Heavyweight Quotes

communication is such a two-edged sword for guys. On the one hand, they almost always mean what they say. Refreshing, I know. On the other hand, getting them to actually say it can be like coaxing a corpse to tap-dance. Not that it can't be done. But it's so freaking exhausting. Not to mention the cost in heavyweight fishing line and Savion Glover videos.

I want you to stop being subhuman and become 'yourself'. 'Yourself,' I say. Not the newspaper you read, not your vicious neighbor's opinion, but 'yourself.' I know, and you don't, what you really are deep down. Deep down, you are what a deer, your God, your poet, or your philosopher is. But you think you're a member of the VFW, your bowling club, or the Ku Klux Klan, and because you think so, you behave as you do. This too was told you long ago, by Heinrich Mann in Germany, by Upton Sinclair and John Dos Passos in the United States. But you recognized neither Mann nor Sinclair. You recognize only the heavyweight champion and Al Capone. If given your choice between a library and a fight, you'll undoubtedly go to the fight.

This is the legend of Cassius Clay, The most beautiful fighter in the world today. He talks a great deal, and brags indeed-y, of a muscular punch that's incredibly speed-y. The fistic world was dull and weary, But with a champ like Liston, things had to be dreary. Then someone with color and someone with dash, Brought fight fans are runnin' with Cash. This brash young boxer is something to see And the heavyweight championship is his des-tin-y. This kid fights great; he’s got speed and endurance, But if you sign to fight him, increase your insurance. This kid's got a left; this kid's got a right, If he hit you once, you're asleep for the night. And as you lie on the floor while the ref counts ten, You’ll pray that you won’t have to fight me again. For I am the man this poem’s about, The next champ of the world, there isn’t a doubt. This I predict and I know the score, I’ll be champ of the world in ’64. When I say three, they’ll go in the third, 10 months ago So don’t bet against me, I’m a man of my word. He is the greatest! Yes! I am the man this poem’s about, I’ll be champ of the world, there isn’t a doubt. Here I predict Mr. Liston’s dismemberment, I’ll hit him so hard; he’ll wonder where October and November went. When I say two, there’s never a third, Standin against me is completely absurd. When Cassius says a mouse can outrun a horse, Don’t ask how; put your money where your mouse is! I AM THE GREATEST!

I don’t believe I’ve ever been quite so angry in all my life. I think I could bottle this rage and sell it to—I don’t know, competitive heavyweight boxers or something.

In 1922 everything changed again. The Eskimo pie was invented; James Joyce's Ulysses was printed in Paris; snow fell on Mauna Loa, Hawaii; Babe Ruth signed a three-year contract with the New York Yankees; Eugene O'Neill was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Drama; Frederick Douglass's home was dedicated as a national shrine; former heavyweight champion of the world Jack Johnson invented the wrench...

he's not a piece of meat you can job off the market by the pound. because, if you do,maish, if you do, you'll rot in hell.

A heavyweight boxing champion who dodges all serious contenders to consistently fight marshmallows is derided and ridiculed—and rightly so. Christians who dodge all serious struggle and consciously seek to put themselves in whatever situations and relationships are easiest are doing the same thing—they are coasting, and eventually that coasting will define them and—even worse—shape them.

When choosing between something that requires more effort and something that requires less, always go with the one that demands more.

I blame Mother Nature two-faced bitch and Father Time bloody bastard .Yep those misogynistic killjoys have cut off my pocket money and left me grounded.With those two authoritarian heavyweights ganging up what chance does a woman have I aks you

It wasn’t the bent, nasty, yellow laminated four-by-six card everyone else got but a real heavyweight plastic tag embossed with my name. Jenks had one, too, and he was obnoxiously proud of it even though I was the one wearing it, right under mine. It would get me into the morgue when nothing else would. Well, besides being dead.

In her book, Robin implied that we hadn’t slept together, but I actually nailed her the first or second night when she came to my hotel. Instead she claimed that we strolled through the mall and played with puppies at pet shops for hours. Can you see me in a motherfucking mall, the heavyweight champ of the world? What the fuck am I doing in a mall?

Let me stress that again: heavyweight. A thin-bottomed saucepan is useless for anything. I don't care if it's bonded with copper, hand-rubbed by virgins, or fashioned from the same material they built the stealth bomber out of. If you like scorched sauces, carbonized chicken, pasta that sticks to the bottom of the pot, burnt breadcrumbs, then be my guest. A proper saute pan, for instance, should cause serious head injury if brought down hard against someone's skull. If you have any doubts about which will dent — the victim's head or your pan — then throw that pan right in the trash.

EMMA: Ah. There you are. You— little— John Sublime: Shhuhh… Hup. Don’t. Please… My mom met your parents in the Hamptons… I… I go through agonies of conscience every time we have to hurt one of you beautiful creatures… Emma… I’m doing God’s will… EMMA: Shut up! I am very cross about this! Very very very cross indeed! I look like a bloody heavyweight boxer!

The single most important trait for success is Self-Discipline. Everything else takes care of itself if you have this.

I am the great test! a blackened shadow-boxing colossus jabjabbered, pounding his gloves against the wall. The heavyweight will be quillweight. Bantamweight, even. Ain't nobody can dethrone me, beyond my ken! he boasted,* sidling up to his shadow. *Mad Ali?:

He was, or had been, a heavyweight drug dealer, a smug, amoral son-of-a-bitch who thought he could murder a nice young Columbian woman who was to testify against him, then pay me to look the other way. It was an arrogance borne of experience and prior successes.

When you are good at despising little things, you are likely to throw away the tiny match stick that has the potential of putting the entire forest on fire! Little things do carry heavy potentials!

It’s hard to imagine that Clarence was once a normal person, a college student, football player and bespectacled counselor at the Jamesburg State Home for Boys. He had a face that would look at home at any point in history. It was the face of an exotic emperor, an island king, a heavyweight boxer, a shaman, a chain-gang convict, a fifties bluesman and a deep soul survivor. It held one million secrets and none at all.

...what a leveller this remote-control gizmo was...it chopped down the heavyweight and stretched out the slight until all the set's emissions, commercials, murders, game-shows, the thousand and one varying joys and terrors of the real and the imagined, acquired an equal weight...

so we went up the hill. then we got into my room and I looked at them both. my pure and beautiful slim and magic little girl glorious fuck with the hair dangling down to the asshole, and next to her the tragedy of the ages: slime and horror, the machine gone wrong, frogs tortured by little boys and head-on car collisions and the spider taking in the ball-less buzzing fly and the landscape brain of Primo Carnera going down under the dull playboy guns of cocksure Maxie Baer — new heavyweight champ of America — I, I rushed at the Tragedy of the Ages — that fat slob of accumulated shit.

When you are twenty-five and are a natural heavyweight, missing a meal makes you very hungry. But it also sharpens all of your perceptions, and I found that many of the people I wrote about had very strong appetites and a great taste and desire for food, and most of them were looking forward to having a drink.

It went automatically to a heavy-weight mother with beetling eyebrows who looked as if she had just come from doing a spot of knitting at the foot of the guillotine.

Narrow-shouldered and light framed as i remembered, but forcing his way through the crowds with his arms bowed as if he thought of himself as a heavyweight.

The difference between heavyweights and amateurs, she said, is that the heavyweights know the difference between a 60⁄40 bet and a 40⁄60 bet.

Hemingway and Norman Mailer might have disagreed, but there is no heavyweight champion of literature.

Women are heavyweight boxers; only, they punch with words, not fists.

Cus was a strong believer that in your mind you had to be the entity that you wanted to be. If you wanted to be heavyweight champion of the world, you had to

reality, the Mann Act was used to prevent interracial relationships. World champion heavyweight boxer Jack Johnson was prosecuted under the Mann Act for dating white women.

Only the poor can feels the pain of Heavyweight laws.

Of course, if it were me, I wouldn’t really want to risk my mortality by bruising up an ex- heavyweight champion’s girlfriend. But that’s just me.

In the end, though, Joe Louis would have the last laugh. He would indeed fight Max Schmeling again, two years later, and Schmeling would last all of two minutes and four seconds before his corner threw in the towel. Joe Louis would reign as heavyweight champion of the world from 1937 to 1949, long after Joseph Goebbels’s charred body had been pulled out of the smoldering rubble of the Reich Chancellery in Berlin and laid next to those of Magda and their children.

Get over yourself,” Tino barked. “In case you missed the memo, you’re famous now, dickhead. People cross the street to get your autograph. You got two UFC Light-Heavyweight belts. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, you switched weight classes and just killed it like a boss and won a Heavyweight belt too. Me, I look like some asshole from Jersey Shore.” He winced and then added, “Except I have better hair…and better style.” Tino shook his head. “Just completely forget I ever compared myself to them

But, sir, please let me finish this round and go one more round. That’s what we normally do,” I pleaded. I wanted to impress Cus. I guess I had. When we got out of the ring, Cus’s first words to Bobby were, “That’s the heavyweight champion of the world.

The moment you think you can get in the ring with the heavyweight champion of the world and bluff your way through the fight is about the same time you see your bloody teeth on the canvas and wonder how they got there. Remember the five P's - 'Prior preparation prevents poor performance!

I took a swing, remembering the lessons of Sharafutdinov, the heavyweight champ. I took a swing and fell on my back.I don't remember what happened. Either it was slippery or my centre of gravity was too high...In any case, I fell. I saw the sky, enormous, pale and mysterious. So far away from my problems and disappointments. So pure.

The early Seventies were a gold rush for double-vinyl samplers from Sixties heavyweights—the Stones’ 1971 Hot Rocks, the Kinks’ 1972 Kink Kronikles, the Doors’ 1972 Weird Scenes Inside the Gold Mine, the Beach Boys’ 1974 Endless Summer. Best of all: Bob Dylan’s 1971 Greatest Hits Volume II, with virtually no hits, just deep cuts chosen by the artist.

What of the Athenian last year on whose bosom a committee hung a medal to say to the world here is a champion heavyweight poet? He stood on a two-masted schooner and flung his medal far out on the sea bosom. “And why not? Has anybody ever given the ocean a medal? Who of the poets equals the music of the sea? And where is a symbol of the people unless it is the sea?

We sat down and Cus told me he couldn’t believe I was only thirteen years old. And then he told me what my future would be. He had seen me spar for not even six minutes, but he said it in a way that was like law. “You looked splendid,” he said. “You’re a great fighter.” It was compliment after compliment. “If you listen to me, I can make you the youngest heavyweight champion of all time.

That’s how my cousin came to don the hand-tailored suits and to arrogate to himself the glamorous responsibility for ushering to their tables big-name customers such as Jersey City’s crooked mayor, Frank Hague; New Jersey’s light-heavyweight champion, Gus Lesnevich; and racket tycoons like Cleveland’s Moe Dalitz, Boston’s King Solomon, L.A.’s Mickey Cohen, and even “the Brain” himself, Meyer Lansky, when they were in town for a gangland convention.

WHEN IT’S ALL OVER, there’s one final talk I want to make—to the press. When they gather in front of me, it’s hard to forget that nearly all of them had considered me a hoax. They start to shoot questions at me, but I cut them off: “Hold it! Hold it!” I say. “You’ve all had a chance to say what you thought before the fight. Now it’s my turn. You all said Sonny Liston would kill me. You said he was better than Jack Johnson or Jack Dempsey, even Joe Louis, and you ranked them the best heavyweights of all time. You kept writing how Liston whipped Floyd Patterson twice, and when I told you I would get Liston in eight, you wouldn’t believe it. Now I want all of you to tell the whole world while all the cameras are on us, tell the world that I’m The Greatest.” There’s a silence. “Who’s The Greatest?” I ask them. Nobody answers. They look down at their pads and microphones. “Who’s The Greatest?” I say again. They look up with solemn faces, but the room is still silent. “For the LAST TIME!” I shout. “All the eyes of the world on us. You just a bunch of hypocrites. I told you I was gonna get Liston and I got him. All the gamblers had me booked eight-to-one underdog. I proved all of you wrong. I shook up the world! Tell me who’s The Greatest! WHO IS THE GREATEST?” They hesitate for a minute, and finally in a dull tone they all answer, “You are.” •

Reacher squinted through the glare. They were all looking at him. The sandy guy, Poulton. The woman, Lamarr. The hypertensive, Blake. All three of them from Serial Crimes down in Quantico. Up here to talk to him. Then Deerfield, the New York Bureau chief, a heavyweight. Then the lean guy, Cozo, from Organized Crime, working on the protection rackets. He glanced slowly left to right, and right to left, and finished up back on Deerfield. Then he nodded.

All my life I was taught to stay out of the way of the powerful. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Don’t show off. Guard your blood, because it will betray you. If you bleed, wipe it clean and burn the rag. Burn the bandages. If someone manages to obtain some of your blood, kill him and destroy the sample. At first it was a matter of survival. Later it became a matter of vengeance. Meeting the Beast Lord meant plunging head first into the supernatural politics of Atlanta. He was one of the heavyweights.

THE MYSTERY OF LANGUAGE EVOLUTIONa It seems that eight heavyweight Evolutionistsb—linguists, biologists, anthropologists, and computer scientists—had published an article announcing they were giving up, throwing in the towel, folding, crapping out when it came to the question of where speech—language—comes from and how it works. “The most fundamental questions about the origins and evolution of our linguistic capacity remain as mysterious as ever,” they concluded. Not only that, they sounded ready to abandon all hope of ever finding the answer. Oh, we’ll keep trying, they said gamely…but we’ll have to start from zero again. One of the eight was the biggest name in the history of linguistics, Noam Chomsky. “In the last 40 years,” he and the other seven were saying, “there has been an explosion of research on this problem,” and all it had produced was a colossal waste of time by some of the greatest minds in academia. Now, that was odd…I had never heard of a group of experts coming together to announce what abject failures they were…

But before I got in the ring, I’d won it out here on the road. Some people think a Heavyweight Championship fight is decided during the fifteen rounds the two fighters face each other under hot blazing lights, in front of thousands of screaming witnesses, and part of it is. But a prizefight is like a war: the real part is won or lost somewhere far away from witnesses, behind the lines, in the gym and out here on the road long before I dance under those lights. I’ve got another mile to go. My heart is about to break through my chest, sweat is pouring off me. I want to stop but I’ve marked this as the day to test myself, to find out what kind of shape I’m in, how much work I have to do. Whenever I feel I want to stop, I look around and I see George Foreman running, coming up next to me. And I run a little harder. I’ve got a half-mile more to go and each yard is draining me, I’m running on my reserve tank now, but I know each step I take after I’m exhausted builds up special stamina and it’s worth all the other running put together. I need something to push me on, to keep me from stopping, until I get to the farmer’s stable up ahead, five miles from where I started. George is helping me. I fix my mind on him and I see him right on my heels. I push harder, he’s catching up. It’s hard for me to get my breath, I feel like I’m going to faint. He’s starting to pull ahead of me. This is the spark I need. I keep pushing harder till I pull even with him. His sweat shirt’s soaking wet and I hear him breathing fast and hard. My heart is pounding like it’s going to explode, but I drive myself on. I glance over at him and he’s throwing himself in the wind, going all out. My legs are heavy and tight with pain but I manage to drive, drive, drive till I pass him, Till he slowly fades away. I’ve won, but I’m not in shape. I’ve still got a long way to go. I’m gasping for breath. My throat’s dry and I feel like I’m going to throw up. I want to fall on my face but I must stay up, keep walking, keep standing. I’m not there yet but I know I’m winning. I’m winning the fight on the road . . .

The ring of the old telephones, the clacking of typewriters, milk in bottles, baseball without designated hitters, vinyl records, galoshes, stockings and garter belts, black-and-white movies, heavyweight champions, the Brooklyn Dodgers and the New York Giants, paperback books for thirty-five cents, the political left, Jewish dairy restaurants, double features, basketball before the three-point shot, palatial movie houses, nondigital cameras, toaster that lasted for thirty years, contempt for authority, Nash Ramblers, and wood-paneled station wagons. But there is nothing you miss more than the world as it was before smoking was banned in public places.

As organizations get larger, there seems to be a tendency to use the heavy-weight Type 1 decision-making process on most decisions, including many Type 2 decisions. The end result of this is slowness, unthoughtful risk aversion, failure to experiment sufficiently, and consequently diminished invention.* We’ll have to figure out how to fight that tendency.

I know that everyone in this room, Bernie Fain included, thinks I'm some kind of a nut with my so-called fixation on this vampire thing. OK, maybe I'm wrong. Maybe he only thinks he is. But there are things here that can't be explained away by so-called common sense. Not even Bernie's report can explain some of them. 'I was at the hospital yesterday.' I looked directly at Butcher. 'Your own people fired maybe fifty or sixty rounds at him, some at point-blank range. How come this man never even slowed down? How come a man seventy years old can outrun police cars for more than fifteen blocks? How come when he gets clubbed on the head he doesn't bleed like other people? Look at these photos! There's a gash on his forehead... and whatever is trickling down from the cut is clear... it isn't blood. 'How come three great, big, burly hospital orderlies weighing an estimated total of nearly seven-hundred fifty pounds couldn't bring one, skinny one-hundred sixty pound man to his knees? How come an ex-boxer, a light-heavyweight not long out of the ring, couldn't even faze him with his best punch, a right hook that should have broken his jaw? 'Face it. Whether it's science, witchcraft or black magic, this character has got something going for him you don't know anything about. He doesn't seem to feel pain. Or get winded. And he doesn't seem to be very frightened by guns, or discouraged by your efforts to trap him. 'Look at these photos! Look at that face! That isn't fear there. It's hate. Pure hate! This man is evil incarnate. He is insane and he may be something even worse although you'd laugh at me because I have no scientific documentation to back me up. Hell, even Regenhaus and Mokurji have all but confirmed that he sucks blood. 'Whatever he is, he's been around a long time and this seems to be the closest any police force has come to putting the finger on him. If you want to go on operating the way you've been doing by treating him like an ordinary man, go ahead. But, I'll bet you any amount of money you come up empty handed again. If you try to catch him at night he'll get away just like he did last night. He'll...' 'Jesus Christ!' bellowed Butcher. 'This son of a bitch has diarrhea of the mouth. Can't one of you people shut him up?

You’ll never be the heavyweight champion of the world,” he said, “but you should be able to duck anything Edward throws at you.” Theo wanted his turn, but John said it was too hot for more lessons. He looked up into the tree where Hannah sat swinging her feet, and smiled. “Maybe your sister will come down from her perch and offer us a nice cold glass of lemonade.” Hannah gave her hand to John and allowed him to help her. “Not that I need your assistance,” she said. “I’m merely practicing my manners.” We watched John and Hannah walk away, still holding hands. “He’s as bad as diphtheria,” Theo muttered. “What do you mean?” “Diphtheria made you into a perfect gentleman,” Theo said, “and John makes Hannah into a perfect lady. I’m sure I don’t know which is worse--being sick or falling in love.

Future Europe’s problems are many, but four stand out. The first is energy: The Europeans are more dependent upon energy imports than the Asians, and no two major European countries think that problem can be solved the same way. The Germans fear that not having a deal with the Russians means war. The Poles want a deal with anyone but Russia. The Spanish know the only solution is in the Western Hemisphere. The Italians fear they must occupy Libya. The French want to force a deal on Algeria. The Brits are eyeing West Africa. Everyone is right. Everyone is wrong. The second is demographic: The European countries long ago aged past the point of even theoretical repopulation, meaning that the European Union is now functionally an export union. Without the American-led Order, the Europeans lose any possibility of exporting goods, which eliminates the possibility of maintaining European society in its current form. The third is economic preference: Perhaps it is mostly subconscious these days, but the Europeans are aware of their bloody history. A large number of conscious decisions were made by European leaders to remodel their systems with a socialist bent so their populations would be vested within their collective systems. This worked. This worked well. But only in the context of the Order with the Americans paying for the bulk of defense costs and enabling growth that the Europeans could have never fostered themselves. Deglobalize and Europe’s demographics and lack of global reach suggest that permanent recession is among the better interpretations of the geopolitical tea leaves. I do not see a path forward in which the core of the European socialist-democratic model can survive. The fourth and final problem: Not all European states are created equal. For every British heavyweight, there is a Greek basket case. For every insulated France, there is a vulnerable Latvia. Some countries are secure or rich or have a tradition of power projection. Others are vulnerable or poor or are little more than historical doormats. Perhaps worst of all, the biggest economic player (Germany) is the one with no options but to be the center weight of everything, while the two countries with the greatest capacity to go solo (France and the United Kingdom) hedged their bets and never really integrated with the rest of Europe. There’s little reason to expect the French to use their reach to benefit Europe, and there’s no reason to expect assistance from the British, who formally seceded from the European Union in 2020. History,

If [the heavyweights] become champions they begin to have inner lives like Hemingway or Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy or Faulkner, Joyce or Melville or Conrad or Lawrence or Proust…Dempsey was alone and Tunney could never explain himself and Sharkey could never believe himself nor Schmeling nor Braddock, and Carnera was sad and Baer an indecipherable clown; great heavyweights like Louis had the loneliness of the ages in their silence, and men like Marciano were mystified by a power which seemed to have been granted them. With the advent, however, of the great modern Black heavyweights, Patterson, Liston, then Clay and Frazier, perhaps the loneliness gave way to what it had been protecting itself against—a surrealistic situation unstable beyond belief. Being a Black heavyweight champion in the second half of the twentieth century (with Black revolutions opening all over the world) was now not unlike being Jack Johnson, Malcolm X and Frank Costello all in one…

All leaders were equal at the conference table, but those from heavyweight countries showed that they were more equal by arriving in big private jets, the British in their VC 10s and Comets, and the Canadians in Boeings. The Australians joined this select group in 1979, after Malcolm Fraser's government purchased a Boeing 707 for the Royal Australian Air Force. Those African presidents whose countries were then better off, like Kenya and Nigeria, also had special aircraft. I wondered why they did not set out to impress the world that they were poor and in dire need of assistance. Our permanent representative at the UN in New York explained that the poorer the country, the bigger the Cadillacs they hired for their leaders. So I made a virtue of arriving by ordinary commercial aircraft, and thus helped preserve Singapore's third World status for many years. However, by the mid-1990s, the World Bank refused to heed our pleas not to reclassify us as a "High Income Developing Country", giving no Brownie points for my frugal travel habits. We lost all the concessions that were given to developing countries.

Wasanbon sugar, honey and tofu. Together, they make a silky-smooth pastry crust that gently caresses the lips... while the fluffy, sticky white bean paste melts on the tongue. Its mellow and robust flavor wafting up to tickle the nose! And with every bite, the crisp tartness of apples pop like fireworks, glittering brightly and fading, only to sparkle once again. Its sweet deliciousness ripples from the mouth straight up to the brain... a super-heavyweight punch of moist, rich goodness!" "Yeeah!" "Ladies and gentlemen, all the judges have looks on their faces! What on earth could have created a flavor that rapturous?!" "The biggest secret to that flavor is right here, brushed on the underside of the pastry crust... apple butter!" "Apple butter?!" "Hmm..." It's as simple as its name- grated apple, lemon juice and sugar added into melted butter. The distinctive tang of fruit is melded together harmoniously with mellow butter, creating a spread that can add acidity, saltiness and rich body to a dish! "Yet making something like this is no mean feat! Two completely disparate ingredients must be not just mixed but perfectly emulsified together! It's a task akin to perfectly melding oil with water! Even pro chefs have difficulty bringing out the butter's smooth shine without accidentally letting it separate! Managing it all requires mastery of a very specific cooking technique!" "Yes, sir! I did use Monter au Beurre. It's a technique for finishing sauces... ... common in French cooking!

The weight of the fists that were inherited is Heavyweight

Chris Eubank, Nigel Benn, Michael Watson and Joe Calzaghe slugged it out in classic fights until they had nothing left to give. They are all here: heavyweight legends like Frank Bruno and Lennox Lewis, Joe Bugner and Tyson Fury, as well as less celebrated fighters such as Bunny Johnson and Dennis Andries, Maurice Hope and Pat Cowdell,

The Guardian’s Paul Vallely has given a decent account of how Cardinal George Pell, appointed by Francis, began a review of the bank’s operations. Pell had successfully overhauled the Church’s finances in Sydney and Melbourne. The Australian son of a former heavyweight boxer, Pell is a political and doctrinal conservative who speaks aggressively and does not believe in man-made climate change. He is a cult hero among conservative Catholics. You can imagine what the Lavender Mafia think of him. Vallely notes grudgingly that, “For all his conservatism, Pell had for years been a vocal critic of the Roman Catholic bureaucracy and its corruption.” Pell moved quickly, and made enemies. A straight dealer to the point of unbearable bluntness, especially in the delicately perfumed and gold-embroidered world of the Holy See, Pell probably didn’t anticipate getting tripped up by dirty tactics: in this case, stories leaked to the media about—you guessed it—clerical abuse. The press reports were coincidentally timed, arriving just as Pell’s reforms of the bank began to take hold. It was alleged that Pell was soft on child abuse, thanks to offhand comments he had made years before, in typically ribald and direct Australian fashion. It was suggested that he may himself have some questions to answer about covering up abuse. Then the allegations widened, to direct accusations of historic sex abuse, at which point Pell had to put his work at the bank on hold. Now Pell is back in Australia, trying to clear his name, and his reforms are stalling, just as the intriguers intended. This is how efforts to clean up the Roman Catholic Church usually end.

For valid reasons, it's been a long time since you've heard an ancient truism cherished by the fight game: "As the heavyweights go, so goes boxing." The current heavyweight division, a quaint collection of overweight senior citizens, is probably the industry's least appealing crop since bare-knuckle brawling gave way to gloved combat in the 1890s.

You need a professional rotary cold-cut slicer for that, like they have at the deli. The home versions suck. But I highly recommend, if presenting sausage or meat on a buffet, that you slip the neighborhood deli guy a few bucks to slice what you need before you arrange it on platters. It makes all the difference in the world. Or if you have a few extra bucks, read the back of the paper for notices of restaurant auctions. As you've probably gathered by now, restaurants go out of business all the time, and have to sell off their equipment quickly and cheaply before the marshals do it for them. I know people who buy whole restaurants this way, in what's called a turnkey operation, and in a business with a failure rate of over 60 percent they often do very well. You can buy all sorts of professional quality stuff. I'd recommend pots and pans as a premium consideration if scavenging this way. Most of the ones sold for home use are dangerously flimsy, and the heavyweight equipment sold for serious home cooks is almost always overpriced.

But it was Archie, the creation of an eccentric radio writer-director named Ed Gardner, who refined the insult and made it an art form. When the tavern was visited by noted critic Clifton Fadiman (the similarity of whose name to Clifton Finnegan needed no elaboration), Archie greeted him with “Whaddaya know, besides everything?” Dancer Vera Zorina was introduced as “da terpsicorpse from da ballet.” To heavyweight party-giver Elsa Maxwell, Archie quipped, “Speakin’ of th’ Four Hundred, how’re you and the other 398?” About highbrow music critic Deems Taylor, Archie informed Duffy: “He’s got no talent of his own, he just talks about the other guys at the Philharmonica.

I envy Muhammad Ali. He faces a possible five years in jail and he has been stripped of his heavyweight championship, but I still envy him. He has something I have never been able to attain and something very few people I know possess. He has an absolute and sincere faith. I’m not worried about Muhammad Ali. He is better equipped than anyone I know to withstand the trials in store for him. What I’m worried about is the rest of us.

BD is about taking the assets or capabilities of two or more companies and combining them to create a third, even more valuable asset.

required two signatures from the claimant. She left with nothing but frustration. At nine the following morning, Samantha again met Buddy at the Conoco station in Madison. He was excited to see his lawyer for the third day in a row, and introduced her to Weasel, the guy who owned the store. “All the way from New York,” Buddy said proudly, as if his case was so important heavyweight legal talent had to be imported. When the paperwork was complete and perfect, she said good-bye and drove back to the courthouse in Beckley. The armed warriors who had so bravely guarded the front lobby on Wednesday were evidently off fishing on Thursday. There was no one to fondle and grope her. The metal detector was unplugged. Clever terrorists monitoring Beckley had

count-out to retain the United States Championship. The following night on Raw, Ambrose had a title rematch against Kane and retained after the Reigns and Rollins got Ambrose disqualified. On July 14 at Money in the Bank, Ambrose competed in the World Heavyweight Championship Money in the Bank Ladder Match and failed to win the match despite interference from Reigns and Rollins. Ambrose retained his United States Championship at Summerslam by disqualification when Roman Reigns of The Shield speared Rob Van Dam. Now aligned with WWE COO Triple H, Ambrose and his Shield cohorts have made life hell for Daniel Bryan while continuing their winning ways. Ambrose’s successful United States Title defense against Dolph Ziggler at Night of Champions was proof of this. At Hell in a Cell, Ambrose was defeated by Big E via count-out. He was on the winning side of a Traditional Elimination Tag Team Match at Survivor Series, but Ambrose was the first eliminated in the bout. He stumbled again at WWE TLC when an errant spear from Reigns allowed Punk to pin Ambrose and escape a 3-on-1 Handicap Match against the entire Shield. Ambrose would then compete at the Royal Rumble 2014 match along with Rollins and Reigns. Late in the match Ambrose would score three eliminations. Late in the match, Ambrose attempted to eliminate Reigns, however Reigns eliminated both Rollins and Ambrose instead. The next night on Raw, The Shield would compete in a sixman tag team match against Daniel Bryan, Sheamus, and John Cena with all three members of the winning team qualifying to compete in the Elimination Chamber match for the WWE World Heavyweight Championship. Ambrose and his partners lost

SOA Microservices Inter-service communication Smart pipes, such as Enterprise Service Bus, using heavyweight protocols, such as SOAP and the other WS* standards. Dumb pipes, such as a message broker, or direct service-to-service communication, using lightweight protocols such as REST or gRPC Data Global data model and shared databases Data model and database per service Typical service Larger monolithic application Smaller service

SOA and the microservice architecture usually use different technology stacks. SOA applications typically use heavyweight technologies such as SOAP and other WS* standards. They often use an ESB, a smart pipe that contains business and message-processing logic to integrate the services. Applications built using the microservice architecture tend to use lightweight, open source technologies. The services communicate via dumb pipes, such as message brokers or lightweight protocols like REST or gRPC.

By this time NDTV had become part and parcel of Lutyens’ cozy club cutting across party lines. Congress and BJP heavyweights were at the disposal of NDTV. Left parties too were silent and complicit on NDTV’s illegalities in wielding power as Prannoy Roy’s wife Radhika Roy was the full blood real sister of Communist Party of India – Marxist (CPI-M) Politburo member Brinda Karat (wife of Prakash Karat, General Secretary of CPI-M). Till 2009, the CPI-M General Secretary Prakash Karat and wife Brinda Karat lived with Prannoy Roy and Radhika Roy. NDTV was basking in the aura of the political and intellectual who’s who in the luxurious Lutyens’ Delhi. By this time, it had many nephews, nieces, daughters, sons, daughters in law, sons in law, et al, of powers that be/people at key places on its rolls masquerading as journalists or in other positions within NDTV to curry favours with the obliged and gratified uncles and fathers in law.

The man who views the world at fifty the same as he did at twenty has wasted thirty years of his life.” – Muhammad Ali, 3-Time World Heavyweight Champion

The jetpod. Two harnesses up front, facing actual manual controls. Two at the rear. Lots of padding. A whole bunch of lockers, with reliable heavy-weight fonts designating which piece of impractical equipment they contained: beacons, medkits, material converters. Everywhere were handles. She could trace the inspiration of this design back to bright, plastic toys for babies, with levers and keys that made clicking sounds.

Indeed, you didn’t need to upset him with a critical newspaper article, Sinatra was violent on an equal opportunity basis. Yet, always with some heavyweight help nearby. The columnist Lee Mortimer was held down by toughs outside Ciro’s nightclub on Sunset Strip as Sinatra punched and kicked him about. On the couch you could argue it was the way he was brought up. There were lurid stories about sex parties and his on-off infatuation with Lana Turner who had her own close mobster associations with muscle man Johnny Stompanato and a strong, platonic friendship with his boss Mickey Cohen. With Bing Crosby, who Sinatra saw as a singing rival, she was more familiar.

They have been fed various heroic tales of the BJP heavyweight dating back to his childhood ever since he became Gujarat’s chief minister some thirteen years ago. Some of these tales have become part of Modi mythology, such as the story of the teenaged Narendra’s escape from the jaws of a crocodile in the nearby Sharmishtha Lake, which is fed by water from the river Kapila known to nourish the earliest settlement in this region. The story of Modi’s escape from a crocodile echoes the childhood experience of Jagatguru Adi Shankaracharya, the great Hindu seer who lived and died in Varanasi.

most flowery, romantic, sickeningly sweet terms imaginable. No less a heavyweight than Augustine even waxed treacly when he wrote: “O Lord, how I love you! You pounded on my heart with your Word until I loved you. . . . But what do I love when I love you? Not beautiful bodies or the loveliness of the passing seasons, not the radiance of light around us that make our eyes leap with joy, not the sweet melodies of songs, not the fragrance of flowers or perfumes or spices, not cakes or honey, not the entangled limbs of lovers. These are not the things I love when I love God. And yet, I love a light and a voice and a fragrance and a food and an embrace when I love God, who is a light, a voice, a fragrance, a food, and an embrace to my innermost self. . . . This is what I love when I love God.

RIM’s chief saw the semiconductor giant as a dangerous, tricky heavyweight whose every employee lived by former CEO Andy Grove’s mantra, “Only the paranoid survive.

Karen Horney was a German psychoanalyst who emigrated to the United States in the 1930s. I hadn’t heard of her, and I’d been looking for something else when I found her book Neurosis and Human Growth wedged into a bottom shelf next to some of the heavyweights of twentieth-century psychology, but its strange old title called out to me, and on a whim I took it home. Horney’s premise was that, in childhood, most people suffer from the feeling of being small and powerless in a dangerous world; she considered the feeling so common that she called it “basic anxiety.

I have rasled with an alligator. I tussled with a whale. Handcuffed lightning and thrown thunder in jail…that’s bad! I murdered a rock, injured a stone, hospitalized a brick. I am so mean I

make medicine sick. I am so fast, last night I put the light off in my bedroom, hit the switch and was in bed before the room was dark.

I have never seen a heavyweight champion apologize for a knockout

I was already crouched, so it made sense to throw the uppercut. It’s never been my strongest punch – I’m more a stick-and-move guy, despite being close to a heavyweight, so I favor my hook. But I had a substantial tactical advantage, and I came up hard, nailing him with my right hand pretty much flush on the button, that helpful cluster of nerves at the end of the chin. His knees buckled, his eyes rolled backwards, and he crumpled like a pup tent in heavy wind, the pool cue clattering to the ground and rolling away. It hadn’t taken more than about fifteen seconds for the whole fight, including the time it had taken me to tap the cue swinger on the shoulder. But everyone in the dingy pool hall had stopped to stare, and the only sound was the blaring tune. Light streamed into the room from the wall of windows overlooking the strip

The carbon cycle has grabbed the headlines, but we’ve also seized hold of many other major geochemical cycles. Through production of fertilizers, we’ve radically altered Earth’s nitrogen cycle. The sulfur cycle has become dominated by industrial emissions. We’ve dammed rivers so thoroughly that there is now more than five times as much fresh water captured in reservoirs as there is remaining in all the wild rivers and streams of Earth! That is not a minor change. It’s fair to say that we’ve domesticated a major part of the water cycle of this planet. Earth’s vibrant hydrosphere, arguably our planet’s most distinctive feature, has to some degree become an artifact of human civilization. Every year now, humans constructing roads, buildings, and farms displace ten times more dirt than the combined erosive forces of wind, rain, earthquakes, and tides. Simply measured by the amount of stuff we move around, we have become the undisputed world heavyweight champions

My brother is a professional boxer. Heavyweight? No, featherweight. He tickles his opponents to death!

The real heavyweights were the big food manufacturers, such as General Foods, Quaker Oats, Heinz, the National Biscuit Company, and the Corn Products Refining Corporation. In 1941 these companies had set up the Nutrition Foundation, a group that worked to influence opinion with far more subtle techniques than striding through senators’ offices. The foundation steered the course of science at its very source by developing relationships with academic researchers, funding important scientific conferences, and funneling many millions of dollars directly into research (even before the NIH began funding nutrition research).

Enron. One: The firm endorsed Enron’s asset-light strategy. In a 1997 edition of the Quarterly, consultants wrote that “Enron was not distinctive at building and operating power stations, but it didn’t matter; these skills could be contracted out. Rather, it was good at negotiating contracts, financing, and government guarantee—precisely the skills that distinguished successful players.” Two: The firm endorsed Enron’s “loose-tight” culture. Or, more precisely, McKinsey endorsed Enron’s use of a term that came straight out of In Search of Excellence. In a 1998 Quarterly, the consultants peripherally praised Enron’s culture of “[allowing executives] to make decisions without seeking constant approval from above; a clear link between daily activities and business results (even if not a P&L); something new to work on as often as possible.” Three: The firm endorsed Enron’s use of off–balance-sheet financing. In that same 1997 Quarterly, the consultants wrote that “the deployment of off–balance-sheet funds using institutional investment money fostered [Enron’s] securitization skills and granted it access to capital at below the hurdle rates of major oil companies.” McKinsey heavyweight Lowell Bryan—godfather of the firm’s financial institutions practice—put it another way: “Securitization’s potential is great because it removes capital and balance sheets as constraints on growth.” Four: The firm endorsed Enron’s approach to “atomization.” In a 2001 Quarterly, the consultants wrote: “Enron has built a reputation as one of the world’s most innovative companies by attacking and atomizing traditional industry structures—first in natural gas and later in such diverse businesses as electric power, Internet bandwidth, and pulp and paper. In each case, Enron focused on the business sliver of intermediation while avoiding the incumbency problems created by a large asset base and vertical integration.

 “I wouldn’t get your hopes up,” she says in a heavy-weighted tone. “Guys like Asher don’t really look at girls like you. They’re more my type.

When she finds it, she calls her friends and neighbors together and says, ‘Rejoice with me; I have found my lost coin.’” —Luke 15:9 (NIV) If this spring had been a fighter, it would’ve been a heavyweight contender. My husband, Brian, and I had faced losing family friends to sickness, and our siblings were grieving over friends dying in car wrecks. At one point, I stood in our closet and sobbed. “I just can’t do this anymore.” The next day, Brian got an e-mail that read, “Someone contacted us saying that they found your lost ring. Would you like it back?” We looked at each other, speechless. He’d lost his wedding ring in the ocean two years ago. While it hurt to lose the ring (we’d only been married six months), its return felt like a crashing wave resounding with God’s strength and presence. I could almost hear Him whisper, “Do you not know that I’m here?” I didn’t need God to return the ring to us to know He was there, but the fact that He did reminded me that we’re never alone and that the challenges we face are anything but insurmountable. “Trust Me. Feel Me. Follow Me,” God seemed to say to us. We called our parents, and over and over again we heard, “It’s a miracle!” While getting the ring back felt wonderful, it was the reminder of God’s presence that we needed most. Lord, when I need it most, You send a sign of Your everlasting faithfulness. Forgive me for ever doubting. —Ashley Kappel Digging Deeper: Pss 89:8, 91:3–6; Lam 3:22–23

The cruise missiles had softened up the area, but that was only the start. The real heavyweight punch from the world’s only superpower would come in the form of a gigantic bomb — the BLU-82B/C-130, known as Commando Vault in Vietnam and now nicknamed Daisy Cutter.

Festivals or radio shows can be the heavyweight championships of arrogantly detached clusterfucks.

Where the hell did they find these guys? He thought bouncers were supposed to look like heavyweight wrestlers. These guys were built more like sumo wrestlers. While they sported massive arms and legs and necks, it was impossible to see any actual muscle tone. They looked less like bouncers than the guys who ate the bouncers.

But this is no ordinary village. Every now and then, a shiny four-wheel drive bounces down the dirt track that leads to a refuge center of an organization whose name in French is Agir Pour Les Femmes en Situation Précaire, or AFESIP. (Rough translation: Helping Women in Danger.) Inside the vehicle you may spot a powerful government official, a heavyweight journalist or even an American movie star. They all come to meet with AFESIP's president and co-founder, Somaly Mam, and support her courageous work fighting sex traffickers.

Pelican Road, whence the train had come and to which it would soon return, was the name given the two hundred and seven miles of ballasted heavyweight main line rail between Meridian, Mississippi, and New Orleans.

tattooing or any other kind of heavyweight perversion—it

A football is not pigskin. It’s made of cowhide. A baseball is not horsehide. It’s also made of cowhide. When Juliet asks, “Wherefore art thou, Romeo?”, she’s not asking where he is, but rather, in the meaning of the time, why he is doing what he’s doing. Bone china actually does contain bone. Calcified animal-bone ash adds to the durability of the product. Henry Ford is thought to be the innovator of mass production, but just before 1800, Eli Whitney, of cotton gin fame, found a way to manufacture muskets by machine, producing interchangeable parts. Bix Beiderbecke, the renowned jazz musician, did not play the trumpet. His instrument was the cornet. Lucrezia Borgia was not the wicked murderess she is reputed to have been. Her major fault, according to Bergen Evans, was “an insipid, almost bovine, good nature.” Contrary to much popular usage, hoi polloi does not refer to the elite; rather, it means the common people. Natural gas, the kind used for heating and cooking in the home, is odorless. Odiferous additives are put in to give the gas a recognizable smell as a measure to alert people to gas leaks. Muhammad Ali did not win the heavyweight gold medal at the 1960 Rome Olympics. His gold in 1960 was in the light heavyweight category. The heavyweight gold went to Franco De Piccoli of Italy. Sacrilegious means violating or profaning anything sacred. In spite of its frequent mispronunciation, the word is not related to religion or religious.

Leati Joseph "Joe" Anoai was born May 25, 1985. American professional wrestler, former professional Canadian football player, and a member of the Anoai family. He is signed to WWE, where he performs under the ring name Roman Reigns, and he is the current WWE World Heavyweight Champion in his third reign. After playing collegiate football for Georgia Tech, Anoai started his professional football career with brief off-season stints with the Minnesota Vikings and Jacksonville Jaguars of the National Football League (NFL) in 2007. He then played a full season for the Canadian Football League's Edmonton Eskimos in 2008 before his release and retirement from football.

the undisputed, undefeated heavyweight champ of earned media. According to mediaQuant, an outfit that figures how much it cost each candidate if he or she had to pay for the coverage he or she was getting, Donald Trump’s earned media was near $2 billion, with a “b,” at this point in the campaign. He had earned $400 million in February 2016 alone. To put it in other terms, he had more free coverage on television, radio, newspapers, Facebook, Twitter, and Reddit than all sixteen other Republican candidates and Hillary Clinton combined. And he had spent only about $10 million on ads at that point, which was $4 million less than Governor Kasich had.

For Dupigny a nation resembled a very primitive human being: this human being consisted of, simply, an appetite and some sort of mechanism for satisfying the appetite. In the case of a nation the appetite was usually, if not quite invariably, economic … (now and again the national vanity which at intervals gripped nations like France and Britain would compel them to some act which made no sense economically: but in this respect, too, they resembled human beings). As for the mechanism for fulfilling the appetite, what was that but a nation’s armed forces? The more powerful the armed forces the better the prospects for satiating the appetite; the more powerful the armed forces the more likely (indeed, inevitable, in Dupigny’s view) that an attempt would be made to satiate it; just as heavyweight boxers are more frequently involved in tavern brawls than, say, dentists, so the very existence of power demands that it should be used. His own failure in Indo-China had merely confirmed him in his cynical views. The League of Nations? Nothing but a pious waste of time! ‘Never

It is perhaps not commonly known that a Negro heavyweight championship title existed from 1902 to 1932 when many white champions (including John L. Sullivan, Jim Jeffries, Jack Dempsey) refused to fight blacks. (In 1925 Dempsey pointedly refused to meet Harry Willis - “The Black Menace” - in a fight urged upon him by many observers.) One wonders: who were the true world’s champions in those years? And of what value are historical records when they record so blatantly the prejudices of a dominant race?

Economy versus environment—so often it comes down to those two heavyweights duking it out in the ring of public opinion and, of course, upcoming legislation.

Buddy, you've barely scratched the surface.

The way we treat the dead tells us a lot about our regard for the living.

Yet, forget ICOs for a moment. When it comes to the mother lode of deployable capital, the real heavyweight title belongs to sovereign wealth funds (SWFs). These investment behemoths hold an estimated $8.5 trillion in assets. That’s trillion, with a “T.

I’ll never let anyone talk me into not believing in myself.” – Muhammad Ali, 3-Time World Heavyweight Champion

Praise for JAMES LEE BURKE “James Lee Burke is the reigning champ of nostalgia noir.” —The New York Times Book Review “A gorgeous prose stylist.” —Stephen King “James Lee Burke is the heavyweight champ, a great American novelist whose work, taken individually or as a whole, is unsurpassed.” —Michael Connelly “Burke’s evocative prose remains a thing of reliably fierce wonder.

Nearly all fighters use the bob-weave to some degree as they shuffle toward their opponents. Most of them use it mildly. However, the genuine bobber-weaver uses it fully. He uses a deep bob and a wide sway (Figure 75A, B, C, D, E). He uses it to slide under his opponent's attack. He uses it to get to close quarters; the real bobber-weaver always is a hooking specialist. If he slips in under a straight punch, he hits on the slip and continues with a terrific barrage to body and head. If he bobs in, he begins his barrage with a delayed counter to the body. Experienced bob-weavers often use the "apple bob" with great effectiveness. It is done like this: As a left jab starts toward you, you make a quick, low, combined slip-bob to the outside; and, in the same motion come up on the outside (Figure 76A, B, C). The entire movement-slip, bob, rise-is circular. Your head appears to go down inside your opponent's arm and to bob up like an apple or a cork outside the arm. In the apple bob you do not counter on the slip. Instead, you counter as you rise. You counter with a left shovel to the chin. The shovel is delivered while your opponent's left arm is over your left shoulder. And, the instant your shovel lands on his chin, you follow with an overhanded "right sneaker" hook to the jaw. A reverse combination of counters can be used when you apple-bob outside an opponent's straight right. Because of my varied fighting experience before I reached Toledo, I was -or should have been-a well-rounded fighter when I faced Willard. Nevertheless, I specialized in the bob-weave attack. It was only natural that I should, for it is the perfect attack for one to use against taller opponents. I was comparatively small for a heavyweight, and I found the bob-weave very effective against larger men.