Hazmat Quotes

I'll be your mess, you be mine That was the deal that we had signed I bought a hazmat suit to clean up your waste Gas masks, gloves, to keep us safe But now I'm alone in an empty room Staring down immaculate doom "Messy

Observation #8: Boys are icky. Do not even get me started on the state of the bathroom. I'm thinking of calling in a haz-mat team. Seriously.

Maybe we should come back after we call the hazmat team.” “Great idea,” I yelled back. “They can spray you both down for your crotch rot while they’re at it.

So, yeah, his people wouldn't have just frowned on his sex life; they would have handled him only with barbecue tongs while wearing a Hazmat suit and a welding mask

The cult of friendship disturbs me. It's like our quality is supposed to be measured by the number of friends we have. For me, it's quite the inverse. When somebody says "I'm friends with everyone" I just assume they have the spine of your average jellyfish and the integrity of your average soap dish. "I have tons of close friends!" Ok, then you obviously have no standards. "I've slept with lots of people!" Good, I will shake your hand from inside this Hazmat suit. It's like you have to have friends or you're nothing, and you gotta have lots of friends, and the more friends you have the more value you have. This Is a way of lowering our standards to fit in. I'm a big fan of quality over quantity. Everyone wants to look at their life like it's a beer commercial they can just climb into. The larger the circle of friends the more alcohol is involved to blind yourself to the fact that you cant stand most of these assholes.

Because of you,” she said, pointing at me accusingly. She then pointed into the house. “And that little tick dispenser, I now have to go visit the nearest HAZMAT unit to ward off the fucking plague that’s been incubating in that cesspool of yours.

One of the great jokes of life is that by the time you're old enough to recognize how little you know, all you can do is mop up the aftermath, dump it in a giant personal hazmat container and move on.

We take everything out to Geoff's car and I'm eating a peach in the front seat and it's dripping everywhere and, you see, this is the problem with fruit. It only seems portable and convenient. Turns out you need a hazmat suit and six towels to eat a peach.

I took a very careful hold of the metal door handle. No shocks and nothing exploded. I pulled gently and the door yielded, but I stayed on the balls of my feet. If I felt the tension of a wire or heard a click, I was going to set a new land speed record for a scared white guy in a hazmat suit.

MEET AT HAWKE’S HOUSE. HE’S BRINGING VICTORIA HOME AND ASKED US TO CLEAN HIS PIGSTY. MUST BE SPOTLESS IN NEXT 30 MIN. BRING YOUR OWN HAZMAT GEAR.

Is the person wearing the hazmat suit crazy, or are they the smartest person around?

I hoped she used protection when getting naked with him. Chainmail underneath a hazmat suit should be enough.

Dixie needed more than a dehumidifier. She could have used a hazmat team.

It's a thousand tiny impulses, building on one another. First you decide it's a good idea to check the oatmeal bin for bugs. Next you're going through all the canisters, and before you know it, you're wearing a hazmat suit and examining the frosted flakes for ground-up glass. Each action further enforces the obsessive-compulsive circuit. When the disease is full-blown, sufferers are firmly entrenched in the neural loops that make them repeat thoughts and actions over and over. In other words, your brain keeps getting back in line for the same carnival ride it didn't enjoy in the first place. You lose your sunglasses, you throw up on your shirt, and two minutes later you're back on the Whizzer. Wheeee.

instructor explained that when the hazmat team shows up and sees police lying all over the ground, it knows not to approach.

If I know I will be around large numbers of people, I will wear a hazmat suit.

A hazmat suit is my COVID-19 insurance policy for social activities.

When people ask me why I wear a hazmat suit to the store, my response is always ‘COVID-19 is a killer virus and I do not want to die’.

I am easy to spot in the store, as I am the one wearing the COVID-19 preventive hazmat suit.

If the choice is dying from COVID-19 or surviving by wearing a hazmat suit, a gas mask and goggles to the shops, I choose the latter.

When I was wearing a hazmat suit and a gas mask to shop in the USA during the early days of the COVID-19 pandemic, I was surprised everyone at the stores I would go to would treat me like a normal customer.

When I was wearing a hazmat suit and a gas mask to shop in the USA during the early days of the COVID-19 pandemic, I was surprised I was never challenged by anyone for my identity or refused entry to the store.

I’ll be your mess, you be mine That was the deal that we had signed I bought a hazmat suit to clean up your waste Gas masks, gloves, to keep us safe But now I’m alone in an empty room Staring down immaculate doom

That’s right, I am the unenthusiastic girl people avoid making eye contact with when they buy their spank mags and twelve-inch rubber cocks. I’m the one in full HAZMAT gear cleaning up the “accidental” shot spots they leave behind in one of our twenty-five cent porn booths. For what it’s worth, there’s a reason I don’t fill in the glory holes, they all think they’re so sneaky, getting their dick sucked by some anonymous stranger on the other side. I see it as less clean up, let the cock sucking stranger slurp up their spunk. It saves me running a disinfectant wipe along the wall, hoping that none of it touches any part of me. So keep up the good work anonymous strangers, keep gobbling cock and making my life easier. If you want, leave your address at the store and I’ll add you to my fucking Christmas card list.

It did not take me long during the COVID-19 pandemic in Arizona to figure out that shopping in a plastic hazmat suit was really hot and sweaty! I got wise and figured out that a paint sprayer's fabric suit was more suitable to the hot weather of Arizona. I always wore shorts and a tee-shirt to stay cool within the protective suit.

If it burns, blows up or acts like alien blood then call me.

But no matter how carefully we schedule our days, master our emotions, and try to wring our best life now from our better selves, we cannot solve the problem of finitude. We will always want more. We need more. We are carrying the weight of caregiving and addiction, chronic pain and uncertain diagnosis, struggling teenagers and kids with learning disabilities, mental illness and abusive relationships. A grandmother has been sheltering without a visitor for months, and a friend's business closed its doors. Doctors, nurses, and frontline workers are acting as levees, feeling each surge of the disease crash against them. My former students, now serving as pastors and chaplains, are in hospitals giving last rites in hazmat suits. They volunteer to be the last person to hold his hand. To smooth her hair. The truth if the pandemic is the truth of all suffering: that it is unjustly distributed. Who bears the brunt? The homeless and the prisoners. The elderly and the children. The sick and the uninsured. Immigrants and people needing social services. People of color and LGBTQ people. The burdens of ordinary evils— descriminations, brutality, predatory lending, illegal evictions, and medical exploitation— roll back on the vulnerable like a heavy stone. All of us struggle against the constraints places on our bodies, our commitments, our ambitions, and our resources, even as we're saddled with inflated expectations of invincibility. This is the strange cruelty of suffering in America, its insistence that everything is still possible.

In a town in Liberia, a young woman named Fatu Kekula, who was a nursing student, ended up caring for four of her family members at home when there was no room for them in a hospital—her parents, her sister, and a cousin. She didn’t have any protective gear, so she created a bio-hazmat suit out of plastic garbage bags. She tied garbage bags over her feet and legs, put on rubber boots over the bags, and then put more bags over her boots. She put on a raincoat, a surgical mask, and multiple rubber gloves, and she covered her head with pantyhose and a garbage bag. Dressed this way, Fatu Kekula set up IV lines for her family members, giving them saline solution to keep them from becoming dehydrated. Her parents and sister survived; her cousin died. And she herself remained uninfected. Local medical workers called Fatu Kekula’s measures the Trash Bag Method. All you needed were garbage bags, a raincoat, and no small amount of love and courage. Medical workers taught the Trash Bag Method, or variants of it, to people who couldn’t get to hospitals

The elements are all there—fingers, keys, strings, ears—but there’s something in the way, something inhibiting our ability to fully experience all the possibilities. The apostle Paul writes that now we see “as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face” (1 Cor. 13). Right now, we’re trying to embrace our lover, but we’re wearing a hazmat suit. We’re trying to have a detailed conversation about complex emotions, but we’re underwater. We’re trying to taste the thirty-two different spices in the curry, but our mouth is filled with gravel.

Megan Meade’s Guide to the McGowan Boys Entry One Observation #1: When they’re beautiful, they know they’re beautiful. Like the second-to-oldest one, Evan. He’s a senior. He is perfection personified. And he knows it. You can tell because he just sort of smiles knowingly when you gape at him. Not that I’ve been gaping at him. Not at all. Anyway, too soon yet to tell if it negatively affects his behavior. (Like Mike Blukowsi and his Astrodome-sized ego problem.) Observation #2: They like skin. Especially skin they think they’re not necessarily supposed to be seeing. Like the space between your belly tee and your waistband. Observation #3: They have no problem bringing up events that would mortify me into shamed silence if the roles were reversed. Like Evan totally brought up the wiffleball bat incident, when if that had happened to me, I’d be wishing on every one of my birthday cakes for everyone to forget it. Observation #4: They gossip. Can you believe it? I overheard Finn and Doug in the backyard talking about some girl named Dawn who blew off some guy named Simon for some other guy named Rick for like TWENTY MINUTES! They sounded like those old mole-hair ladies at Sal’s Milkshakes. ‘Member the ones who lectured us for a whole hour that day about how young women shouldn’t wear shorts? Wait, okay, I got sidetracked. Observation #5: The older ones are so cute with the younger ones. They were playing ultimate Frisbee when I first got here and Evan totally let Caleb and Ian tackle him. It was soooooo cute. **sigh.** Observation #6: They’re cliquey. I mean, eye-rolling, secret-handshake, don’t-talk-to-us-unless-you’ve-got-an-X-and-a-Y cliquey. Very schooled in the art of the freeze-out. Observation #7: They have no sense of personal space. I need a lock on my door. STAT. Observation #8: Boys are icky. Do not even get me started on the state of the bathroom. I’m thinking of calling in a haz-mat team. Seriously. Observation #9: They have really freaky things going on down there. Yeah, I don’t think I’m ready to elaborate on that one yet. Observation #10: They know how to make enemies. Big time.

If you have to wear a hazmat suit to raise crops, why would you ever eat them? If you’re afraid of getting that crap on your skin, how much more insane would it be to put it in your mouth! Seriously? I often wonder, and I wish someone would research it if they haven’t already, whether the CEOs of Monsanto, Dupont, etc., eat GMO products and feed them to their families, or if they send out their ‘personal shoppers’ to the local farmer’s market to bring home fresh, organic produce every week? I suspect the latter. I’m quite sure they all have reverse osmosis water systems in their mansions. Let me put it bluntly, if I haven’t been clear so far. The day the CEO of Monsanto guzzles a gallon of Roundup, is the day I’ll consider buying their products, maybe.

snow-laden branches drooped down overhead and sharp twigs plucked at the puffy sleeves of his down-filled parka. It was a far cry from his usual postings, where the worst impediments were sunstroke and scorpion bites. Even though it was technically early afternoon, the sun was so dim that the light stanchions, positioned every few yards along the pathway, were all switched on, providing an eerie glow. As Slater approached the cemetery gateposts, scrawled with their anonymous plea to “Forgive me,” he glanced over toward the promontory where he could see Groves and a Coast Guardsman, cloaked in their own hazmat suits, repositioning a jackhammer to loosen whatever frozen soil still remained at the parameters previously demarcated by Kozak. The strips of wet sod that had already been removed had been laid, according to Slater’s instructions, neatly to one

white coveralls. As he expected, Kozak was already huffing and puffing to get himself into everything, and Lantos was helping Nika to get properly attired; the leather jerkin wasn’t making it any easier, especially as Slater pointed out that it had to go inside, rather than outside, the hazmat gear. “Otherwise, it’ll have to be disposed of afterward,” he said. “No way,” Nika said, struggling to get the zipper all the way up and over it. “This has been in my tribe for at least two hundred years.” Once she was in, Lantos

I don’t want to spend the next twenty-five years growing my ass and decorating my cubicle with photos of places I’ll never get to visit and/or counting down the days to my one week of paid vacation wherein I will take an all-you-can-eat cruise down to Mexico and end up with norovirus so I can spend the entire trip puking and shitting my guts out in a cabin the size of walk-in closet while the poor maid sneaks around me dressed in a full hazmat suit to leave clean towels and Mexican Pepto-Bismol. I cannot see myself doing the same mind-numbing job day in and day out, hoping that the company doesn’t go under, thereby ruining my chances of a decent retirement, during which I can join a real book club where we giggle about mommy porn and cross-stitch naughty sayings while we pass around plastic plates of Triscuits topped with canned cheese product and pimientos for color as the party host fills our glasses with Costco boxed wine and I sip surreptitiously from my flask that reads “Vodka never disappoints.” It may be okay for these women, but I can’t do it. I want more. (Although I do want that flask, so keep your eyes peeled in your travels, yeah?) Does that make me a jerk?

THE HAZMAT SUIT was stifling and Luca Ginelli could barely catch his breath as he studied the monitors. Thanks to the research laboratory's state-of-the-art microsphere nanoscope, the young lab technician could easily

A reminder to exercise and drink plenty of water: Cellular chemicals greedily tear the molecular structure of glucose apart to extract its sugary energy. This energy extraction is so violent that atoms are literally ripped asunder in the process. As in any manufacturing process, such fierce activity generates a fair amount of toxic waste. In the case of food, this waste consists of a nasty pile of excess electrons shredded from the atoms in the glucose molecules. Left alone, these electrons slam into other molecules within the cell transforming them into one of the most toxic substances known to humankind. They are called free radicals. If not quickly corralled, they will wreck havoc on the innards...causing mutations in your very DNA. The reason you don't die of electron overdose is that the atmosphere is full of breathable oxygen. The main function of oxygen is to act like an efficient electron absorbing sponge. At the same time the blood is delivering foodstuffs to your tissues, it is also carrying those oxygen sponges. Any excess electrons are absorbed by the sponges, and after a bit of molecular alchemy, are transformed into equally hazardous but now fully transportable CO2. The blood is carried back to your lungs where the CO2 leaves the blood and you breathe it out... keeping the food you eat from killing you. This is why blood has to be everywhere inside you serving as both wait staff and hazmat team. Any tissue without blood is going to starve to death, your brain included.

I will never ever wear turban or Stetson or hat even if I do, I will not do that all time. Once proper Hindu always proper Hindu and Christianity was my missing link, Islam is humanism, all other religious beliefs are knowledge for me. All languages are my knowledge. But would like to wear astronaut helmet or hazmat suit within 11 years

Bryce’s daily armor consisted solely of this: an Archesian amulet barely the size of her thumbnail, gifted by Jesiba on the first day of work. A hazmat suit in a necklace, Danika had marveled when Bryce had shown off the amulet’s considerable protections against the influence of various magical objects. Archesian amulets didn’t come cheap, but Bryce didn’t bother to delude herself into thinking her boss’s gift was given out of anything but self-interest. It would have been an insurance nightmare if Bryce didn’t have one.

THE HAZMAT SUIT was stifling and Luca Ginelli could barely catch his breath as he studied the monitors.

A man—the boy’s father, it seemed—stepped forward and put one hand on his son’s shoulder, the other around his wife. When the hazmat man stood, the father picked his kid up and tried to leave.

I made love in a HAZMAT suit. I think I contaminated the relationship.

Can’t you see I’m starving?” asked a very large man in a very loud voice. His words were clipped, desperate and breathless. It was less a question than a demand. Less a shout than a gargle, as though the man spoke through a mouthful of gumballs and old chicken bones. His head was massive; a pregnant watermelon perched neckless atop a VW Bug. His swollen body oozed off the sides of his bed and rippled with aftershocks after each huffed syllable. Two EMT’s in ventilated hazmat suits circumnavigated the obese man like puffy yellow astronauts orbiting a small moon. “Sir, calm down. Please. We’re here to help you.

--I didn’t know what was more dangerous...the things he said or the way his voice seeped into the crevices of my soul. --My body liked the effect he had on me, but my mind was gathering caution tape and a hazmat suit.

Reminder: Dump Brains and Bowels in Hazmat Bin!

going to nail this Hazmat

You know, if COVID had given people warts or facial blisters, every fucking person in this state would have been fighting for a jab and a hazmat suit.

Bill begins to convulse. A thick swarm of steam flows out of his mouth while a revolting stench of burning flesh erupts through the atmosphere. Flamingo Bill drops to his knees as his eyes disgorge blood, “Oh my God, my Skin! My Skin! It didn’t work, you stupid Bitch! I want a divorce!” Flamingo Bill screams as the savior hazmat suit disintegrates, melting his arms and legs before the TV cuts to a bright fuzzy screen that reads, “PLEASE STAND BY.

If I were a COVID-19 superhero, I would be ‘Hazmat-Man’.

Think hazmat suit, (just kidding...almost!).

He and Thomas needed to work their shit out before Aiden was swallowed by four decades worth of flies and they had to fish his body out wearing hazmat suits. Which, at this point, seemed a very real possibility.

If he wanted to, a man could see you in a hazmat suit and make you feel like you'd left the house in a string bikini for the sole purpose of his pleasure...

It is a lot easier to wear a hazmat suit now than it is to deal with the potentially fatal aspects of COVID-19 later.

I think of Journey, and how Journey once told me that the hazmats sent us to Mars because we are rational, unlike them. Because we do not have attachments, unlike them. But I have attachments. I am attached to Rania. I am attached to Xander. I am even attached to Journey. And that is why I am pushing forward.

He then pointed to the right, and I turned to look. Exactly on cue, something massive came around the corner: a snaking, vehicular army that included a phalanx of police cars and motorcycles, a number of black SUVs, two armored limousines with American flags mounted on their hoods, a hazmat mitigation truck, a counterassault team riding with machine guns visible, an ambulance, a signals truck equipped to detect incoming projectiles, several passenger vans, and another group of police escorts. The presidential motorcade. It was at least twenty vehicles long, moving in orchestrated formation, car after car after car, before finally the whole fleet rolled to a quiet halt, and the limos stopped directly in front of Barack’s parked plane. I turned to Cornelius. “Is there a clown car?” I said. “Seriously, this is what he’s going to travel with now?” He smiled. “Every day for his entire presidency, yes,” he said. “It’s going to look like this all the time.” I took in the spectacle: thousands and thousands of pounds of metal, a squad of commandos, bulletproof everything. I had yet to grasp that Barack’s protection was still only half-visible. I didn’t know that he’d also, at all times, have a nearby helicopter ready to evacuate him, that sharpshooters would position themselves on rooftops along the routes he traveled, that a personal physician would always be with him in case of a medical problem, or that the vehicle he rode in contained a store of blood of the appropriate type in case he ever needed a transfusion. In a matter of weeks, just ahead of Barack’s inauguration, the presidential limo would be upgraded to a newer model—aptly named the Beast—a seven-ton tank disguised as a luxury vehicle, tricked out with hidden tear-gas cannons, rupture-proof tires, and a sealed ventilation system meant to get him through a biological or chemical attack.

In 2020 I was only attending essential doctors appointments wearing a hazmat suit.

COVID-19 enabled people to go to the bank looking like robbers, hazmat suits became fashionable, and social distancing was the norm.

Leaning down, it became amply clear that Rhamp had deployed the hot bomb. And Qhuinn had to admit, as he undid the buckle and got the kid back out, that he kind of respected the effort, man to man. Yeah, no pussy loads for his son. The boy dropped that shit like he owned it. Um…literally. Yeah. Back at the dressing table. Once again with the button and the zipper on the miniature pants that made Qhuinn’s hands cramp. And then… “Oh…wow,” Qhuinn muttered as he had to turn his head away for some fresh air. Who knew you could see God without leaving the planet? And clean-up was going to require a backhoe and a hazmat suit. Meanwhile, Rhamp just lay there, looking up at him with little fists pumping like he was expecting a high five or something.

You almost have to wear a hazmat suit to handle a raw piece of chicken because of fear of getting a bacterial infection like salmonella. According to a 2014 Consumer Reports study, 97 percent of chicken breasts purchased at American supermarkets contained such hazardous bacteria. Cooking at a high enough temperature kills the bacteria, but does not destroy the endotoxin produced by the bacteria, which is embedded in the muscle (protein) of the animal.

Meanwhile, Lakeland Industries, a manufacturer of protective clothing, announced the U.S. State Department had put out a bid for 160,000 hazmat suits for the battle against Ebola.

many days my home looks like it should require a hazmat suit for entrance. I’m half expecting a producer from “Dirty Jobs” to show up on my doorstep requesting permission to film a scene or two for an upcoming episode. Clearly, something apocalyptic must have occurred within these walls to create such mess, right? I’ve come to realize that a less-than-tidy home is the occupational hazard of homeschooling. And I’m okay with that.

The smartest person in the store is wearing a hazmat suit, gas mask, googles and rubber gloves.

images changing from overhead shots of an airport to a hospital with doctors wearing hazmat-esque shields and gowns, crowded sidewalks, bustling markets, and packed-beyond-capacity subways, many of the people wearing surgical masks over their noses and mouths,

I enjoy shopping in a hazmat suit so much that I may continue to do so after the COVID-19 pandemic is over.

A hazmat suit is like a walking sauna.

A policewoman, State, in a white paper hazmat suit, half unzipped, was standing in the middle of Porter, eating a pulled-pork sandwich. Flynne liked her haircut. Wondered if Tommy did. Then she wondered where you got a pulled-pork sandwich, this time of night.

The reason why I wear a hazmat suit when interacting with people is that I do not trust the government regarding COVID-19.