dedicate every single hour to convincing you I’m never going to leave you again. Never going to hurt you.” Her cheeks are soft under my hands. “If you’ll let me.” A few stray tears chase each other down her beautiful face. Is she trying to find the words to let me down easy? I lean in to whisper in her ear. “Well?” “Well, what?” “Don’t leave me hanging here. I love you.” “What? Oh.” She laughs through the tears. “I love you too. I think I always have.” “Thank fuck.

Fab.” I groan, dropping a small kiss on her forehead as I push back a tendril of damp hair that clings to her cheek. “I think you were lying.” “What?” she mumbles. “You’re not a bad girl. You’re a good girl. My good girl. Don’t go forgetting that in the morning.

Bryce wiggled her nails at the rebel. 'If I'm going to associate with losers like you, I might as well look good doing it.

The point is, there are no definitively good or bad things that happen in life. Not everything that looks like progress necessarily is. Not everything that looks like tragedy necessarily is. Only time will tell whether something falls into one category or the other. Time ... and your attitude. The way I see it, you have two choices when you're in the dirt. You can roll over and die. Or you can dig in and grow. The choice is yours.

Her walls close around me, greedily trying to suck me in as I make my slow steady invasion. The remnants of her orgasm pulse around me with a squeeze that steals the last shred of self control, and I thrust in to the hilt. A muffled scream of pleasure and need rips from her throat. It’s never been this good before. This right. It wouldn’t surprise me to see actual sparks flying between us to match the internal ones setting every nerve ending on fire. Each thrust brings us closer. There’s a feverish edge to the passion that’s strange and familiar at the same time. I know this woman. I know her to her very soul, and now I’m getting to know her body as well. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before.

What? Not a good enough workout for you. I must be losing my touch. I thought I’d done you in after those two orgasms before bed, not to mention that bonus one in the middle of the night.” “No, I mean, yes. It was good.” I’ve never had this much trouble forming words in my life. “Just good? My pride is wounded.” He throws a hand to his chest. “You should take up acting if the hockey thing doesn’t work out there, drama queen. It was amazing and you know it, but…” “No buts, I refuse to hear any buts before breakfast. Eat up. We can talk after breakfast.

He will learn that the best way to keep people comfortable is to hide your own discomfort or deny it entirely. He will learn to fake it until he makes it, to betray himself in a million ways, just like his mother. I don't know when I learned that "dine" was the correct answer to "how are you?" but nobody ever had to explicitly tell me that "Well, I'm teetering on the edge of a nervous breakdown" is definitely not the answer your colleague is looking for while you pass each other in the hallways between your many overlapping meetings. It doesn't take a psychology degree to understand that some things are just more pleasant than others, and that as comfort-seeking mammals with disposable income we are attracted to the pleasant, the way. And yes, we know that "lie is hard," but we also really want it to be hard in ways that are manageable and more inconvenient than difficult. We want our setbacks to be setting us up for comebacks, and more than anything, we want to be able to alchemize our pain into something shiny and good: a lesson learned, a warning sign for others. Our suffering is just a vehicle for our self-improvement.

You know that at some point you have to make a choice. Life can be cruel and, even worse, random, and if the only way to get through it is to protect yourself, to find the good where you can and just forget about the rest, then is that such a bad thing?

I fix him with a tough stare. “Dating is never hard for a good-looking, well-off, straight man.

Please keep abusing each other over differences of skin tone and absurdly tiny religious discrepancies. It’s good for the country. Racism needs to rise in periods where slavery makes a comeback, because if all you simian-browed, atavistic gutter-plebes started cooperating, all of a sudden, you’d barbecue our prissy fannies in a hot ghetto second. Vent

It isn’t fashionable to say this these days, but a willingness to go into the streets shows a commitment to democracy. And Canadian democracy, like so many others, was born in good part on the streets in the middle of the nineteenth century. It could be argued that the general

a reigning logic of efficiency insists that money spent on the public good is somehow a form of indulgence. There

The core of this ideology is the marginalization of the public good in favour of Hobbesian self-interest: fear

The government and its representatives repeatedly constructed Canada by using the language and meaning of Aboriginal peoples – the language of long-term commitments in the most complete sense. As the strength of indigenous peoples returns, the courts are holding our governments to the language they used in order to gain power. That is good for all of us, and

Checking myself out in my hotel-room mirror, I decided to wear the long black abaya inside Kandahar, and the burqa when we traveled in the car outside the city. At least the hotel room was nicer than my first time in Kandahar. The TV had about two hundred channels, most of them porn. I checked the room computer’s Internet history—more porn. That was a good sign, I supposed. Despite the Taliban comeback, Kandahar was still hung up on sex.

become part of culture, proclaim the Good News, be the presence of Christ, and contextualize biblical life and church for that culture—they are missional churches.

I could ease your aches and you mine, Carrot, you need only ask.” “Shut up,” she mumbled, perhaps not the most witty of comebacks, but he wasn’t good for her equilibrium. Wit flew out the window like a drunken bird when he was around.

Comeback stories are popular because there is truth in them. It is a morality tale. The good guy has to win. The underdog has to defeat the big bad wolf. David beat Goliath did he not? The bad guy has to lose. That is how it works.

Clever Comebacks to Catcalls Situation: You are walking down the hall, and someone tells you he’s so ready for that jelly. Or you are strolling down the street and some construction worker on his lunch break says, “Come on, baby, lemme see you smile.” What can you answer? 1. Join the twenty-first century. 2. Try to imagine how little I care. 3. Have you had your brain checked? I think the warranty has run out. 4. I can’t get angry at you today. It’s Be Kind to Animals Week. 5. Didn’t I dissect you in Biology class? 6. Did you take your medication today? 7. I’ll try smiling—if you try being smarter. 8. I’m curious, did your mother raise all of her children to be sexists, or did she single you out? And some extras, for specific situations: If he says, “If I could see you naked, I’d die happy,” then you say, “If I could see you naked, I’d die laughing.” And if he says, “Hey, baby, what’s your sign?” answer, “Do not enter.” And if he calls down the street as you ignore him, “Hey, baby, don’t be rude!” reply, “I’m not being rude. You’re just insignificant.” And if he says, “Can I see you sometime?” say, “How about never? Is never good for you?” —written by me and Nora, after some serious Internet research.1 Approximate date: October of junior year.

Whatever advice you read or hear, remember that you do not have to accept how the extraverted three-quarters of the population defines social skills—working the room, always having a good comeback, never allowing "awkward" silences. You have your own skills—talking seriously, listening well, allowing silences in which deeper thoughts can develop.

Castro’s revolution, with all of its supposedly good intentions, put a stop to the growth of Havana. Of course it put an end to the Mafia controlling the casinos and entertainment, but for them it was a minor setback. They just packed their bags and went to Las Vegas where they expanded and developed “The Strip!” Batista and his followers fled Cuba for the Dominican Republic, Europe and South Florida. Many Cubans lost everything they had but others fled taking their wealth with them. The upheaval in 1959 marked the beginning of austerity for this former freewheeling city. The communistic de-privatization of all businesses, along with the embargo imposed by the United States, created a serious decline in Havana’s economy. The constant pressure to nationalize, as well as the severe crackdown by the régime to keep people in line, curtailed growth and placed an enormous hardship on the Cuban people. Since the Castro Revolution, the people of Havana have been severely affected, because of the absence of commerce with its former trading partner, the United States, located only 90 miles to the north. In all Havana has taken a severe toll economically, with its dilapidated houses, and the pre-1959 cars on the streets of the city being a testimony to the bygone era. It is only now that with the hope of normalization between the governments of Cuba and the United States that perhaps the people will benefit. For the greatest part, the Port of Havana has also been bypassed, chiefly due to the restrictions placed on them by the United States. However, the Cuban government is now attempting a comeback by attracting tourism from Canada, Mexico, the Bahamas, Latin America, Asia and Europe. The city of Havana has renovated the Sierra Maestra Cruise Port, but only very few cruise companies consider Havana a port of call. Slowly, German and British ships started to arrive, including the Fred Olsen Cruises and Carnival Cruise Line. Technically Real Estate Brokers and Automobile Dealers are illegal in Cuba, although real-estate offices and car dealerships are blatantly open for business. The buying and selling of real estate and cars, which was forbidden for many years, can now be done because of some changes brought about by Raúl Castro, but only by full-time residents of Cuba. However, gray market sales are thriving through the use of friends and family as proxies.

For the past three months I've been lodged in the staring-out-the-window-and burning-toast stage of grief. According to Dr. Rupert, I had a depressive breakdown brought on by grief...as though showing up at the office in your bathrobe is perfectly understandable. I'm not afraid of dying. I'm afraid of everyone else dying and leaving me behind. You don't feel as though you're having a conversation, ore as though you're listening to a book on tape, the title "Steve the Sales Guy Goes on a Dinner Date". Isn't there some way around having to start this new life without my husband? I can't return Crystal as though she's an appliance that broke before the warranty expired. I'm significant otherless. By the time he calls, maybe I'll be a ndw person with self-confidence and cute comebacks. Straight hair, a better job, a smaller waistline. How could I have managed to lose my husband, my job, my house, and my ass all in one year? I'm so eager for intimacy, I would date a tree. It's a myth that people experience grief for a certain amount of time and then they're over it. Nine of the fifteen pounds I want to lose cling to me like an overprotective mother who doesn't want me to take my pants off until I'm married again. Good-riddance list. It's a list of all the stuff you don't like about a guy. You're supposed to make it when you break up with someone. It's funny how you don't have to be related to someone to love them like family. Dangerous rebound guy. My grief is diminished, but it feels permanent, like a scar. Another grief gold star. Marion & Crystal moved in with me. How can I live happily ever after without loving someone again?

Our fascination with change won’t, of itself, make it more likely or more rapid. Come 2020, I’m confident that Australia will still have one of the world’s strongest economies because the current yearning for magic-pudding economics will turn out to be short-lived. The United States will remain the world’s strongest country by far, and our partnership with America will still be the foundation of our security. We will still be a ‘crowned republic’ because we will have concluded (perhaps reluctantly) that it’s actually the least imperfect system of government. We will be more cosmopolitan than ever but perhaps less multicultural because there will be more stress on unity than on diversity. Some progress will have been made towards ‘closing the gap’ between Aboriginal and other Australians’ standards of living (largely because fewer Aboriginal people will live in welfare villages and more of them will have received a good general education). Families won’t break up any more often, because old-fashioned notions about making the most of imperfect situations will have made something of a comeback. Finally, there will have been bigger fires, more extensive floods and more ferocious storms because records are always being broken. But sea levels will be much the same, desert boundaries will not have changed much, and technology, rather than economic self-denial, will be starting to cut down atmospheric pollution.

After parking in the west lot, far from a certain gang member with a reputation that could scare off even the toughest Fairfield football players, Sierra and I walk up the front steps of Fairfield High. Unfortunately, Alex Fuentes and the rest of his gang friends are hanging by the front doors. “Walk right past them,” Sierra mutters. “Whatever you do, don’t look in their eyes.” It’s pretty hard not to when Alex Fuentes steps right in front of me and blocks my path. What’s that prayer you’re supposed to say right before you know you’re going to die? “You’re a lousy driver,” Alex says with his slight Latino accent and full-blown-I-AM-THE-MAN stance. The guy might look like an Abercrombie mode with his ripped bod and flawless face, but his picture is more likely to be taken for a mug shot. The kids from the north side don’t really mix with kids from the south side. It’s not that we think we’re better than them, we’re just different. We’ve grown up in the same town, but on totally opposite sides. We live in big houses on Lake Michigan and they live next to the train tracks. We look, talk, act, and dress different. I’m not saying it’s good or bad; it’s just the way it is in Fairfield. And, to be honest, most of the south side girls treat me like Carmen Sanchez does…they hate me because of who I am. Or, rather, who they think I am. Alex’s gaze slowly moves down my body, traveling the length of me before moving back up. It’s not the first time a guy has checked me out, it’s just that I never had a guy like Alex do it so blatantly…and so up-close. I can feel my face getting hot. “Next time, watch where you’re goin’,” he says, his voice cool and controlled. He’s trying to bully me. He’s a pro at this. I won’t let him get to me and win his little game of intimidation, even if my stomach feels like I’m doing one hundred cartwheels in a row. I square my shoulders and sneer at him, the same sneer I use to push people away. “Thanks for the tip.” “If you ever need a real man to teach you how to drive, I can give you lessons.” Catcalls and whistles from his buddies set my blood boiling. “If you were a real man, you’d open the door for me instead of blocking my way,” I say, admiring my own comeback even as my knees threaten to buckle. Alex steps back, pulls the door open, and bows like he’s my butler. He’s totally mocking me, he knows it and I know it. Everyone knows it. I catch a glimpse of Sierra, still desperately searching for nothing in her purse. She’s clueless. “Get a life,” I tell him. “Like yours? Cabróna, let me tell you somethin’,” Alex says harshly. “Your life isn’t reality, it’s fake. Just like you.” “It’s better than living my life as a loser,” I lash out, hoping my words sting as much as his words did. “Just like you.” Grabbing Sierra’s arm, I pull her toward the open door. Catcalls and comments follow us as we walk into the school. I finally let out the breath I must have been holding, then turn to Sierra. My best friend is staring at me, all bug-eyed. “Holy shit, Brit! You got a death wish or something?” “What gives Alex Fuentes the right to bully everyone in his path?” “Uh, maybe the gun he has hidden in his pants or the gang colors he wears,” Sierra says, sarcasm dripping from every word. “He’s not stupid enough to carry a gun to school,” I reason. “And I refuse to be bullied, by him or anyone else.

It comes times in life in which you don't have good comeback… BUT It's life and you need to suck this whole pill!

It’s all planned, my friends. Your stories, your comebacks, and your connections with people. What it comes down to now is simply opening your heart to all of the possibilities God has in store for you. I believe in you. I believe I would like to give you a great big hug and say, “You got this.” I believe your journey, your stories, your battle scars, and your enduring love are uniquely appointed to help change this world for good, one heart at a time. It starts with yours…

Your life is like a book. You are the hero, death is the villain, and God is the divine author. Like any good story there are conflicts, climaxes, plot twists, and even a few cliffhangers, but He isn’t done yet! A hero always has a period of doubt and defeat, a hard time where they almost give in to the evil. But in the end, the hero always makes a comeback and defeats the villain. This is God’s awesome plan for your story and he has already finished the ending! Anyone who believes in him will overcome death! Yeah, you’ve had your share of ups and downs, but He has great things in store for you. Right now, you might only see the chapter you are on and is might not be very pretty, but don’t worry! God can see the big picture and what an amazing masterpiece you will become. Don’t take matters into your own hands, let God handle it. Trust me, whatever He’s got planned is far better than anything you can imagine!

I think that all good, right thinking people in this country are sick and tired of being told that all good, right thinking people in this country are fed up with being told that all good, right thinking people in this country are fed up with being sick and tired. I’m certainly not, and I’m sick and tired of being told that I am. —MONTY PYTHON

Orchard stores advertising cherries and apples, fresh baked goods, gifts appeared along the road. Some promised the best cider donuts or cherry pie, others had outdoor activities where children could burn off some energy, and yet others offered to let you pick your own cherries when the season started. As they approached a store offering a wide selection of samples, Isaac pulled into the parking lot. It seemed like a good time to stretch their legs and grab a snack at the same time. "Let's see what we've gotten ourselves into, Barracuda," Isaac said. He stepped onto the gravel parking lot, the rocks shifting under his flip-flops. Minivans, SUVs, and cars, many bearing out-of-state plates, filled the lot. Inside the store, freezers contained frozen cherries, apple juice from last season, and pies. Fresh baked goods lined shelves, and quippy signs hung from the walls that said things like IF I HAD KNOWN GRANDKIDS WERE SO MUCH FUN, I WOULD HAVE HAD THEM FIRST and I ENJOY A GLASS OF WINE EACH NIGHT FOR THE HEALTH BENEFITS. THE REST ARE FOR MY WITTY COMEBACKS AND FLAWLESS DANCE MOVES. Bass slid his hand into Isaac's as they walked around the store, staying close to him as they sampled pretzels with cherry-studded dips and homemade jams. A café sold freshly roasted Door County-brand coffee and cherry sodas made with Door County cherry juice. In the bakery area, Isaac picked up a container of apple turnovers still warm from the oven- they would be a tasty breakfast in their motel room tomorrow.

Riley’s more than a prairie princess. Or a sad sparrow. Or a pretty face. She’s smart and stubborn, tough and observant, quick with a comeback and slow to open up. The more I spend time with her, the more I realize she’s definitely the good kind of complicated. The kind of complicated I could want in my life.