I'm Not A Dummy Quotes

I'm sorry Finn. I'm a wooden-headed dummy.' Don't be so hard on yourself,' said Finn. 'You're just a straw-brained scarecrow.

It's nice of you to say I'm your best friend." "You are my best friend, dummy." "Really? You are my best friend. But I always assumed that somebody else was your best friend, and I was totally okay with that. You don't have to say that I'm your best friend just to make me feel good." "You're so lame." "That's why I figured somebody else was your best friend.

Unlike simple stress, trauma changes your view of your life and yourself. It shatters your most basic assumptions about yourself and your world — “Life is good,” “I’m safe,” “People are kind,” “I can trust others,” “The future is likely to be good” — and replaces them with feelings like “The world is dangerous,” “I can’t win,” “I can’t trust other people,” or “There’s no hope.

We have two selves: a real-world self and a phone self, and the nonsense our phone selves do can make our real-world selves look like idiots. Our real-world selves and our phone selves go hand in hand. Act like a dummy with your phone self and send some thoughtless message full of spelling errors, and the real-world self will pay the price. The person on the other end sees no difference between your two selves. They never think, Oh, I’m sure he’s much more intelligent and thoughtful in person. This is just his “lazy phone persona.

I deal with people like him a hundred times a day. They look at me and naturally assume I'm not as smart as they are. God help us. But think about it, it's a tremendous tactical advantage, not to mention personally liberating, to have others think I'm a dummy.

Are you going to kick somebody’s ass? I don’t know. Maybe. Well, I’m not going to worry. I’ve watched you spar with that martial arts dummy in the backyard lots of times, and you always win. Thanks, buddy. I’ll see you soon.

I've barely been able to think about anything else.' 'Other than...' He waited for me to finish. 'Kissing you, dummy,' I said. 'Really?' 'You shouldn't be that surprised,' I said. He grinned. 'I'm just glad to know we're on the same page.

The die was cast. It was a proud day for the Milligan family as I was taken from the house. "I'm too young to go," I screamed as Military Policemen dragged me from my pram, clutching a dummy. At Victoria Station the R.T.O. gave me a travel warrant, a white feather and a picture of Hitler marked "This is your enemy." I searched every compartment, but he wasn't on the train. At 4.30, June 2nd, 1940, on a summer's day all mare's tails and blue sky we arrived at Bexhill-on-Sea, where I got off. It wasn't easy. The train didn't stop there.

Nobody ever looks in the mirror and says, “Let’s face it, I’m smarter than Gauss.” And yet, in the last hundred years, the joined effort of all these dummies-compared-to-Gauss has produced the greatest flowering of mathematical knowledge the world has ever seen.

She studies the endless rows of titles on the bookshelf, then whirls toward me. “Okay. Admit it.” “Admit what?” She points an accusing finger at me. “You’re smart.” I snort loudly. “Of course I’m smart.” “You sure as hell don’t act like it.” Allie crosses her arms over the front of her loose striped sweater. “In fact, I feel like you go out of your way to make everyone believe you’re a dummy. With your ‘baby dolls’ and foul language and the way you throw ‘ain’t’ into a sentence every so often.” I flash her a grin. “Nope, that’s just how I fucking talk, baby doll. Ain’t nothing wrong with that.

With a deliberate shrug, he stepped free of the hold on his shoulder. “Tell me something, boys,” he drawled. “Do you wear that leather to turn each other on? I mean, is it a dick thing with you all?” Butch got slammed so hard against the door that his back teeth rattled. The model shoved his perfect face into Butch’s. “I’d watch your mouth, if I were you.” “Why bother, when you’re keeping an eye on it for me? You gonna kiss me now?” A growl like none Butch had ever heard came out of the guy. “Okay, okay.” The one who seemed the most normal came forward. “Back off, Rhage. Hey, come on. Let’s relax.” It took a minute before the model let go. “That’s right. We’re cool,” Mr. Normal muttered, clapping his buddy on the back before looking at Butch. “Do yourself a favor and shut the hell up.” Butch shrugged. “Blondie’s dying to get his hands on me. I can’t help it.” The guy launched back at Butch, and Mr. Normal rolled his eyes, letting his friend go this time. The fist that came sailing at jaw level snapped Butch’s head to one side. As the pain hit, Butch let his own rage fly. The fear for Beth, the pent-up hatred of these lowlifes, the frustration about his job, all of it came out of him. He tackled the bigger man, taking him down onto the floor. The guy was momentarily surprised, as if he hadn’t expected Butch’s speed or strength, and Butch took advantage of the hesitation. He clocked Blondie in the mouth as payback and then grabbed the guy’s throat. One second later, Butch was flat on his back with the man sitting on his chest like a parked car. The guy took Butch’s face into his hand and squeezed, crunching the features together. It was nearly impossible to breathe, and Butch panted shallowly. “Maybe I’ll find your wife,” the guy said, “and do her a couple of times. How’s that sound?" “Don’t have one.” “Then I’m coming after your girlfriend.” Butch dragged in some air. “Got no woman.” “So if the chicks won’t do you, what makes you think I’d want to?” “Was hoping to piss you off.” “Now why’d you want to do that?” Blondie asked. “If I attacked first”—Butch hauled more breath into his lungs—“your boys wouldn’t have let us fight. Would’ve killed me first. Before I had a chance at you.” Blondie loosened his grip a little and laughed as he stripped Butch of his wallet, keys, and cell phone. “You know, I kind of like this big dummy,” the guy drawled. Someone cleared a throat. Rather officiously. Blondie leaped to his feet, and Butch rolled over, gasping. When he looked up, he was convinced he was hallucinating. Standing in the hall was a little old man dressed in livery. Holding a silver tray. “Pardon me, gentlemen. Dinner will be served in about fifteen minutes.” “Hey, are those the spinach crepes I like so much?” Blondie said, going for the tray. “Yes, Sire.” “Hot damn.” The other men clustered around the butler, taking what he offered. Along with cocktail napkins. Like they didn’t want to drop anything on the floor. What the hell was this? “Might I ask a favor?” the butler said. Mr. Normal nodded with vigor. “Bring out another tray of these and we’ll kill anything you want for you.” Yeah, guess the guy wasn’t really normal. Just relatively so. The butler smiled as if touched. “If you’re going to bloody the human, would you be good enough to do it in the backyard?” “No problem.” Mr. Normal popped another crepe in his mouth. “Damn, Rhage, you’re right. These are awesome.

So where did you get your information? Werewolves for Dummies? No, wait, you watched Underworld? Or maybe you were raised by wolves? Stop me when I’m warm.” - Shella

Anakin: "You look…different." Tahiri: "Older maybe? I'm fourteen now. Last week." Anakin: "Happy birthday." Tahiri: "You should have thought of it then, but thanks anyway. Dummy.

Suddenly I know just what I’m going to do. Something that will blow anything Peeta did right out of the water. I go over to the knot-tying station and get a length of rope. I start to manipulate it, but it’s hard because I’ve never made this actual knot myself. I’ve only watched Finnick’s clever fingers, and they moved so fast. After about ten minutes, I’ve come up with a respectable noose. I drag one of the target dummies out into the middle of the room and, using some chinning bars, hang it so it dangles by the neck. Tying its hands behind its back would be a nice touch, but I think I might be running out of time. I hurry over to the camouflage station, where some of the other tributes, undoubtedly the morphlings, have made a colossal mess. But I find a partial container of bloodred berry juice that will serve my needs. The flesh-colored fabric of the dummy’s skin makes a good, absorbent canvas. I carefully finger paint the words on its body, concealing them from view. Then I step away quickly to watch the reaction on the Gamemakers’ faces as they read the name on the dummy. *SENECA CRANE.*

But I guess it found you" "About that," Peter said trying to ignore the slight. "Why send a riddle? You could have saved us a lot of trouble if you'd written something less complicated." "It wasn't that complicated," she muttered. "Yeah!" Scrape added. "And how was she suppose to know it'd end up in the hands of some blind dummy and his ugly pet?" sir tode, who up to this point had been listening quietly, had evidently had enough. "I've had enough," he said, leaping to his hooves. "I'm a fierce knight, known to the world over slaying dragons. Who among you can boast such a feat? And this 'blind dummy' just happens to be the legendary Peter Nimble... the greatest theif who ever lived.

I wrote Vis consilii epers mole ruit sua on the front of the first tag, and on the inside I put the translation: Force lacking judgment collapses under its own weight. And in case they still didn’t get it, I wrote Sorry! I’m just a big dummy.

Are you the world’s dumbest smarty or the world’s smartest dummy?

Puerto Rico is America, you fucking dummies! And I’m from fucking Brooklyn! Jesus!” she screamed at the TV.

I'm writing a new book called 'Ventroliquism for Dummies'.

Watch. I’m going to make you read the next sentence. THE NEXT SENTENCE.

Do not oversleep and miss the school bus- you'll be late. That's a habit teachers generally don't appreciate. Never tell your friends at school that you still wet your bed. They are sure to tease you, and you'll wish that you were dead. Never call your teacher a name when she's not near you. Teachers' ears are excellent, so they can always hear you. Do not read a textbook when your hands aren't clean-it's tricky to separate the pages when the pages get real sticky. When you go out for a team it's always wise to practice. When you are a substitute, the bench can feel like cactus. Do not copy homework from a friend who is a dummy. If you do, I'm sure that you will get a grade that's crummy. And if your report card's bad, don't blame it on your buddy. Kiss up to your parents quick, or they might make you study.

Before I met Durandal, I was a luggage bearer and sparring dummy for the soldiers in the army. After I met Durandal, I’m a luggage bearer and experimental dummy for Durandal. It feels like my life hasn’t changed much.

His name is Carl! Hello, Carl.' Here I hold a dummy mic to Carl.... Standing on my tiptoes. I'm a small person, five foot two- this makes carl look even bigger than he is. Carl says nothing. 'A robot of few words, but your appearance speaks volumes

He nodded, like that made sense. Then he said, "So why does it bother you when someone calls you a dummy?"...."I'm not going to say that other kids can't be mean sometimes. Sometimes people say things that are just awful." I looked down into my Kleenex. "But you know what to are, Albie. You know what you're worth. At least I hope you do." I folded the tissue over on itself once, then twice, then three times. "And you get to decide what words are hurtful to you. If you ask me, 'dummy' shouldn't hurt you one bit.

Well, Sam, it’s obvious you’re the devil and that Jesus really was watching when you let that kid finger you in the laundry room of his apartment building freshman year. Give it up, dummy.” But then I realized that she was the wrong one, and now I’ve found the loophole through which I’m going to slip into heaven come Judgment Day. Like God is Judge Mathis.

To me, every day of life is a good day. Of course there are people & situations thrown on your path, only as a test. Whether a test of your faith or a test of how you'll handle it. Oh yes, there are times when I want to let some of these dummies have it, but I prefer to spend my energy on praising God for all He is & all He does. I prefer to love & express compassion to others & live a happy life. This life is precious. This borrowed time isn't promised with a specific measure. Don't worry about what negative people think or feel about you. I'm sure they have numerous things to work on themselves. Just live. Put God first, live & be happy. If no one has told you they love you, remember Jesus loves you (and I do too) LK

The die was cast. It was a proud day for the Milligan family as I was taken from the house. “I’m too young to go,” I screamed as Military Policemen dragged me from my pram, clutching a dummy. At Victoria Station the R.T.O. gave me a travel warrant, a white feather and a picture of Hitler marked “This is your enemy.” I searched every compartment, but he wasn’t on the train.

If she couldn’t face an imaginary Gethen, how would she ever face the real one again? “I’m going to trust you to know your limits,” Sandor told her, and she nodded, grateful he wasn’t going to baby her. She took another long breath and forced herself to stare back at the dummy until her pulse steadied. “For the record,” Sandor told her, leaning close to whisper, “the next time I see him—he’s mine.

Sittin’ in a café in dark glasses sippin’ coffee dunkin’ doughnuts while it’s sunny thinking guns guns guns and I’ve got pockets full of bullets and a suitcase full of money and a fuckin’ awful headache and a police rifle that fires dummies and I’m listening to Barney because she really wants to tell me all the fifty million reasons why she’s feelin’ fuckin’ funny and she wants to kill her mummy and she wants me to kill her daddy but there really is no logic to the way we’re spending Sunday because we don’t know where we’re going and we’ve been drinking since last Monday and Booga’s sharpening sticks and he’s looking like a monkey and I’m waiting for my tank and I know it will look chumly because Dobson is my man and he’s part of my fuckin’ family and when I see him next I’m gonna buy him half a shandy.

I’m that annoying?” “Well, you have pretty sharp mouth.” “I don’t want to sound like a smartass, but sir I can’t handle my own smartassness for being uncontrollably sparkling from me and mentally hurts you due to its awesomeness. I’m just unbelievably genius. Dummies like you call us ‘crazy’ but it’s such a strong word.” “See? That’s why people hates you.” “And ‘us’?” “I’m pretty sure I’m not the only living genius.

American Indians share a magnificent history — rich in its astounding diversity, its integrity, its spirituality, its ongoing unique culture and dynamic tradition. It's also rich, I'm saddened to say, in tragedy, deceit, and genocide. Our sovereignty, our nationhood, our very identity — along with our sacred lands — have been stolen from us in one of the great thefts of human history. And I am referring not just to the thefts of previous centuries but to the great thefts that are still being perpetrated upon us today, at this very moment. Our human rights as indigenous peoples are being violated every day of our lives — and by the very same people who loudly and sanctimoniously proclaim to other nations the moral necessity of such rights. Over the centuries our sacred lands have been repeatedly and routinely stolen from us by the governments and peoples of the United States and Canada. They callously pushed us onto remote reservations on what they thought was worthless wasteland, trying to sweep us under the rug of history. But today, that so-called wasteland has surprisingly become enormously valuable as the relentless technology of white society continues its determined assault on Mother Earth. White society would now like to terminate us as peoples and push us off our reservations so they can steal our remaining mineral and oil resources. It's nothing new for them to steal from nonwhite peoples. When the oppressors succeed with their illegal thefts and depredations, it's called colonialism. When their efforts to colonize indigenous peoples are met with resistance or anything but abject surrender, it's called war. When the colonized peoples attempt to resist their oppression and defend themselves, we're called criminals. I write this book to bring about a greater understanding of what being an Indian means, of who we are as human beings. We're not quaint curiosities or stereotypical figures in a movie, but ordinary — and, yes, at times, extraordinary — human beings. Just like you. We feel. We bleed. We are born. We die. We aren't stuffed dummies in front of a souvenir shop; we aren't sports mascots for teams like the Redskins or the Indians or the Braves or a thousand others who steal and distort and ridicule our likeness. Imagine if they called their teams the Washington Whiteskins or the Washington Blackskins! Then you'd see a protest! With all else that's been taken from us, we ask that you leave us our name, our self-respect, our sense of belonging to the great human family of which we are all part. Our voice, our collective voice, our eagle's cry, is just beginning to be heard. We call out to all of humanity. Hear us!

So I am to be Robert’s replacement. On the one hand, there is no pressure, because it’s not like I am replacing the cool guy that left that everybody loved. But at the same time, the pressure is huge, because if I screw up, my coworkers will all say, “Jarod’s a terrible employee. He’s so bad that even the lifeless robot was better and more hospitable than him.” It’s man vs. machine, and I am the underdog. I need to go buy a “How to be Better than a Dummy for Dummies” book before tomorrow so I’m not the most recent victim in a long line of human defeats at the hands of machine.

That night, I dream. And when I wake up I remember watching a film with Nannan about a ventriloquist who went mad, his dummy coming to life and speaking for itself. My dream is like the end of the film where the ventriloquist and the dummy are in the madhouse, all these mad devil-faces pressed against the iron bars of the cell door, laughing as the dummy gets up off his chair and walks towards the ventriloquist who screams. The dummy strangles him. I can’t remember in the dream if I was the ventriloquist or the dummy. I’m in a funny mood all day. I don’t say much. I don’t feel like it.

At Rachel's instruction, the monkey briefly looked to his mistress, then looked back at Elliot and raised his hand. "Hey." "That's not the way, Haley. That's how you greet people we're close to." Realizing his mistake, Haley got up, pointed out his butt toward Elliot, and slapped it. " Get lost, okay?" "That's not right either, now is it? Look closely before you greet him." Haley scrutinized Elliot. Then he thrust his thumbs into his ears, fanned out his wriggling fingers, and stuck out his wagging tongue. "Dummy, dummy." "I'm sorry, Your Highness", Rachel apologized. "He's having trouble learning tricks, it seems.

I was only hit on once at the grocery store. I remember it was early one Saturday morning and I was buying my daily bacon, when I got tapped on the shoulder. I turned around and I saw a rather short and very feeble eighty-year-old lady looking up at me. She said in a weak, scratchy voice, "Excuse me, young man, could you reach up and grab some ketchup for me?" Well I'm no dummy. I know when I'm getting hit on. I smiled politely and reached up for the ketchup, knowing full well that she just wanted to get a gander at my derriere. As I handed her the ketchup, she said, "Thank you," like I was some piece of meat, a boy toy, or something. Finally I just blurted out, "Look, I'm married, lady!" She acted all surprised and confused. "Excuse me? I don't understand!" I shook my head with a smirk, raised my left hand, and showed her my wedding ring. "Married!" I loudly told her. "I'm taken!" A stock boy at the end of the aisle looked at us and inquired, "Is everything okay?" "I'm fine," I assured him. "I know how to deal with predators." Well, suddenly this sex-crazed lady got all angry at me. Like I was out of line. She huffed off. "Well, I never!" "And you ain't gonna with me either, " I yelled after her. I have to admit, it was nice to get the attention.

toe. He was even wearing a ski mask with strange meshlike coverings over the eyes. We didn’t get a lot of ninjas in Half-Moon Hollow. And I’m pretty sure Jed would have responded. So I wasn’t quite sure how to react here. Was this some sort of test from Jane to determine whether I would survive a parking-lot attack? Couldn’t I just roll around in a gym with a practice dummy or something? The figure cocked his head to the side, staring at me like some predatory creature considering his best approach. I dropped my bag and kicked out of my sandals. I could do this. Sure, I had no fighting experience, but I had superstrength and speed on my side. Then again maybe this guy did, too. He could be a ninja chupacabra for all I knew. But

What you learn after a long time in math-and I think the lesson applies much more broadly-is that there's always somebody ahead of you, whether they're right there in class with you or not. People just starting out look to people with good theorems, people with some good theorems look to people with lots of good theorems, people with lots of good theorems look to people with Fields Medals, people with Fields Medals look to the "inner circle" Medalists, and those people can always look toward the dead. Nobody ever looks in the mirror and says, "Let's face it, I'm smarter than Gauss." And yet, in the last hundred years, the joined effort of all these dummies-compared-to-Gauss has produced the greatest flowering of mathematical knowledge the world has ever seen.

We feel so superior to the dead. For example, if Michelangelo was so damn smart, why'd he die? How I feel reading the DSM is, I may be a fat stupid dummy, but I'm still alive. The caseworker's still dead, and here's proof that everything she studied and believed in all her life is already wrong. In the back of this edition of the DSM are the revisions from the last edition. Already, the rules have changed. Here are the new definitions of what's acceptable, what's normal, what's sane. Inhibited Male Orgasm is now Male Orgasmic Disorder. What was Psychogenic Amnesia is now Dissociative Amnesia. Dream Anxiety Disorder is now Nightmare Disorder. Edition to edition, the symptoms change. Sane people are insane by a new standard. People who used to be called insane are the picture of mental health.

I want to be married,” I blurted. “I want you to marry me.” Fuuuuuuuck. And so my entire carefully constructed speech was thrown out the window. My grandmother’s antique ring was in a box in the dresser—nowhere near me—and my plan to kneel and do everything right just evaporated. In the circle of my arms, Chloe grew very still. “What did you just say?” I had completely botched the plan, but it was too late to turn back now. “I know we have only been together for a little over a year,” I explained, quickly. “Maybe it’s too soon? I understand if it’s too soon. It’s just that how you feel about the way we kiss? I feel that way about everything we do together. I love it. I love to be inside you, I love working with you, I love watching you work, I love fighting with you, and I love just sitting on the couch and laughing with you. I’m lost when I’m not with you, Chloe. I can’t think of anything, or anyone, who is more important to me, every second. And so for me, that means we’re already sort of married in my head. I guess I wanted to make it official somehow. Maybe I sound like an idiot?” I looked over at her, feeling my heart try to jackhammer its way up my throat. “I never expected to feel this way about someone.” She stared at me, eyes wide and lips parted as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. I stood and ran over to the dresser, pulling the box from the drawer and carrying it over to her. When I opened the box and let her see my grandmother’s antique diamond and sapphire ring, she clapped a hand over her mouth. “I want to be married,” I said again. Her silence was unnerving, and fuck, I’d completely botched this with my rambling nonsense. “Married to you, I mean.” Her eyes filled with tears and she held them, unblinking. “You. Are such. An ass.” Well, that was unexpected. I knew it might be too soon, but an ass? Really? I narrowed my eyes. “A simple ‘It’s too soon’ would have sufficed, Chloe. Jesus. I lay my heart out on the—” She pushed off the bed and ran over to one of her bags, rummaging through it and pulling out a small blue fabric bag. She carried it back to me with the ribbon hooked over her long index finger, and dangled the bag in my face. I ask her to marry me and she brings me a souvenir from New York? What the fuck is that? “What the fuck is that?” I asked. “You tell me, genius.” “Don’t get smart with me, Mills. It’s a bag. For all I know you have a granola bar, or your tampons, in there.” “It’s a ring, dummy. For you.” My heart was pounding so hard and fast I half wondered if this was what a heart attack felt like. “A ring for me?” She pulled a small box out of the bag and showed it to me. It was smooth platinum, with a line of coarse titanium running through the middle. “You were going to propose to me?” I asked, still completely confused. “Do women even do that?” She punched me, hard, in the arm. “Yes, you chauvinist. And you totally stole my thunder.” “So, is that a yes?” I asked, my bewilderment deepening. “You’ll marry me?” “You tell me!” she yelled, but she was smiling. “Technically you haven’t asked yet.” “Goddamnit, Bennett! You haven’t, either!” “Will you marry me?” I asked, laughing. “Will you marry me?” With a growl, I took the box and dropped it on the floor, flipping her onto her back.

Twelve-step programs are rife with mottoes that people repeat solemnly as if rhyming, repetition, and puns are the equivalent of wisdom. Nothing changes if nothing changes. Come for the vanity, stay for the sanity. If you hang around the hardware store, you’re going to eventually buy a hammer. If I may, I’d like to pitch a few more twelve-step slogans to the worldwide fellowship: Hogs log, get out and jog! (IT HAS TO MAKE SENSE? Oh, okay—I thought wisdom was more about rhyming!) If I’m not calling, I’m stalling, and that leads to bawling and hauling. Drugs and ass got me here, but free coffee gave me a ride home. Booze is dumb and I’m no dummy! So how do I reconcile my atheist hypocrisy while still attending these groups? My favorite twelve-step slogan is Take what you want and leave the rest. This one slogan is how I’m able to rationalize my attendance and constant rule-breaking. And,

You're really good." That one got away from me. "Your drawing, I mean." He shrugged. "Not really. Besides, what difference does it make? It's not like I'm going to do anything with it. What's the point...?" He winced. "Jeez, I'm sorry.You're probably heading for MoMA via the Sorbonne and Bennington." "NYU if I'm really really lucky." I smiled, letting him off the hook. I still couldn't quite wrap my head around the fact that I was bantering with Alex Bainbridge. "After that, not a clue. You?" "Yale,then Powel Law." No With Luck or I hope or even If all goes as decreed. "Wow.It must be nice to be so certain in your path." I didn't mean to snound snide.I really didn't. "No starviing artistry in your future,that's for sure." Occasional stupid Mafia comments aside, Alex is no dummy. "It must be nice to be so certain in your convictions. No moral low road for you, that's for sure." I felt myself blushing, felt that Blood Surge of Humiliation beginning.

I turn from the window and see Ringer across the aisle, staring at me. She holds up two fingers. I nod. Two minutes to the drop. I pull the headband down to position the lens of the eyepiece over my left eye and adjust the strap. Ringer is pointing at Teacup, who’s in the chair next to me. Her eyepiece keeps slipping. I tighten the strap; she gives me a thumbs-up, and something sour rises in my throat. Seven years old. Dear Jesus. I lean over and shout in her ear, “You stay right next to me, understand?” Teacup smiles, shakes her head, points at Ringer. I’m staying with her! I laugh. Teacup’s no dummy. Over the river now, the Black Hawk skimming only a few feet above the water. Ringer is checking her weapon for the thousandth time. Beside her, Flintstone is tapping his foot nervously, staring forward, looking at nothing. There’s Dumbo inventorying his med kit, and Oompa bending his head in an attempt to keep us from seeing him stuff one last candy bar into his mouth. Finally, Poundcake with his head down, hands folded in his lap. Reznik named him Poundcake because he said he was soft and sweet. He doesn’t strike me as either, especially on the firing range. Ringer’s a better marksman overall, but I’ve seen Poundcake take out six targets in six seconds.

1. I WON'T SHAM Why pretend all is well, yet in hurt When inside I’m dying for your affection? Why should l flout you? When my heart yearns for communion? 'l don't care' cries the broken hearted When inside the heart cries for love When the very reason they are crying Is them they are pretending to slur 'l never loved you' cries the divorced When their heart bleeds for love, just one act of love The one that brought them together at first The very reason they even got married 'l hate you' cries the frustrated When fulfillment is all they long for The reality of which is still a fallacy to them If only they could hold on just a little longer 'That's a dry joke’ cries the scowling When laughter is what they long for In as much as they pretend to frown Merriment is still so true in their hearts But, l hate to say goodbye, when all l want is to be with you I hate to walk away, when l could have gone with you You'd make me sad by waving goodbye When all that's true is for you and me to be together I hate to shout at you, when l can just speak tenderly l hate to hang you down on the phone, When l could have said a little more to make you blissful I hate to say goodnight when l'm not heavy-eyed myself All that's real to me is l abhor to be a dummy But hold on my love, l WON'T SHAM....

Go away.” I stick my elbow in his ribs and force him to step back. “Sit on the couch and keep your hands to yourself,” I instruct, then follow him to the sofa and grab my Dating and Sex for Dummies books off the coffee table and shove them into my sock drawer while he laughs. “You’re making me miss my show,” I gripe as I toss things into the suitcase. “Your show? You sound like you’re eighty.” He glances at the TV behind me then back to me. “Murder on Mason Lane,” he says. “It was the neighbor. She was committing Medicare fraud using the victim’s deceased wife’s information. He caught on so she killed him.” I gasp. “You spoiler! You spoiling spoiler who spoils!” Then I shrug. “This is a new episode. You don’t even know that. It’s the daughter. She killed him. I’ve had her pegged since the first commercial break.” “You’re cute.” “Just you wait,” I tell him, very satisfied with myself. I’m really good at guessing whodunnit. “Sorry, you murder nerd, I worked on this case two years ago. It’s the neighbor.” “Really?” I drop my makeup bag into the suitcase and check to see if he’s teasing me. “I swear. I’ll tell you all the good shit the show left out once we’re on the plane.” I survey Boyd with interest. I do have a lot of questions. “I thought you were in cyber crimes, not murder.” “Murder isn’t a department,” he replies, shaking his head at me. “You know what I mean.” “Most crimes have a cyber component to them these days. There’s always a cyber trail.” Shit, that’s hot.

What’s that you’ve got crumpled up in your pocket?” My hand flies down to my pocket. “That? Oh, it’s nothing. It’s junk mail. It was on the ground by your mailbox. No worries, I’ll recycle it for you.” “Give it to me and I’ll recycle it right now,” he says, holding out his hand. “No, I said I’ll do it.” I reach down to stuff the letter deeper into my coat pocket, and Peter tries to snatch it out of my hand. I twist away from him wildly and hold on tight. He shrugs, and I relax and let out a small sigh of relief, and then he lunges forward and plucks it away from me. I pant, “Give it back, Peter!” Blithely he says, “Tampering with US mail is a federal offense.” Then he looks down at the envelope. “This is to me. From you.” I make a desperate grab for the envelope, and it takes him by surprise. We wrestle for it; I’ve got the corner of it in my grip, but he’s not letting go. “Stop, you’re going to rip it!” he yells, prying it out of my grasp. I try to grab harder, but it’s too late. He has it. Peter holds the envelope above my head and tears it open and begins to read. It’s torturous standing there in front of him, waiting--for what, I don’t know. More humiliation? I should probably just go. He’s such a slow reader. When he’s finally done, he asks, “Why weren’t you going to give me this? Why were you just going to leave?” “Because, I don’t know, you didn’t seem so glad to see me…” My voice trails off lamely. “It’s called playing hard to get! I’ve been waiting for you to call me, you dummy. It’s been six days.” I suck in my breath. “Oh!” “Oh.” He pulls me by the lapels of my coat, closer to him, close enough to kiss. He’s so close I can see the puffs his breath makes. So close I could count his eyelashes if I wanted. In a low voice he says, “So then…you still like me?” “Yeah,” I whisper. “I mean, sort of.” My heartbeat is going quick-quick-quick. I’m giddy. Is this a dream? If so, let me never wake up. Peter gives me a look like Get real, you know you like me. I do, I do.

It’s nice of you to say I’m your best friend. <> You are my best friend, dummy. <> Really? You’re my best friend. But I always assumed that somebody else was your best friend, and I was totally okay with that. You don’t have to say that I’m your best friend just to make me feel good. <> You’re so lame. <> That’s why I figured somebody else was your best friend.

I got tapped on the shoulder. I turned around and I saw a rather short and very feeble eighty-year-old lady looking up at me. She said in a weak, scratchy voice, “Excuse me, young man, could you reach up and grab some ketchup for me?” Well, I’m no dummy. I know when I’m getting hit on. I smiled politely and reached up for the ketchup, knowing full well that she just wanted to get a gander at my derriere. As I handed her the ketchup, she said, “Thank you,” like I was some piece of meat, a boy toy, or something. Finally I just blurted out, “Look, I’m married, lady!” She acted all surprised and confused. “Excuse me? I don’t understand!” I shook my head with a smirk, raised my left hand, and showed her my wedding ring. “Married!” I loudly told her. “I’m taken!” A stock boy at the end of the aisle looked at us and inquired, “Is everything okay?” “I’m fine,” I assured him. “I know how to deal with predators.” Well, suddenly this sex-crazed lady got all angry at me. Like I was out of line. She huffed off. “Well, I never!” “And you ain’t gonna with me either,” I yelled after her. I have to admit, it was nice to get the attention.

The next morning, Peter is waiting in the parking lot for me when I get off the bus. “Hey,” he says. “Are you seriously taking the bus every day?” “My car is being fixed, remember? My accident?” He sighs like this is somehow offensive to him, me taking the bus to school. Then he grabs my hand and holds it as we walk into school together. This is the first time I’ve walked down the school hallway holding hands with a boy. It should feel momentous, special, but it doesn’t, because it’s not real. Honestly, it feels like nothing. Emily Nussbaum does a double take when she sees us. Emily is Gen’s best friend. She’s staring so hard I’m surprised she doesn’t take a quick pic on her phone to send to Gen. Peter keeps stopping to say hi to people, and I stand there smiling like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Me and Peter Kavinsky. At one point I try to let go of his hand, because mine is starting to feel sweaty, but he tightens his grip. “Your hand is too hot,” I hiss. Through clenched teeth he says, “No, your hand is.” I’m sure Genevieve’s hands are never sweaty. She could probably hold hands for days without getting overheated. When we get to my locker, we finally drop hands so I can dump my books inside. I’m shutting my locker door when Peter leans in and tries to kiss me on the mouth. I’m so startled I turn my head, and we hit foreheads. “Ow!” Peter rubs his forehead and glares at me. “Well, don’t just sneak up on me like that!” My forehead hurts too. We really banged them hard, like cymbals. If I looked up right now, I would see blue cartoon birdies. “Lower your voice, dummy,” he says through clenched teeth. “Don’t you call me a dummy, you dummy,” I whisper back. Peter heaves a big sigh like he’s really annoyed with me. I’m about to snap at him that it’s his fault, not mine, when I catch a glimpse of Genevieve gliding down the hallway. “Gotta go,” I say, and I dart off in the opposite direction. “Wait!” Peter calls out. But I keep darting.

Hank continued to look confused. “So, what’s she like otherwise? Is she a nice person?” Duane shrugged. “Not particularly. She’s businesslike, to the point. Cletus calls her efficient.” “Duane and Cletus would know.” I indicated to my brother with my chin. “She’ll talk to them, but she still doesn’t speak to me.” “So, Miss Too Pretty ignoring you has your boxers in a bunch?” Hank looked like he was stifling a laugh. “Like I said, it has nothing to do with her looks. And she can keep on ignoring me. I don’t care about that. But you’d be irritated too if someone you didn’t know told you your face was distorted.” “She didn’t say your face was distorted, dummy.” Duane rolled his eyes. I pointed at my brother. “She said yourface was perfectly symmetrical and myface was wonky. And that—plus I’m an idiot—is how she could tell us apart.” Hank barked a laugh. I glowered at my friend. “And I’m the one who needed to apologize?” “Now see, I don’t think you needed to apologize for mistaking her for a stripper. I think you needed to apologize for suggesting she take off her clothes. There’s the difference.” Duane nodded at his own words. “Technically, I didn’t suggest she take off her clothes. I suggested she keep them on.” Hank rubbed his chin. “You shouldn’t have made any reference to her clothes at all, especially since you’ll be working with her for the foreseeable future. That’s just unprofessional.” “Unprofessional?” I couldn’t believe the words out of my friend’s mouth, especially considering his practice of sending strippers to welcome me home was the cause of this mess in the first place. “Don’t look at me like that. I work in a strip club; you work in an auto shop. Of course I have to talk to my employees about their costumes and such.” Hank gave me a pointed look as he brought the beer bottle to his mouth and said before taking a sip, “The only stripping you should be discussing with this woman is salvaging for car parts.

I’m going to write a marriage guide, I think. I’ll call it The Startup Wife: How to Succeed in Business and Marriage at the Same Time. I’ll tell everyone how great it is to mix everything together—work, love, ambition, sex. Anyone who says business and pleasure don’t mix is an idiot. I can see it in Barnes & Noble, propped up on a table between How to Stay Married and Startups for Dummies.

That’s right. I’m an old cobra rancher. And what’s that mean?” “That you’re smart.” “Why?” “Because the dumb cobra ranchers don’t survive.” “That’s right. And part of being smart is being able to tell when someone else isn’t, so you can avoid depending on them. I know an idiot when I see one, son, and I’m not looking at one right now. I’ve said many things about you—that you’re lazy, irresponsible, wasteful, clumsy, and for some reason, you have low self-esteem—but I’ve never called you dumb.” “Yes, you have.” “No I haven’t, dummy. My point is, you know you have to do this.” “But if I go, I’ll miss your amazing pep talks.

Swear to God, if you say you’re fine one more time, I’m going to beat you with a copy of Martyrdom for Dummies.

And I’m the dummy who never questioned it.

SoSo I so love you love me so -- so deeply, so weeply, so soon. So tell me when I'm an ass -- so crude, so lewd, so...so, the baboon. I so love you love me so -- so breathless, so deathless, so in a swoon. So reproach me when I'm acting so crummy, so dummy, so...so, the buffoon. I so love you love me so -- so sure, so pure, so like the moon. So forgive me then, so forgive me when you discover I'm just so, so so.

Your engagement ring, dummy.” "He had jammed it in the middle of the muffin, and I ate it." Tabby shook the glass in front of the screen making the purple contents slosh around. "Which is why I’m drinking prune juice." Becky’s hand froze, her mouth dropped open, and she slowly rotated her blonde head where the comb lay forgotten in the middle of her curls. She passed the test of friendship when she did not laugh. “If that is how you got engaged, I wonder what your wedding will be like.” Tabby

Have you ever tried a role-playing game?” Richard asked me one day over lunch. “I don't know if that's any of your business, pervert.” Richard sneered. “Not sex, idiot. It's a kind of game.” “You mean like, what, Dungeons and Dragons? Wearing a cloak and pretending to cast magic spells with elves? No, I've never done that.” “I'm not talking about pretending to be a elf, dummy. Not every role-playing game is about dragons and gnomes. Some of them are about secret agents, or commandos, or anything else you can think of. A role-playing game is a natural evolution from cops and robbers or cowboys and indians into something much more structured and codified. The principle, however, is the same. A scenario creator posits a challenge, and the participants offer up ways in which they would overcome the challenge, with the creator acting as a referee, determining success or failure.” “If I checked under your bed, I wouldn't find a wizard's hat and a magic wand, would I?” Richard flicked a cracker crumb at me. “It is a tool for training your mind to approach situations analytically, and quickly find a solution to the problem.” “Okay, you win, Bilbo Baggins. Give me a challenge.

I've been on the warpath for forty years. I've probably put a thousand men in the ground. Women too. Hell, probably some kids mixed in along the way, although I can't say for sure. And I know some good guys got caught in the crossfire, too; cops, security guards, watchmen, even your run of the mill innocent bystanders. Wrong place at the wrong time and all that.” I stared off into space. “Why are you telling me this?” “Because you need to remember I'm not a nice guy. I'm not far removed from that thing in your dream. Call me a war criminal and you'd probably be more right than wrong. I always thought at the time I was working for the good guys, fighting for the right reasons. But the Cold War was still a bloody business and I was always there at its bloodiest. Afghanistan, Burma, Egypt, Iran, India, Brazil, Russia...I've been all over, always where the fighting was the dirtiest. Tore up some places here in the States as well. Things the press was threatened to keep quiet about, or bribed into silence, or worse.” “Just keeps getting better and better,” I said. “And just remember, I'm one of the good guys. Some of the animals I worked with, they make your run of the mill concentration camp guard look like he's gentle enough to run a daycare center. Some of those older guys, they probably were concentration camp guards back in the day. Plenty of the grey-hairs I went into the field with, those were the war addicts, the guys who couldn't go back home. Saw it after 'Nam, too; men who lived for death, lived for the blood and the thrill of the kill. They weren't much better than the dummies we were gunning after. Matter of fact, most of them were probably worse. At least the guys at the end of my gun usually died for a cause: communism, Islam, even plain old fashioned world domination. Some of the savages I fought with, they killed simply for the fun of it. The money? That was just gravy.” I turned to look at Richard, slouched in his rocker, hat pulled down low over his blue eyes. “So what about you? Killing for a cause, or was it the fun?” Richard finally turned and looked me square in the eye. “You ain't figured that out yet? I killed for profit, kid. And back in the day, business was good. Business was really good.

I need actual X-Ultra vests, not schematics and spec sheets.” “More than one?” “A statistically significant sample would be best. Like a hundred.” “Why so many?” “Target practice.” Her eyes widened. “Let me make sure I have this straight. You want to blow holes in one hundred bulletproof army vests.” “That’s correct.” “Where do you plan to do that?” He looked at her. “I’ll ask Norm,” Kenzie said. “If it’s not too much trouble. What if he tells you no?” Kenzie shook her head. “He’s ex-army.” “Should have known. He never shaved again,” Linc said. “Shut up. He’s a ZZ Top fan. Be glad he won’t mind. He might ask you not to be too conspicuous about it. There’s a smaller range off to the side. You haven’t seen it.” “If he has the right targets, I can pay him,” Linc offered. “You should see what’s in the basement. Everything from paper thugs to wooden dummies. I’ll borrow a gun from Norm. I want to get this done and over with.” Kenzie was military all the way, but he hadn’t noticed her having much interest in hardware. “Mind telling me why you’re so gung-ho?” “Because sooner or later I’m going to be the one to tell Christine that Frank Branigan died. And I don’t want her to think I had a chance to help find out why and did zip.” “Okay. I understand. But I’m the one who has to get the vests. You can’t do that. They know who you are.” She conceded the point with a nod. “How are you going to get in?” she wanted to know. “Right through the front gate.” Kenzie shot him a curious look. “Let me guess. You aren’t going to explain how you’re going to do that because you would have to reveal your secret identity.” He chuckled at her reply. “You’re not that far off.” “Thought so,” she said with satisfaction. “And,” he went on, sobering, “there is one more thing I have to do.” “Let’s hear it.” “Mike Warren and I noticed that a lot of lines are starting to converge on SKC. While I’m inside, I want to take video.” “Of what?” “More like who. As in everyone I can get on microcam.” “How micro is it?” “About as big as a button.” He rose and stretched, rubbing his back. “Which is good. I may not be able to carry anything ever again.” “Tough workout?” she teased. “Let’s just say I had more fun watching yours.

Are you calling me a dummy?” “Not at all. I’m just saying that maybe some of us caught on a bit faster than others.

Maybe there is a way to have it all,” he said, lowering his head to hers. “If you want me, Starfish, we’ll find that way.” “I do,” she said, the sudden prickle of tears surprising her, but it was such a huge rush finally to admit it, to tell him. To tell herself. “But--” “No buts,” he said, kissing the damp from the corner of one eye, then the other. “We’ll sort it out,” he said. “It’s what we do for the people we love.” If she hadn’t already been certain her heart had tipped his way, it was definitely in free fall now. She reached up, stroked his face. “What have I done to deserve you?” she asked, quite serious. “Why me?” “Because you’re made for me,” he replied. “I knew it from the moment I met you.” He leaned in, kissed the side of her jaw. “It’s not about earning or deserving. Everyone deserves to be loved.” He lifted his head, and the intensity of his gaze was matched by the slow slide of his beautiful, cocky, sexy-as-hell grin. “We just have to be smart enough to recognize our perfect match when we find it.” Her smile matched his, her heart bumping hard inside her chest. “Are you calling me a dummy?” “Not at all. I’m just saying that maybe some of us caught on a bit faster than others.” She tried to hook his ankle and roll him to his back but he was on to that move. “Now, now, my little pirate wench, the only one with a hook is me.” He rolled fully on top of her, then, bracing his weight even as he nudged her thighs apart. “My, my,” she teased, her heart full to bursting, “what a big…sword you have.” “All the better to pillage you with,” he murmured, lowering his head again. “I should tell you one more thing,” she whispered, making him lift his head a bit, an eyebrow raised in question. “I’m protected. Makes traveling easier when you know what will be happening when,” she explained. “So if you’re okay with, uh, keeping your sword there unsheathed, I’m okay with--” “Oh, aye, I’m very okay,” he said, eyes gleaming that much more brightly. “Good,” she sighed, then tipped her head back and arched up into him. “Please feel free to pillage away.

We have two selves: a real-world self and a phone self, and the nonsense our phone selves do can make our real-world selves look like idiots. Our real-world selves and our phone selves go hand in hand. Act like a dummy with your phone self and send some thoughtless message full of spelling errors, and the real-world self will pay the price. The person on the other end sees no difference between your two selves. They never think, Oh, I’m sure he’s much more intelligent and thoughtful in person. This

I was going to wait for a special occasion, but I don’t want to wait. I want to put a ring on her as soon as possible. I want her to be mine. All mine. Her eyes go wide when I show her the box. “I can’t quite go down onto one knee,” I say in apology. Her eyes fill with tears, and I stuff the box back down in the cushions. “We can do this another time,” I say. “Are you kidding?” she asks. She takes my shirt in her fists and jerks me toward her. “Ask me. Ask me. Please ask me.” She’s in my face, and I’ve never been more in love with her than I am right now. But she sits back, looks at me sheepishly, and says, “If you want to ask me, that is. You don’t have to ask me if you don’t want to.” I wrap my arm around her head and give her a noogie. “I don’t just want to. I have to.” She looks up at me, her thoughts in as much turmoil as her hair. “I can’t live without you, dummy,” I try to explain. She grins at the term of endearment. There was a time that a word like that would have shredded her; now it’s just a word. A funny one, too, because she’s the opposite of dumb. “I love you,” she says. She kisses me, her tongue sweeping into my mouth, the gentle touch of it against mine making me go rock hard immediately. “Get the box back out,” she says. I can feel her grin against my lips when she goes back to kissing me. “What box?” I ask. “The ring. Ask me. I promise I’ll say yes.” “You’re so easy,” I tease. She wasn’t always easy. It was damn hard loving her in the beginning, but I couldn’t avoid it. She’s like a piece of me that was missing all my life. I can’t imagine a day without her. I reach into the cushions and pick up the box. My heart is thumping in my chest like a roofer’s hammer, even though she just told me she was going to accept. I open the box, and it creaks on its hinges. “Will you marry me?” I ask. She takes the box and sits back, an open-mouth grin on her face. It’s a mixture of awe and happiness. “I used to look at this when I was little. My dad said my rich husband would get me a big, fat rock and we’d live happily ever after. But all I ever wanted was this ring and a husband who loved me.” I tip her face up to mine with a crooked finger under her chin. “I love you.” I scrunch my eyebrows together. “Did you forget to say yes?” “I didn’t forget,” she tosses back at me. She sets the box on the table and gets up. “I just haven’t said yes, yet.” She points toward the kitchen. “Do you want something to drink? I’m thirsty.” She gets up like she’s going to walk away, but I grab her shirt in my fist and pull her back down. I pick up the box, take the ring out of it, and hold it up. “Marry me, Em,” I plead. “If you say yes, we can have lots of crazy sex and live happily ever after.” I want to laugh, but I can’t. It’s not really funny. “Marry me, Em,” I repeat. “Please.” She smacks me on the forehead with palm of her hand, and I’m momentarily stunned. “Of course I’ll marry you,” she says. She lets me slide the ring onto her finger. “I couldn’t make it easy for you, dummy,” she says. She settles into my side and nuzzles into that spot that’s all hers. There are no secrets between us. Not anymore. And it feels so fucking good.

And the winner is,” he sings. He waits, opening the folded piece of paper slowly, drawing out the suspense. I can barely hear him over my own heartbeat, which is thumping like crazy. Is it too late to back out? Shit. I don’t want to do this. “The winner is the person who guessed twelve hundred and forty-eight!” The crowd is silent, and all the participants look to one another. But then I hear a thump, thump, thump, thump as someone comes up the stairs onto the platform. I see the baseball cap before I see the rest of him, and I hope to God that’s Sean’s cap. But Sean didn’t even buy a ticket. Not a single one. Yet it’s his brown gaze that meets mine. It’s his baseball cap, and they are his tattoos. They’re his broad shoulders and his long strides that eat up the distance between us. He turns his hat backward and looks down at me. He stops with less than an inch to spare between us. “Congratulations,” I squeak out. “You didn’t even buy a ticket. How did you…?” “I bought one hundred and forty-two tickets, dummy,” he says. My heart trips a beat. “You did?” All he had to buy was one. I put the winning number on the piece of paper I gave him. He nods, and he takes my face in his hands. His thumbs draw little circles on my cheeks as his fingers thread into the hair at my temples. “You didn’t look at the paper I gave you….” My heart is pounding like mad. “What paper?” he asks. His smile is soft and inviting, and I want to fall into him. “The one you put in your pocket.” His brow furrows. “Never mind,” I say, breathless. He spent 142 dollars for a kiss he already owned in more ways than one. If I loved this man any more, it would be dangerous. He looks down into my eyes, not moving. He’s going to kiss me, right? “What’s the plan here?” “I’m going to kiss my girl,” he says, smiling at me. My breath hitches. “But you have to say yes, first.” He hasn’t let me go. He’s holding me tightly, forcing me to meet his eyes. “This isn’t going to be a one-time thing.” I can’t even think, and he wants me to commit? “It’s not,” I breathe. “You promise?” His gaze searches mine like he’s going to find the secrets to the universe there. “I swear on your life,” I say. He chuckles. “My life?” I nod. His eyebrows draw together. “Aren’t you supposed to swear on your own life?” “My life means nothing if you’re not in it.” His hands start to tremble against my face, and he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Logan’s brothers start to chant, “Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss…,” and the crowd joins in. “You better kiss me,” I say, “or they’re going to get restless.” A tear rolls down my cheek, and he brushes it back with his thumb, his gaze soft and warm. His eyes open, and he leans closer to me. I step onto my tiptoes to get to him because I can’t wait one more second. He stops a breath away from me, just like he did in the room. He waits. “You have to close the distance,” he says to me. He’s making me choose. I fall into him and press my lips to his. He freezes. But then he starts to kiss me. And all the fireworks at the state fair couldn’t compare to the ones that go off in my head.

Don’t underestimate your own value, dummy,” he says. I stiffen. I hate that word. Absolutely hate it. He stiffens when I do. “What?” he asks. “What’s wrong?” “Don’t ever call me a dummy, Logan,” I say, my teeth grinding together so hard they hurt. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry,” he rushes to say. He takes my face in his hands, holding it tightly as he looks into my eyes. “I didn’t mean it.” He chuckles, but there’s no mirth in the sound. “It’s a term of endearment in our family. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. Really, I didn’t. I don’t think you’re stupid. You have a learning disability, but you’re not stupid. I know that.” I wish I knew it. He sounds so sure about it. “It’s all right,” I say, but I’m already pushing back from him. “Don’t pull away from me,” he warns. That makes me laugh. “I’m not the one who’s always pulling away, Logan,” I remind him. I push him back again, but he’s not having any of it. Suddenly, his hands clutch my bottom, and he hoists me up onto the bathroom countertop. “Forgive me,” he says. I nod, and he kisses the corners of my eyes where tears have formed. That word hurts me. It always has. And it was the final straw that made me leave my parents’ house. That word and others like it—I’ve heard them for too long.

Souls On Fire   I’m going to take a shower - I’ve got to breathe Your prompt has my imagination on fire You smile and blush   Can you imagine pressing flesh to flesh Or has that day faded past? He breathes heavily - I almost pant   I’m trying to get to safety And you talk of flesh stuff I can take it, but I am not made of wood   How can I get you wrong You are so descriptive And I am no dummy … But I am still surprised   You have lascivious thoughts And keep them to yourself Words are your slaves Flesh quivers under your fingertips   Let the sensorium vibrate With the ecstasy of expectation Speak to me in soft whispers Give me innuendos   I am holistic in my thinking I am a full-blooded man Always the gentleman you know I have let you into my mind   You hold back too much Your thoughts are precious I have hoped you’d open up I want you to trust me   When I hugged you I felt your warmth And liked it - Such things are personal and nice   Use your imagination All is safe All is between us And no one else   That’s not the safety I want You’ve ruined my concentration I like intimacy I am hot and hyperventilating   I am blushing You’ve accomplished your purpose Now how in hell can I do any work? What are you doing to me?

Birds eating birds” sounds like a sleazy talk-show topic, but in this case I’m referring to feeding your parakeet chicken and turkey meat.

Gareth strode straight up to Lucien, seized his shoulder and spun him roughly around on his heel. The pistol went flying from the dummy's wooden hand. "I beg your pardon," Lucien said, raising his brows at Gareth's open display of hostility. "Where is she?" The duke turned back to his target and calmly reloaded his pistol. "Probably halfway to Newbury by now, I should think," he said, mildly. "Do go away, dear boy. This is no sport for children like yourself, and I wouldn't want you to get hurt." The condescending remark cut deep. Gareth marched around to face his brother. They were of equal height, equal build, and almost of equal weight, and his blue eyes blazed into Lucien's black ones as he seized the duke's perfect white cravat and yanked him close. Lucien's eyes went cold, and he reached up and caught Gareth's wrist in an iron grip of his own. All civility vanished. "Don't push me," the duke warned, menacingly. "I've had all I can take of your childish pranks and degenerate friends." "You dare call me a child?" "Yes, and I will continue to do so as long as you continue to act like one. You are lazy, feckless, dissolute, useless. You are an embarrassment to this family — especially to me. When you grow up and learn the meaning of responsibility, Gareth, perhaps I shall treat you with the respect I did your brother." "How dare you talk to me of responsibility when you banish an innocent young woman to fend for herself, and she with a six-month-old baby who happens to be your niece!  You're a cold-hearted, callous, unfeeling bastard!" The duke pushed him away, lifting his chin as he repaired the damage to his cravat. "She was handsomely paid. She has more than enough money to get back to those godforsaken colonies from which she came, more than enough to see herself and her bastard babe in comfort for the rest of her life. She is no concern of yours." Bastard babe. Gareth pulled back and sent his fist crashing into Lucien's jaw with a force that nearly took his brother's head off. The duke staggered backward, his hand going to his bloodied mouth, but he did not fall. Lucien never fell. And in that moment Gareth had never hated him more. "I'm going to find her," Gareth vowed, as Lucien, coldly watching him, took out a handkerchief and dabbed at his mouth. "And when I do, I'm going to marry her, take care of her and that baby as Charles should have done — as it's our duty to do. Then I dare you to call me a child and her little baby a bastard!" He spun on his heel and marched back across the lawn. "Gareth!" He kept walking. "Gareth!" He swung up on Crusader and thundered away.   ~~~~

Across the Reich, the Gestapo recorded increased the activity of anti-state elements. It’s kind of a helpless protest by those wretches against our celebration of victory. They organize bomb attacks against representatives of the Reich or against the civilian German population. We’ve also noticed murder-suicides. Eighty-seven civilians killed have been reported during the last week. From the Protectorate of Bohmen und Mahren, the destruction of Peter Brezovsky’s long-sought military cell was announced. From Ostmark…” “Enough,” Beck interrupted him, “I’m interested only in Brezovsky.” That name caused him discomfort. In his mind, he returned to the Bohemian Forest in 1996. It was in a different dimension, before he had used time travel. At the time, Peter Brezovsky was the only man who had passed through the Time Gate. He’d offered him a position by his side during the building of the Great German Reich. He’d refused. Too bad, he could have used a man like him. These dummies weren’t eager enough to fulfill his instructions. He also remembered Werner Dietrich, who had died in the slaughter during an inspection in the Protectorate. “… in the sector 144-5. It was a temporary base of the group. There were apparently targeted explosions of the surrounding buildings,” the man continued. “This area interests me. I want to know everything that’s happening there. Go on,” he ordered the man. He was flattered at the leader’s sudden interest. Raising his head proudly, he stretched his neck even more and continued, “For your entertainment, Herr Führer, our two settlers, living in this area from 1960, on June the twenty first, met two suspect men dressed in leather like savages. The event, of course, was reported to the local department of the Gestapo. It’s funny because during the questioning of one of Brezovsky’s men we learnt an interesting story related to these men.” He relaxed a little. The atmosphere in the room was less strained, too. He smiled slightly, feeling self-importance. “In 1942, a certain woman from the Bohemian Forest made a whacky prophecy. Wait a minute.” He reached into the jacket and pulled out a little notebook. “I wrote it down, it’ll certainly amuse you. Those Slavic dogs don’t know what to do, and so they take refuge in similar nonsense.” He opened the notebook and began to read, “Government of darkness will come. After half a century of the Devil’s reign, on midsummer’s day, on the spot where he came from, two men will appear in flashes. These two warriors will end the dominance of the despot and will return natural order to the world.” During the reading, men began to smile and now some of them were even laughing aloud. “Stop it, idiots!” screamed Beck furiously. In anger, he sprang from behind his desk and severely hit the closest man’s laughing face. A deathly hush filled the room. Nobody understood what had happened. What could make the Führer so angry? This was the first time he had hit somebody in public. Beck wasn’t as angry as it might look. He was scared to death. This he had been afraid of since he had passed through the Time Gate. Since that moment, he knew this time would come one day. That someone would use the Time Gate and destroy everything he’d built. That couldn’t happen! Never! “Do you have these men?” he asked threateningly. Reich Gestapo Commander regretted he’d spoken about it. He wished he’d bitten his tongue. This innocent episode had caused the Führer’s unexpected reaction. His mouth went dry. Beck looked terrifying. “Herr Führer,” he spoke quietly, “unfortunately…” “Aloud!” yelled Beck. “Unfortunately we don’t, Herr Führer. But they probably died during the action of the Gestapo against Brezovsky. His body, as well as the newcomers, wasn’t found. The explosion probably blew them up,” he said quickly. “The explosion probably blew them up,” Beck parodied him viciously, “and that was enough for you, right?

I happen to like holding hands with you, dummy,” he says. “I like it a lot.” He scrubs a hand down his face. “Probably more than I should.” He squeezes my hand. “So, if that’s all you’re ready for, I’m happy to do it. And just that.” He bends again, looking into my face. “I just met you yesterday. Do most men you meet want to get in your pants within twenty-four hours?” I heave a sigh. He met me long before that, but, technically, he’s right. “If so, you’ve been hanging out with the wrong types of men.” He lets my hand go and turns to open the truck door. “Pete,” I call. He looks over his shoulder at me, smiling. “Reagan,” he says, his tone mimicking mine. But he holds up a hand. “I know you want to sleep with me already, Reagan,” he says grinning. “But for God’s sake, I just met you yesterday. Give me some time to get to know you, will you?” He adjusts his clothing like I’ve undressed him with my eyes. “I’m more than a piece of meat.” He’s still grinning, and I know he’s joking, but it suddenly hits me how silly I’m being.

You love each other no matter how insane the other person makes you. It's matching the insanities that makes a marriage work. For example, I'm not allowed to purchase curtains or furniture without measuring first. And he can never find anything. Ever. My favorite is the time he only looked in one of his jeans pockets for his keys. After about an hour I made him check his pockets again. Both pockets. And there they were. When I asked him why he didn't check both pockets the first time, he said he always only puts them in one pocket so why look in the other. Once he caught me at Trader Joe's shaking a bottle of calcium tablets near my ear telling the man behind the counter, “They don't sound small.” And that confirmed all his suspicions that I was insane. And when I ask him for help with the crossword and he doesn't know the answer I get furious and call him a dummy.

Is that a microscope?” I ask, looking at the array of glass slides, tweezers, and eye droppers next to what is definitely a microscope. “Please tell me you’re not playing doctor in the living room.” “We’re playing scientist, dummy,” Joey says. “I’m showing him what different stuff looks like under magnification.” “I looked at a dust mite,” Joey says. “I am not okay.

I'm not really interested in being someone's practice dummy.

I’m deeply rooted in the earth, yet open to the higher powers of the cosmos—independent, yet inextricably connected to all of life.

I heard about Chris,” I said. “I’m sorry.” Clarisse paced a circle around the arena. When she came to the nearest dummy, she attacked viciously, chopping its head off with a single blow and driving her sword through its guts. She pulled the sword out and kept walking. “Yeah, well. Sometimes things go wrong.” Her voice was shaky. “Heroes get hurt. They…they die, and the monsters just keep coming back.

Because, do you think any of the other moms are buying cupcakes from Food Lion? How would that make Kitty look?” “Well, if it’s for Kitty, then Kitty should be helping.” Peter hops off the stool and comes up to me and slides his hands around my waist and tries to untie my apron strings. “Where is the kid?” I stare at him. “What… are you doing?” Peter looks at me like I’m a dummy. “I need an apron too if I’m going to help. I’m not trying to get my clothes all messed up.

I'm thinking you should always go topless." "That'll perk things up at work," Min said, and then remembered that there was nothing perky about her. "I meant—" "Not in public, dummy," Cal said. "Just at home. We'll put it in the wedding vows. You can promise to love, honor, cherish, and be naked from the waist up every night." "Married?" Min said, trying to sit up. "Well, of course, married," Cal said, watching her with interest. "You think I'd tie up somebody I wasn't serious about?" "You haven't asked," Min said, yanking on the belt. "Will you marry me?" Cal said, still watching her breasts. "No," Min said, torn between love and murder. "Right," Cal said. "Because years from now when Harry asks how I proposed, you don't want to say, 'Well, he tied me to the couch and ripped off my nightgown and ate doughnuts off my breasts and then he asked me.

Obviously.” I rolled my eyes. “Well, you need to think harder. Get out there and hit the streets!” I laughed. “Granny, this isn’t an eighties TV cop show.” “Well, it’s a good thing. You’re certainly no Magnum, PI.” “You know, I thought grandmothers were supposed to be sweet old ladies who loved to bake goodies and knit you an endless supply of sweaters.” “I’m a ghost, dummy!” Granny threw up her arms. “You’ll have to make your own crap.

I don't know anything in the beginning, which makes it great fun to write, you know? You don't know anything. You don't even know how to write. So you begin every book as an amateur and as a dummy. And in the writing, you discover the book. Of course, you're in charge. But gradually by writing sentence after sentence, the book, as it were, reveals itself through you to your language - through your language, rather. So each sentence is a revelation. I'm not exaggerating. Each and every sentence is a revelation. And what you're trying to do is hook one sentence to the sentence before and the next one to that sentence. And as you do, you're building a house, you know? [But] the architect and the contractor, they know what the house will look like when it's done. And that's the big difference. I don't have any idea what it will look like when it's done.

You begin every book as an amateur...I don't know anything in the beginning, which makes it great fun to write, you know? You don't know anything. You don't even know how to write. So you begin every book as an amateur and as a dummy. And in the writing, you discover the book. Of course, you're in charge. But gradually by writing sentence after sentence, the book, as it were, reveals itself through you to your language - through your language, rather. So each sentence is a revelation. I'm not exaggerating. Each and every sentence is a revelation. And what you're trying to do is hook one sentence to the sentence before and the next one to that sentence. And as you do, you're building a house, you know? [But] the architect and the contractor, they know what the house will look like when it's done. And that's the big difference. I don't have any idea what it will look like when it's done.

Some people go through their whole lives never knowing what they really want. Add to that immaturity a certain lack of brainpower or a lot of personal problems and you’ve got a powder keg of a marriage.” “I’ve already told you my ex was not exactly a dummy.” “I’m talking about common sense, not academic ability. There’s a world of difference. It’s common sense that makes people act intelligently, not education. All education does is give you a wider frame of reference to utilize when you’re using your common sense to go over your options. A lot of people with Ph.D.’s make stupid decisions because they lack common sense.

I’m not going to lie — other creatures as well as humans adore roses.

wrapper tucked in the back pocket of his jeans as I, the dutifully dumb girlfriend, decided to do him a favor by throwing some of his laundry in with mine. I reflected on the resulting debate after the found condom wrapper was smacked to his forehead by my palm. I couldn’t help but think Jon had a good point: Was I upset with him for having cheated on me, or was I disappointed that he was such a dummy as to put the wrapper in his pocket after taking out the condom? I tried to force myself to think about what I’d said earlier that morning. “I mean, really, who does that, Jon? Who thinks, I’m going to cheat on my girlfriend, but I’ve got too much of a social conscience to leave my condom wrapper on the floor—heaven forbid I litter.” I stared at the blue and white Formica door of my stall, tearing my bottom lip through my teeth, contemplating my options, and trying to decide if staying in the stall for the rest of the day was actually

One of my roommates was ‘Hey, I’ll help you!’ I said ‘Dude! You can’t program!’ So he went home for the weekend and bought the book PERL for Dummies and said ‘Now I’m ready.’ I said ‘Dude, the site’s not written in PERL.

Kind of funny how these dummies want a share of the spoils, I got dirt on my hands, and I'm not talking about soil.

No, I'm actually fighting with my second in command right now, but the dummy hasn't figured it out yet." -Wraith to Frisk, Chapter 2

I’m very big on strategies such as trailing stops and limit orders, and fortunately, today’s technology gives you even more tools to help you grow or protect your money.

IVY: Is she clean? BARBARA: Clean-ish. IVY: So she’s not clean. BARBARA: The woman’s got brain-damage, dummy. If you think I’m going to strip-search her every time she slurs a word— IVY: You know the difference. BARBARA: She’s moderately clean. IVY: “Moderately”? BARBARA: You don’t like “moderately”? Then let’s say tolerably. IVY: Is she clean, or not? BARBARA: Back off. We’re trying to get by here, okay?

You sure you don’t want to spar? Better than punching the dummy. Going to have to train with me eventually. I’m only offering because I don’t see any windows you can throw me out of this time.