Graham Balls Quotes

Elizabeth: "Your balls, Mr. Darcy?" Darcy: "They belong to you, Miss Bennett.

She remembered the lead ammunition in her pocket and offered it to him. "Your balls, Mr. Darcy?" He reached out and closed her hand around them, and offered, "They belong to you, Miss Bennet.

Elizabeth and Darcy merely looked at one another in awkward silence, until the latter reached both arms around her. She was frozen-"What does he mean to do?" she thought. But his intentions were respectable, for Darcy merely meant to retrieve his Brown Bess, which Elizabeth had affixed to her back during her walk. She remembered the lead ammunition in her pocket and offered it to him. "Your balls, Mr. Darcy?" He reached out and closed her hand around them, and offered, "They belong to you, Miss Bennet." Upon this, their colour changed, and they were forced to look away from one another, lest they laugh.

I should like balls infinitely better," she replied, "if they were carried on in a different manner." "You should like balls infinitely better," said Darcy, "if you knew the first thing about them.

She remembered the lead ammunition in her pocket and offered it to him. 'Your balls, Mr. Darcey?'He reached out and closed her hand around them, and offered, 'They belong to you Miss Bennet.

Your balls, Mr. Darcy?” He reached out and closed her hand around them, and offered, “They belong to you, Miss Bennet.

Yes,” thought Elizabeth, “a summer with so few balls would be miserable indeed for a girl who thinks of little else.

She remembered the lead ammunition in her pocket and offered it to him. “Your balls, Mr. Darcy?” He reached out and closed her hand around them, and offered, “They belong to you, Miss Bennet.” Upon

Elisabeth and Darcy merely looked at one another in awkward silence, until the latter reached both arms around her. She was frozen. "What does he mean to do?" she thought. But his intentions were respectable, for Darcy merely meant to retrieve his Brown Bess, which Elisabeth had affixed to her back during her walk. She rememberd the lead ammunition in her pocket and offered it to him. "Your balls, Mr. Darcy?" He reached out and closed her hand around them, and offered, "They belong to you, Miss Bennet.

Good, fine. Yeah, I’m back, bitches. My hair’s different, I’m older, less eyeliner, and this isn’t exactly the outfit I would have picked, but I’m still that same pissed-off girl, her hands balled into fists.

Mr. Darcy approached them soon afterwards. Elizabeth turned to him and said, “Did you not think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly well just now, when I was teasing Colonel Forster to give us a ball at Meryton?” “With great energy; but balls are always a subject which makes a lady energetic.

By the bye, Charles, are you really serious in meditating a dance at Netherfield? I would advise you to consult the wishes of the present party; I am much mistaken if there are not some among us to whom a ball would be rather a punishment than a pleasure.” “If you mean Darcy,” cried her brother, “he may go to bed, if he chooses, before it begins—but as for the ball, it is quite a settled thing; and as soon as the ground has sufficiently hardened and the present increase in unmentionables has passed, I shall send round my cards.” “I should like balls infinitely better,” she replied, “if they were carried on in a different manner.” “You should like balls infinitely better,” said Darcy, “if you knew the first thing about them.” Elizabeth blushed and suppressed a smile—slightly shocked by his flirtation with impropriety, and slightly impressed that he should endeavor to flirt with it at all.

The only way to conquer Barbara Stanwyck was to kill her, if she didn’t kill you first. Lynn Bari wanted any husband that wasn’t hers. Jane Russell’s body promised paradise but her eyes said, “Oh, please!” Claire Trevor was semi-sweet in Westerns and super-sour in moderns. Ida Lupino treated men like used-up cigarette butts. Gloria Grahame was oversexed evil with an added fey touch—a different mouth for every role. Ann Sheridan and Joan Blondell slung stale hash to fresh customers. Ann Dvorak rattled everyone’s rafters, including her own. Adele Jergens was the ultimate gun moll, handy when the shooting started. Marie Windsor just wanted them dead. Lucille Ball, pre–Lucy, was smart of mouth and warm as nails. Mercedes McCambridge, the voice of Satan, used consonants like Cagney used bullets. Marilyn Maxwell seemed approachable enough, depending on her mood swings. And Jean Hagen stole the greatest movie musical ever made by being the ultimate bitch. These wonderwomen proved that a woman’s only place was not in the kitchen. We ain’t talkin’ Loretta Young here.

It was a horse-world, that’s what it was. When I think of him sitting beside me up there on the cart I don’t think of scrap metal, brass, copper, lead, cast-iron. I think of Duke. I think of the life of carters and pedlars. I see him lean forward, elbows on knees, after I’ve taken up the reins, and start to look around him as if he hadn’t noticed the world passing by. I see him scratch his neck and reset his cap. I see him light up a snout, dicky chest or no dicky chest, and breathe out the first drag, bottom lip jutting, then rub his chin with the tip of his thumb, cigarette between his fingers, then run the ball of his thumb across his forehead, and I know I do all those things, without helping it, the same gestures, the same motions.

I’ve known the thrill of winning a tough ball game and of winning a golf match on the last hole. But to me the biggest thrill is to win the big one—the spiritual battle of life.

If a child is to survive, he or she must know the rules of safety. If he is to be healthy, he must know the rules of health. If he is to drive a car, he must know the rules of the road. If he is to become a ball player, he must learn the rules of the game. And, contrary to popular thinking, children appreciate rules.

Sir Graham can go to bloody hell and rot there ’til his balls turn black.

shit. I’ve just got back from the funeral of my best friend.  He died after being hit on the head with a tennis ball.  It was a lovely service. Death is nature’s way of saying ‘Slow down’. I intend to live forever……or die trying. What happens when you get scared half to death twice? A man has died after falling into a vat of coffee.  It was instant. A Chinese man faked his death but his family were suspicious.  They didn’t bereave him. I saw an ad for burial plots.  I thought to myself ‘That’s the last thing I need’. I met a Dutch girl with inflatable shoes last week and phoned her up to arrange a date.  Unfortunately, she’d popped her clogs. My grandad gave me some sound advice on his deathbed.  He said that it’s worth shelling out on good speakers. A friend of mine always wanted to be run over by a steam train.  When it happened, he was chuffed to bits. The man who invented Velcro has died. RIP. A Mexican stuntman died while making a film.  At his funeral, his mother approached the director and said ‘Jesus died for your scenes’. The Grim Reaper came for me last night and I beat him

His voice came out low and steady, squeezing the fury into a tight little ball.

Tutor: I’ve known lots of students who couldn’t read and who were extremely smart. They all learned to read when they were taught the right way. And they went on to do pretty cool things, like become scientists, engineers, professors, musicians, and teachers. [Tim approaches table and starts bouncing gently on the ball] How’d they do that? I’ve had millions of lessons and I still can’t read. Tutor: Well, we would start with games, not books. We’d do lots of different things and figure out exactly what works for you. And you’d have to be willing to practice some easy reading exercises at home with your mom or dad for five minutes every day. [Tim

Although Ball ended up priced far more cheaply than Stryker, the lesson here is not that Ball was a steal and Stryker was a wild pitch. Instead, the intelligent investor should recognize that market panics can create great prices for good companies (like Ball) and good prices for great companies (like Stryker). Ball finished 2002 at $51.19 a share, up 53% from its July low; Stryker ended the year at $67.12, up 47%. Every once in a while, value and growth stocks alike go on sale. Which choice you prefer depends largely on your own personality, but bargains can be had on either side of the plate.

Well, just like the feller said when he showed up at the fancy-dress ball with a rubber johnny on his beezer and the doorman asked him what he’d come as –“fuck nose”.

Excuse me, may I remind you that you’re stuck by your feet by an invisible force to a ball of unstable rock which is hurtling around in a total vacuum, and that you’re obliged to share this ball of unstable rock with millions of demented people, many of whom don’t use deodorant, and some of whom would like nothing better than to pocket all of your possessions, torture your pets and blow your head off. Not only that, everything that makes this situation bearable, like cheeseburgers and whiskey and reasonably priced cigars, is going to shorten your life, and in any case you’re going to die anyhow, half-blind, half-deaf, in wet pajamas, in Pasadena.