Jake Paul Quotes

England is my city

Close your eyes. Focus on making yourself feel excited, powerful. Imagine yourself destroying goals with ease.

Look, Paul. I appreciate what you’re telling me, but I gave Jake my word. Not to mention the fact, he’d throw my ass in jail if he found out I tried to go around him.” “He wouldn’t, you know,” he said. “Jake’s a pussycat.” Yeah, just a big old saber-toothed tiger.

Find a person who is as successful as you'd like to be, ask them what to do, do it and work hard.

I've been ridiculed by silk-suited lawyers, jailed by ornery judges, and occasionally paid for services rendered. I never intended to be a hero, and I succeeded.

People always ask me "Sir Andrew Tate is it true you and your friends are the Kings Of The Internet?" I tell them of course it's true you big dummy.

A talented entrepreneur with bad habits eventually becomes an employee. An average employee with great habits can eventually become a great entrepreneur.

T-shirt with the saying “I May Be Old, but I Got to See All the Cool Bands.

...and when she thinks of that generation of silent men, the boys who lived through the Depression and grew up to become soldiers or not-soldiers in the war, she doesn’t blame them for refusing to talk, for not wanting to go back into the past, but how curious it is, she thinks, how sublimely incoherent that her generation, which doesn’t have much of anything to talk about yet, has produced men who never stop talking, men like Bing, for example, or men like Jake, who talks about himself at the slightest prompting, who has an opinion on every subject, who spews forth words from morning to night, but just because he talks, that doesn’t mean she wants to listen to him, whereas with the silent men, the old men, the ones who are nearly gone now, she would give anything to hear what they have to say.

Focus on making yourself feel excited, powerful. Imagine yourself destroying goals with ease.” “You have to believe that you can achieve anything.” “You can become rich, you can become strong, you can take care of your loved ones and enjoy the fact that it will be very difficult.

Justice requires lawyers who are prepared, witnesses who tell the truth, judges who know the law, and jurors who stay awake. Justice is the North Star, the burning bush, the holy virgin. It cannot be bought, sold, or mass produced. It is intangible, ineffable, and invisible, but if you are to spend your life in its pursuit, it is best to believe it exists, and that you can attain it.

At the end of the day, it all comes down to how bad you freakin' want it. That's it.

In my experience, honest people don't need to put their hand on a Bible to tell the truth, and with dishonest people, it makes no difference.

We keep looking for justice, but it’s nothing but stormy nights and dark alleys out there.

All of us live with our own demons, do penance in our private ways. We need our friends for support and advice, but we draw our strength from within.

Aligning with other’s self interest is easier than persuading them to do what you want.

I'm a burger and brew guy in a paté and Chardonnay world. I'm as health conscious as the next guy, as long as the next guy is sitting on a bar stool. FALSE DAWN http://tinyurl.com/64qngk5

A good lawyer is part con man, part priest -- promising riches, threatening hell. My ethical rules are simple. I won't lie to the court or let a client do it. But I've never been in this position. How far would I go for a woman who mattered? Is there anything I wouldn't do to win?

1/3 of men under 30 haven’t had sex in the last year. People don’t realize why that’s actually one of the biggest issues we face today. It means the foundation of our society is deteriorating.

At the prosecution table, Flagler gave me his Ivy League snicker. If I wanted, I could dangle him out the window by his ankles. But then, I was picking up penalties for late hits while he was singing tenor with the Whiffenpoofs. Okay, so I’m not Yale Law Review, but I’m proud of my diploma. University of Miami. Night division. Top half of the bottom third of my class.

The gods tempt us. They offer us riches and sweet smelling women, tres leches, each milk sweeter than the one before. But you cannot beat the gods. The grander house and the bigger deal only mean more borrowed time, more risk. When you build your life on a house of cards, you never know when the joker will turn up.

The acquisition of material things has become the hallmark of the shallow life.

Life is all in the setup.

Nobody knows something about everything.

I knew I always wanted to be 50 percent social media and 50 percent traditional media. Because I believe the stars of the future will need both.

I believe you should focus your life on observing the little things because one day you look back and realize they were the big things.

If the people around you are giving you advice to slow down or to take it easy – you are surrounded by the wrong people.

You just get pickier. I think that's true of everything. Money, toys, girls - all the hedonistic stuff. You just raise the bar

Before you climb the next mountain or conquer your next demon… Take a moment to acknowledge and celebrate your wins!

Don't buy things you can't afford with money you don't have to impress people you don't like it.

I jumped off a bridge in Italy, is that culturally insensitive? Is saying 'mamma mia' culturally insensitive?

I've never been disbarred, committed or convicted of moral turpitude, and the only time I was arrested, it was a case of mistaken identity...I didn't know the guy I hit was a cop.

A lawyer who’s afraid of jail is like a surgeon who’s afraid of blood.

Men act as if we just crawled from the swamp, our webbed feet dripping brackish water as we waddle ashore, seeking to mate with a female or, lacking that, a warm patch of mud.

If your theories prove to be a floccinaucinihilipilification.” “A flossy…what?” “Sorry. Such an ostentatious, academic word. If your theories prove to be valueless, where are you then?

I hit every red light for fifty blocks heading east toward Coconut Grove. They’re timed that way by our traffic planners, who might be getting kickbacks from the oil and tire companies.

I could be wrong, but she seemed to be one of those anti-gluten, pro-yoga, organic wine bar, Generation-Y echo boomers. A Gwyneth Paltrow type who would name her first daughter Persimmon or whatever.

I don’t tweet or blog or order pizza with arugula on top. You won’t find my mug on Facebook or Instagram. I don’t have a life coach, an aroma therapist, or a manicurist, and I sure as hell don’t do Pilates.

Modern life is one sweeping, cradle-to-grave invasion of privacy. An encroachment on our ever-narrowing space. Our footprints in the sand are a billion bytes on a thousand hard drives. Fodder for the snoop and the historian alike.

I stood there, 220 pounds of ex-football player, ex-public defender, ex-a-lot-of-things, leaning against the faded walnut rail of the witness stand, home to a million sweaty palms. "To Speak for the Dead" (The Jake Lassiter Series) http://tinyurl.com/69eua2t

We are a vain, greedy, and foolish people. We squander and spoil, befoul and defile. We take for granted the beauties and bounties of nature, but in the end nature will out. We will dry up or smoke out or choke on our own waste. In the end we will pay the ultimate price.

Mr. Lassiter, you know better than that,” the judge said icily. He turned to the jury box. “The jury shall disregard Mr. Lassiter’s last statement.” I didn’t mind the instruction. In my experience, jurors forget most everything I say, except what the judge tells them to disregard.

I work harder than every single person I know, and the only person that is on the same level as me is my brother. If you look at the top social media stars, it's me and him. I think that's our advantage. We're not the prettiest; we're not even the funniest, we're not the wittiest, whatever it is.

Life, John Lennon famously said, is what happens to you while you’re making other plans. Now that I think of it, Lennon, that wizard of words and music, probably wasn’t the first. There’s an old Yiddish proverb, “Man plans and God laughs.” Probably every culture has a virtually identical aphorism.

What the hell do you expect, Jean Paul? For years your government has allowed the immigration of millions of Muslims into France. Yet these people have failed to assimilate. Refused to speak your language. And installed Sharia Law in pockets of your society. You have an enemy within. Go home and fix that first. Then come and talk with me.

With women, my wiring shorts out. My senses respond to the physical and the chemical, the scent and sheen of her. Evil could not possibly reside in the form of this angel. Or could it? Sure, I'm politically incorrect. I admit it; I confess; guilty as charged. I am, Your Honor, the lowest of the species, still wet from the swamp, webbed feet fossilized in the mud. I am a Man!

Charlie Pop is 15 years old. He has 2 dogs: Bruno and Rex. He lives with his parents Kath and Ron. Today is the 22nd April 2025. Charlie and his friends have been going to the Landfawcett space bowling club all their lives. Charlie’s friends are called Harry Em, Eric Tweet, Paul Key, Robert Storm, Chris Leaf, Jay Laugh, Darren Rain and Tom Breeze. They all have short hair and dress casually especially Ben Steps and George Sing. Jake Train is the cleverest of them all. He has invented a secret waterproof wireless finger camera that takes photographs; it is attached to Charlie and his friend’s fingers. Rex and Bruno have a camera attached to the fur on their heads. Images are shared with each other from the app recording onto their phones and laptops. It is their space bowling tournament today.

He moves through the white glare of a Key West afternoon in that curious, rolling, cantilevered, ball-of-the-foot, and just-off-kilter gait that suggests a kind of subtle menace. He’s on dense and narrow and aromatic streets bearing people’s first names—Olivia, Petronia, Thomas, Emma, Angela, Geraldine. He’s Tom Sawyer on a Saturday in Hannibal, tooting like a steamboat, rid now of Aunt Polly’s clutches, left to his own devices, not to show back home until the sun is slanting in long bars. He’s Jake Barnes on a spring morning in Paris, when the horse chestnut trees are in bloom in the Luxembourg gardens. Jake is expert at shortcutting down the Boul’Mich’ to the rue Soufflot, where he hops on the back platform of an S bus, and rides it to the Madeleine, and then jumps off and strolls along the boulevard des Capucines to l’Opéra, where he then turns in at his building and rides the elevator up to his office to read the mail and sit at the typewriter and prepare a few cables for his newspaper across the Atlantic. “There was the pleasant early-morning feel of a hot day,” is the way Jake’s creator, living in this different region of light, had said it at the start of chapter 5 of The Sun Also Rises.

—and I say you still haven't answered my question, Father Bleu." "Haven't I, dear lady? I thought I stated that death is merely the beginning of—" "No, no, no!" Her voice was as high as a harpy's. "Don't go all gooey and metaphysical. I mean to ask, what is death the act, the situation, the moment?" She watched him foxily. The priest in turn struggled to remain polite. "Madame, I'm not positive I follow." "Let me say it another way. Most people are afraid of dying, yes?" "I disagree. Not those who find mystical union with the body of Christ in—" "Oh, come off it!" Madame Kagle shrilled. "People are frightened of it, Father Bleu. Frightened and screaming their fear silently every hour of every day they live. Now I put it to you. Of what are they afraid? Are they afraid of the end of consciousness? The ultimate blackout, so to speak? Or are they afraid of another aspect of death? The one which they can't begin to foresee or understand?" "What aspect is that, Madame Kagle?" "The pain." She glared. "The pain, Father. Possibly sudden. Possibly horrible. Waiting, always waiting somewhere ahead, at an unguessable junction of time and place. Like that bootboy tonight. How it must have hurt. One blinding instant when his head hit, eh? I suggest, Father Bleu, that is what we're afraid of, that is the wholly unknowable part of dying—the screaming, hurting how, of which the when is only a lesser part. The how is the part we never know. Unless we experience it." She slurped champagne in the silence. She eyed him defiantly. "Well, Father? What have you got to say?" Discreetly Father Bleu coughed into his closed fist. "Theologically, Madame, I find the attempt to separate the mystical act of dying into neat little compartments rather a matter of hairsplitting. And furthermore—" "If that's how you feel," she interrupted, "you're just not thinking it out." "My good woman!" said Father Bleu gently. "Pay attention to me!" Madame Wanda Kagle glared furiously. "I say you pay attention! Because you have never stopped to think about it, have you? If death resembles going to sleep, why, that's an idea your mind can get hold of, isn't it? You may be afraid of it, yes. Afraid of the end of everything. But at least you can get hold of some notion of something of what it's like. Sleep. But can you get hold of anything of what it must feel like to experience the most agonizing of deaths? Your head popping open like that bootboy's tonight, say? A thousand worms of pain inside every part of you for a second long as eternity? Can you grasp that? No, you can't, Father Bleu. And that's what death is at it's worst—the unknown, the possibly harrowing pain ahead." She clamped her lips together smugly. She held out her champagne glass for a refill. A woman in furs clapped a hand over her fashionably green lips and rushed from the group. Though puzzled, Joy was still all eyes and ears. "Even your blessed St. Paul bears me out, Father." The priest glanced up, startled. "What?" "The first letter to the Corinthians, if I remember. The grave has a victory, all right. But it's death that has the sting." In the pause the furnace door behind her eyes opened wide, and hell shone out. "I know what I'm talking about, Father. I've been there." Slowly she closed her fingers, crushing the champagne glass in her hand. Weeping, blood drooling from her palm down her frail veined arms, she had to be carried out. The party broke up at once.

said. He started packing, dropping a cap and sunglasses

Wanda was one of the sighers and moaners, the omigod-I-never-dreamed-it-could-be-like-this-types. When she wasn't purring with cinematic sincerity, she was a warm and giving bedmate with the full complement of womanly slopes and curves and warm, tender places. Sometime around dawn, she told me I looked like Harrison Ford. Or was it Henry Ford?

I stored the information for later use. My mind is a warehouse of information like that, bushels of scrap paper filled with notes.

Knowledge of self is a precious commodity, dearer than the finest gemstone. The mirror I held before me now was not laced with gold filigree. It was cold and flat and bared every shadow on my soul.

have rights, too." Lassiter nodded at this pearl of tight-assed wisdom. "And you will not be swayed by sympathy for the injured person?" "Absolutely not." Lassiter smiled. Bingo! Marvin the Maven leaned toward Saul the Tailor and whispered, "Fatso saves his sympathy

In Russia, everything is a secret, but nothing is a mystery.

You are consistently dishonorable and therefore immensely trustworthy. You always eschew principle and reward venality.

As a lawyer, I break as few rules as possible, and just as in football, I play the game without fear. My college coach, Joe Paterno at Penn State, once told me to stop thinking so much. “Buckle your chin strap and hit somebody. Play fast and hard, and something good will happen. Don’t be afraid to lose.

Women, I have long believed, are the more evolved of the species and have attained some higher level of being.

jurors can’t help themselves. They’re swayed by their life experiences as much as the evidence and the law. Still, with all my bellyaching, here’s the strange thing. Juries usually get it right!

mouthpiece

Granny said. “Only fellow my age I know still got lead in his pencil.

I try to go through life doing the least damage possible. Having fun without hurting anyone, maybe doing a little good along the way, but without taking myself too seriously.

movement from inside, the sound of

In the military, JAG lawyers switch sides. One day a prosecutor, the next day a defense lawyer. Maybe they should make civilian prosecutors do the same thing. Many are plagued with a disease I call emotional scurvy. Instead of lacking vitamin C, they’ve been shortchanged of empathy.

In his dark suit, white shirt, and rep tie, he looked—and sounded—utterly professional. There was little chance he would make a mistake on direct or get tripped up on cross by a pettifogger, such as my own wily self.

He said he didn’t need a lawyer because he was innocent.” I tried not to grimace, so I just ground my teeth. When you’re innocent, you really need a lawyer because of police and prosecution foul-ups. To say nothing of the average citizen’s tendency to get scared and confused when being questioned by cops.

T-shirt with the slogan “Officer, I Swear to Drunk I’m Not God.

Yogi Berra reportedly said, “It’s not the heat, it’s the humility.

She had tried running away from her problems but now knew she would have to face them.

Distance runners are their own breed. Skinny. Self-sufficient. Patient. Able to endure and conquer pain. Often loners,

Dandy, I thought. When it gets too hot, the earth freezes over. Makes sense, though. A perfect incongruous symmetry. If life is filled with ironies, why shouldn’t nature be? Hard work leads to coronaries, love to heartbreak of another kind, life to death. As night follows day, sorrow follows joy. The affluent, many of whom labored mightily to get there, spawn indolent children. The kid from the ghetto gets an Ivy League scholarship, then is cut down in a gang fight at home. The rich get richer, the poor get poorer, and the meek shall inherit the shit.

Distance runners are their own breed. Skinny. Self-sufficient. Patient. Able to endure and conquer pain.

My desk was covered with little white telephone messages. Office confetti. You think the universe comes to a halt when you are locked into your own little world, but it doesn’t. It goes on whether you’re in trial or at war or under the surgeon’s knife. Or dead.

When the law doesn’t work, you gotta work the law.

The gunshot hit Nicolai Gorev squarely between the eyes. His head snapped back, then whipped forward, and he toppled face-first onto his desk.

The buzzards congregated around the courthouse and on the upper ledges of the Tuttle Financial Center, where for eighty dollars a square foot, the lawyers, accountants, and bankers expected a better view than bird shit two feet deep. Building management installed sonar devices that supposedly made unfriendly bird sounds. Instead of being frightened, the buzzards were turned on; they tried mating with the sonar boxes.

I’m not saying she’s dumb, but she thinks the Silicon Valley is the space between her tits.

The retirees are gone from their plastic rockers on the front porches of the aging art-deco hotels. Hookers, dealers, pimps, chicken hawks, and runaways no longer stroll Ocean Drive, hustling their wares. The Yuppies have staked claims to South Beach, spiffing up the old buildings with turquoise and salmon paint, dressing themselves in bright, baggy cottons and silks, and hovering on the perimeter of perpetual trendiness.

The bailiff tucked the jurors into their windowless room where they could surf for porn on their PDAs, and the judge turned to me. “Mr. Lassiter, Ah assume you got some legal mumbo jumbo for the record.” His Honor came from a family of gentleman farmers in Homestead by way of Kentucky, and his voice rippled with bourbon and branch water.

I’m a grinder. I am not called to speak at fancy conventions in five-star hotels. The governor has not offered me black robes and elevated me to the bench. I am not interviewed by CNN to comment on the latest trial of the century. And I am not rich.

she seemed to be one of those anti-gluten, pro-yoga, organic wine bar, Generation-Y echo boomers.

Floating below me were five-hundred-pound wallets with teeth.

good lawyer is part con man, part priest—promising riches, threatening hell. The rainmakers are the best paid among us and have coined a remarkably candid phrase: We eat what we kill. Hey, they don’t call us sharks for our ability to swim.

and

negotiate.

We give ourselves the name Homo sapiens, which means ‘wise man,’ but of course, we are not born that way, and we don’t gain wisdom from books. We learn how to live by living. Vive ut vivas—

Lassiter wished he was wearing his favorite T-shirt, the one with the slogan “Welcome to Florida, Now Go Home.

Mr. Lassiter, next week, you shall be permitted to do an autopsy if you wish. At least we know you won’t kill the patient.

standard fare in a county where gun control means holding it with two hands.

Philosophers and poets may be truth seekers. Lawyers only want to win.

Men generally don’t do any self-examining unless they get criticized by a woman first.

Blinky couldn’t bench press a breadstick,

You know the three elements of every prosecution, don’t you?” “Sure. Perjury, coercion, and pure dumb luck.

The question for the court is, should this boy be in Youth Hall, where he can learn some discipline and maybe get therapy from left-wing, pot-smoking county-payrolled, thumb-sucking shrinks, or should he be on the streets?

The federal government is a ponderous battleship, weighed down by its own armor and slow to change course. But when it chooses to marshal its might against an individual, the government is a lean, mean, conviction machine. Meanwhile, the defendant’s lawyer is a loinclothed Roman gladiator protected by a wooden shield, leather shin guards, and prayers to the god Jupiter. The Constitution promises due process but not a fair fight.

As much as we prize our commitment to the individual and pay lip service to the presumption of innocence, it’s the government’s courthouse, the government’s prosecutor, and the government’s judge. Every time you go to trial, you are the Miami Dolphins playing an away game against the Patriots in a January blizzard.

In a society without shame, where faking it is making it and deceit trumps virtue, integrity is for losers and cheaters win. Fairness? Forget about it! A meritocracy? In your dreams! Earn your diploma? Why bother, when you can buy it?

You leave a little bit of yourself behind in every case,” Ray Pincher said. “Not that you want to, but that the practice of law demands it.” “True enough,” I said. “There’s a lot of me smeared on a lot of courtroom floors.

You raise your child the best you can. You release the child into the world, like launching a toy sailboat in a pond. Except the world is not a placid pond. More often, it is a raging sea, and life a perfect storm of the unexpected crashing head-on into the unbearable. There is no way to prepare the child for such a world because your own personal crises, traumas and failures are just that, your own. Your child, as you will belatedly learn, is not you.

Federal judges are kings and queens. They are appointed for life. No messy elections, no grubbing for lawyers’ campaign contributions. They sit on thrones above the lowly members of their kingdom and are served by a royal retinue of law clerks, judicial assistants, court clerks, jury clerks, courtroom deputies, administrators, and, for all I know, court jesters.