Good Snowmobile Quotes

I'm trying to figure out how much I need to deposit into the Kate-have-a-good-time fund," he said. "It's pretty empty.You might have to make a substanial deposit." I couldn't believe how breathless I sounded,like I'd been running beside a snowmobile instead of riding on it. His grin grew."I'm still strapped for cash." "You're torturing me,you know thst? Did you take lessons from Sam?" "I'm torturing you?Geez,you've been torturing me since the day we got here.

Whereas penetration most often means that industry demand will level off, for durable goods, achieving penetration can lead to an abrupt drop in industry demand. After most potential customers have purchased the product, its durability implies that few will buy replacements for a number of years. If industry penetration has been rapid, this situation may translate into several very lean years for industry demand. For example, industry sales of snowmobiles, which underwent very rapid penetration, fell from 425,000 units per year in the peak year (1970-1971) to 125,000 to 200,000 units per year in 1976-1977.6 Recreational vehicles underwent a similar though not quite so dramatic decline. The relation between the growth rate after penetration and growth before penetration will be a function of how fast penetration has been reached and the average time before replacement, and this figure can be calculated.

(...) and now only fragments of conversation would come back every now and again. "Goldie is, like, such a good dog, and he was a purebred retriever, if only my dad would say okay, he wags his tail whenever he sees me. "It's Christmas, he has to let me use the snowmobile. "You can write your name with your tongue on the side of his thing. "I miss Sandy. "Yeah, I miss Sandy too. "Six inches tonight they said, but they just make it up, they make up the weather and nobody ever calls them on it...

Essay So many poems about the deaths of animals. Wilbur’s toad, Kinnell’s porcupine, Eberhart’s squirrel, and that poem by someone—Hecht? Merrill?— about cremating a woodchuck. But mostly I remember the outrageous number of them, as if every poet, I too, had written at least one animal elegy; with the result that today when I came to a good enough poem by Edwin Brock about finding a dead fox at the edge of the sea I could not respond; as if permanent shock had deadened me. And then after a moment I began to give way to sorrow (watching myself sorrowlessly the while), not merely because part of my being had been violated and annulled, but because all these many poems over the years have been necessary,—suitable and correct. This has been the time of the finishing off of the animals. They are going away—their fur and their wild eyes, their voices. Deer leap and leap in front of the screaming snowmobiles until they leap out of existence. Hawks circle once or twice around their shattered nests and then they climb to the stars. I have lived with them fifty years, we have lived with them fifty million years, and now they are going, almost gone. I don’t know if the animals are capable of reproach. But clearly they do not bother to say good-bye.

Small, out-of-the-way county fairs were okay, with their traveling carny shows that might have been taken from a Stephen King short story, and their weird, idiosyncratic events like speed chain saw sculpture—one minute to do a four-foot bear—and snowmobile water-skipping. A big institutional fair was just that: institutional. Sure, deep-fried ice cream bars might be a good idea, but after you’ve eaten a few, then what?