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.

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.

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.

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.

...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.

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.

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

Life is all in the setup.

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.

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

Nobody knows something about everything.

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

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

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

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.

He’s a mix of bulldog and something else, maybe donkey, and has the personality of a New York cabdriver.

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.

There are four kinds of homicide: felonious, excusable, justifiable, and praiseworthy.” —Ambrose Bierce

Damn, a mirror can be a lethal weapon, and self-knowledge a poisoned pill. I had been a self-centered and egotistical jock with all the trappings of stunted male adolescence. Back then, I had yet to develop the empathy for others that marks the passage into manhood.

When I was a kid, Granny filled a bushel basket with her do’s and don’ts. She taught me never to start a fight but to know how to end one. To be wary of the rich and powerful. And to go through life doing the least damage possible. Thanks to her, I favor the underdog. I root against the Yankees, the Lakers, and the Patriots. If Germany invaded Poland—again—I’d take the points and go with the Poles.

and parked adjacent to a regulation-size basketball

To anyone who finds this note [it begins], my name is Ellie Mack. I am seventeen. Noelle Donnelly brought me to her house on 26 May 2005 and has kept me captive in her basement for about a year and a half. I have had a baby. I don’t know who the father is and I’m pretty sure I’m still a virgin. Her name is Poppy. She was born in around April 2006. I don’t know where she is now or who is looking after her but please, please find her if you can. Please find her and look after her and tell her that I loved her. Tell her that I looked after her for as long as I could and that she was the best little baby in the world. Also please let my family know that you found this note. My mum is called Laurel Mack and my dad is called Paul and I have a brother called Jake and a sister called Hanna and I want you to tell them all that I’m sorry and I love them more than anything in the world and that none of them must feel bad about what happened to me because I am brave and I am brilliant and I am strong

I admired Bolden’s abilities. I’ve long thought that a good prosecutor is a well-trained union carpenter building a sturdy house with shiny tools and freshly hewn wood. She follows blueprints to the letter, makes sure the framing is in plumb, lines up the two-by-fours, and hammers the nails straight. The best courtroom carpenters are Renaissance men and women. They double as bricklayers, installers, tapers, finishers, electricians, and even plumbers. They can build the whole damn house, and it’s a thing of beauty that will pass the toughest inspection by city inspectors . . . or juries. Until the defense lawyers come along. We’re the stealthy vandals wielding crowbars and spray paint. We tear down door frames, break windows, and spray graffiti on the walls. Our job is to destroy what the carpenters have built and feed it into the woodchipper.

You can only protect your liberties in this world by protecting the other man’s freedom. You can only be free if I am free.

Thrasymachus said it was just a word invented by the victors to rule the losers. Like, we won the war; now we make the laws.

I thought of Jack Nicholson telling Shirley MacLaine that a stiff drink “might kill the bug you got up your ass.” I thought of John Riggins, the great, wild running back of the Redskins, telling Justice Sandra Day O’Connor at a White House dinner to “loosen up, Sandy baby.

In the 21st century, we'll work at home and recycle our garbage into compost. The computer will link us with the office, the grocery store, and each other. Microscopic chips and scanners will transcribe details even the most astute biographer would overlook

A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle

Think about every behavior you have, and where they come from. You'll realize that most of what you do is to appease other people. Let that part of you go, it is very freeing. It becomes easy to say, 'no' or that you don't like something. Live your own life.

Live life fully while you're here. Experience everything. Take care of yourself and your friends. Have fun, be crazy, be weird. Go out and screw up! You're going to anyway, so you might as well enjoy the process.

A Friend Will Help You Move. A Real Friend Will Help You Move a Body.

As Yogi Berra said, “If people don’t want to come to the ballpark, how are you going to stop them?

and

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.

local TV

on his own shoulder and lumber down the aisle between thirty-foot-high

Our prejudices and self-interest shape the world into what we want it to be, or fear it is.

In the end, we march along a path drawn by our own moral compass. The sum total of our life experiences guides us in a way our conscious minds could never decipher. We make choices without realizing why and trigger events we never foresee. And always we rationalize who we are and why we act the way we do.

What do you think it’s worth, Lassiter, finding and returning the priceless heritage of a nation?” “How about a Boy Scout merit badge and a thank-you note from Yeltsin?” Above us,

but I’m a trial lawyer, damn it. In the legal system, not everything is black-and-white. I make my living in the gray.

Sometimes the truth will not set you free. Sometimes it will send you away for life.

John D. MacDonald, my favorite Florida writer—yeah, I read a bit—once began a book: “There are no hundred percent heroes.” If you ask my customers, they’d probably give me 51 percent. MacDonald also wrote, “If the cards are stacked against you, reshuffle the deck.” Well, I’m tired of holding a pair of deuces or a busted flush. Tired of the grind. Tired of losing. Which is why on this sweaty July day with a sky as gray as an angry ocean, I needed an innocent client.

Jakie,

the question falls within the penumbra of the detective’s expertise.

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.

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

Society’s rules don’t always work. They’re limited by human frailty.

I believe anybody with guts and brains who’s willing to work hard can make it.

Sometimes silence is the best question.

Right. Bribes aren’t deductible.

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

party. I’m long gone from that scene.

studied

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

A doctor asks a patient how much he drinks and how often he has sex. To get the truth, multiply the former by two and divide the latter by three. The waiter brought our broiled snapper

American beer is weak and watery, and like network television, is calculated to appeal to the most folks while offending the fewest. It’s the lowest common denominator of brew.

feel

But that's not how God views the cross, Jake. His wrath wasn't an expression of the punishment sin deserves; it was the antidote for sin and shame. The purpose of the cross, as Paul wrote of it, was for God to make his Son to become sin itself so that he could condemn sin in the likeness of human flesh and purge it from the race. His plan was not just to provide a way to forgive sin, but to destroy it so that we might live free.

I have a confession to make. I hate voir dire. I despise prying into other people's lives because I wouldn't want them prying into mine.

When there’s a dead body in the room, you never, ever answer cops’ questions without your lawyer present. Which is to say, your lawyer answers the questions by saying, “We have nothing to say at this time.

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

In my playing days, like a lot of jocks, I hung out at places like the Booby Trap and Cheetah and other strip joints. Booze and breasts and wasted nights. Maybe getting older and presumably wiser ain’t such a bad deal.

If the cards are stacked against you, reshuffle the deck.

Hey, it’s Florida. Toss a beach ball at me, I’ll empty my .45 into you and be home in time for Jimmy Kimmel.

If there is a more dispiriting place in Miami than the county jail, I haven’t found it . . . and I’ve spent a lot of time at the morgue. Approaching the jail, you can hear the anguished shouts of inmates on the upper floors, yelling through the barred windows at their wives, girlfriends, and homies below. Inside, you’ve got that institutional smell, as if a harsh cleanser has been laced with urine. Buzzers blare and lights flash. Steel crashes against steel as doors bang shut with the finality of a coffin closing.

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.