Joe Madden Quotes

His response to them as sexual beings was one of frenzied worship and idolatry. They were lovely, satisfying, maddening manifestations of the miraculous, instruments of pleasure too powerful to be measured, too keen to be endured, and too exquisite to be intended for employment by base, unworthy man. He could interpret their naked presence in his hands only as a cosmic oversight destined to be rectified speedily, and he was driven always to make what carnal use of them he could in the fleeting moment or two he felt he had before Someone caught wise and whisked them away. He could never decide whether to furgle them or photograph them, for he had found it impossible to do both simultaneously. In fact, he was finding it almost impossible to do either, so scrambled were his powers of performance by the compulsive need for haste that invariably possessed him. The pictures never came out, and Hungry Joe never got in.

Women killed Hungry Joe. His response to them as sexual beings was one of frenzied worship and idolatry. They were lovely, satisfying, maddening manifestations of the miraculous, instruments of pleasure too powerful to be measured, too keen to be endured, and too exquisite to be intended for employment by base, unworthy man. He could interpret their naked presence in his hands only as a cosmic oversight destined to be rectified speedily, and he was driven always to make what carnal use of them he could in the fleeting moment or two he felt he had before Someone caught wise and whisked them away. He could never decide whether to furgle them or photograph them, for he had found it impossible to do both simultaneously. In fact, he was finding it almost impossible to do either, so scrambled were his powers of performance by the compulsive need for haste that invariably possessed him. The pictures never came out, and Hungry Joe never got in.

Few women anywhere could resist such wily cajolery, and prostitutes would spring to their feet eagerly and hurl themselves into whatever fantastic poses he requested for them. Women killed Hungry Joe. His response to them as sexual beings one of frenzied worship and idolatry. They were lovely, satisfying, maddening manifestations of the miraculous instruments of pleasure too powerful to be measured, to keen to be endured, and too exquisite to be intended for employment by base, unworthy man. He could interpret their naked presence in his hands only as a cosmic oversight destined to be rectified speedily, and he was driven always to make what carnal use of them he could in the fleeting moment or two he felt he head before someone caught wise and whisked them away. He could never decide whether to furgle them or photograph them, for he had found it impossible do both simultaneously. In fact, he was finding it almost impossible to do either, so scrambled were his powers of performance by the compulsive need for haste that invariably possessed him. The pictures never came out, and Hungry Joe never got in.

Choochiness is yet another British term that has no precise meaning, but, like pornography, you know it when you see it. The way I have things stacked up, choochiness is a particularly British amalgam of cuddlywuddliness, cutesypiedness, and butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouthedness that embraces everything from shops named The Ketch to Hugh Grant’s stammer. It is a grating and often maddening behavioral pattern that makes others want to reach out and pinch the choochster’s cheeks while secretly longing to stuff a hand grenade right down his throat. “Paul McCartney is choochy; John Lennon is not,” says my brother-in-law, Max, who fled England for France in 1976, largely to escape from rampant choochiness. “Paul McCartney: choochy. John Lennon: not choochy. That’s the difference.” THERE

You shouldn’t have come out on this, Duncan. We could have waited to see you when the roads cleared.” “It wasn’t that bad, Mom. The plows have been through.” “Yes, but your father cleared the driveway and he didn’t do that great of a job.” “He did fine, Mom. Hey, I’d like to introduce you to Dr. Alex Hartfield. Alex, this is Meredith Wilde.” Meredith’s wide gaze switched to Alex immediately, excitement washing over her features so similar to Duncan’s. “You brought a woman to Christmas? Oh, you should have told me! Come in, come in!” Before she knew it Alex was drawn into a cushy hug and set back so Meredith could look her over. “Oh, my, aren’t you gorgeous? Duncan. She’s a pretty one.” Alex winced and when she glanced at Duncan he was shaking his head and mouthing ‘sorry’ to her behind Meredith’s back. Alex snickered. “We’ve long lost hope that Duncan would ever bring home a real girl. His aunt Helen, my sister, always said he was gay because he was so pretty, but I knew in my heart that it would just take the right woman to catch his attention.” Alex laughed out loud, loving the woman’s irrepressible nature. If Duncan was mid-forties, Meredith had to be mid-sixties to seventies, but she certainly didn’t look it, or act it. Alex looked at Duncan. His cheeks were a little pink and he had a strange expression on his face. “Aunt Helen thinks I’m gay? Seriously?” Meredith waved a hand at him. “Not really, dear. She was just talking out her ass trying to convince herself your cousin Martin isn’t gay.” Meredith turned back to Alex and stage whispered, “but he is.” Alex laughed, thoroughly enjoying herself. Then the other people started moving in. She lost track of names and faces but did single out Duncan’s brothers, Sam and Robert. Both were good looking men, and even Duncan’s father Joe still kept his good looks, though he was years older. He welcomed her with a light hug and a calm look. “Don’t let them overwhelm you.” Nodding,

The language of starlings reminded her of nothing so much as the language of scholarly papers, the smooth and chilly syntax devoid of contour, the maddening reliance on 'the royal we' as the subject. Yet this was not the royal we, not in the sense that a pompous colleague or one of her lazy graduate students might use it: at least twenty birds had together formed the multilayered sound that came to her as English words.

Uncle Bob says we should watch GI Joe instead of Jem,” Scott tattles. “No way,” Hope decides. “Totally fascist. Although, what is the deal with Jem, anyway?” “She’s truly outrageous,” Nicholas clarifies.

It would have been easier if Biden were dealing with just Manchin, but he wasn’t. He needed to bring Kyrsten Sinema along, and dealing with both of them was a maddening exercise. It was as if they were strategically out of sync. They kept pushing in opposite directions. Sinema didn’t want to raise taxes but was less skittish about spending money; Manchin was happy to raise taxes but didn’t want to spend too much. Pleasing one of the holdouts made it harder to cut a deal with the other. On September 22, Biden decided to confront the problem head on. Rather than conduct separate negotiations with Manchin and Kyrsten Sinema and six centrist House Democrats, he pulled them together for a meeting in the Oval Office. When senators entered the Oval Office to negotiate with Biden, they were surprised by his collegiality. He treated them as his equal. It was as if he were still Joe Biden (D-Del.), a legislative dealmaker, not a president imposing his will on them. Meetings with legislators were sometimes scheduled for two-and-a-half-hour blocks. And they were endless. Sinema came to the White House ten times over the summer and early fall. He was solicitous and patient, trying to edge them to consensus, for the most part. But Biden

I read many books on Russian artists, writers, philosophers, and musicians in an attempt to understand [Vassy, her partner]. I seemed to be concluding that the Russian himself was saying 'We are not to be understood.' It was maddeningly challenging to me. I didn't like not understanding...at least to my satisfaction. Half savage, half saint. That seemed to be the consensus of opinion among the Russians themselves. The communist government appeared to be irrelevant, merely a continuation in a different form of a system which basically denied the importance of the individual. Vassy had told me in the beginning that the Russian people had the government they needed and understood, and in many respects he even claimed they would want Joe Stalin back because he would, in effect, protect them from themselves.