Joyride Quotes

I think if people were taking tigers for joyrides, we wouldn’t be hearing about it on the radio!

Do not enjoy yourself. Enjoy dances and theaters and joy-rides and champagne and oysters; enjoy jazz and cocktails and night-clubs if you can enjoy nothing better; enjoy bigamy and burglary and any crime in the calendar, in preference to the other alternative; but never learn to enjoy yourself.

I like the idea of feeling small. Sometimes life can seem bigger than you, you know? But knowing you're less than a speck in the whole scheme of things takes the pressure off, sort of.

Pandas and rain forests are never mentioned when it comes to the millions of people taking joyrides in their Range Rovers. Rather, it's the little things we're strong-armed into conserving. At a chain coffee bar in San Francisco, I saw a sign near the cream counter that read NAPKINS COME FROM TREES - CONSERVE! In case you missed the first sign, there was a second one two feet away, reading YOU WASTE NAPKINS - YOU WASTE TREES!!! The cups, of course, are also made of paper, yet there's no mention of the mighty redwood when you order your four-dollar coffee. The guilt applies only to those things that are being given away for free.

But are there really good people? Good people, through and through? Or are we all just varying versions of bad people, some trying harder to be good?

But pessimism and reality are usually mistaken for each other

Then we talked a lot about our parents and how we didn't want to become them, but we had no other role models--or "maps," Alex kept saying. "My father is a terrible map, mostly because he doesn't ever lead me anywhere." And I thought about my parents being maps that led to places I didn't want to go-- and it made a shocking amount of sense, using the word maps to describe parents. If almost made you feel like you could fold Mom and Dad up and lock them away in the glove compartment of your car and just joyride for the rest of your life maybe.

life was not a joyride at an amusement park. It was a deadly serious affair and only through a combination of solid values, self-control, and a steady commitment to a worthwhile goal was there a chance to achieve happiness.

Reminiscing in the drizzle of Portland, I notice the ring that’s landed on your finger, a massive insect of glitter, a chandelier shining at the end of a long tunnel. Thirteen years ago, you hid the hurt in your voice under a blanket and said there’s two kinds of women—those you write poems about and those you don’t. It’s true. I never brought you a bouquet of sonnets, or served you haiku in bed. My idea of courtship was tapping Jane’s Addiction lyrics in Morse code on your window at three A.M., whiskey doing push-ups on my breath. But I worked within the confines of my character, cast as the bad boy in your life, the Magellan of your dark side. We don’t have a past so much as a bunch of electricity and liquor, power never put to good use. What we had together makes it sound like a virus, as if we caught one another like colds, and desire was merely a symptom that could be treated with soup and lots of sex. Gliding beside you now, I feel like the Benjamin Franklin of monogamy, as if I invented it, but I’m still not immune to your waterfall scent, still haven’t developed antibodies for your smile. I don’t know how long regret existed before humans stuck a word on it. I don’t know how many paper towels it would take to wipe up the Pacific Ocean, or why the light of a candle being blown out travels faster than the luminescence of one that’s just been lit, but I do know that all our huffing and puffing into each other’s ears—as if the brain was a trick birthday candle—didn’t make the silence any easier to navigate. I’m sorry all the kisses I scrawled on your neck were written in disappearing ink. Sometimes I thought of you so hard one of your legs would pop out of my ear hole, and when I was sleeping, you’d press your face against the porthole of my submarine. I’m sorry this poem has taken thirteen years to reach you. I wish that just once, instead of skidding off the shoulder blade’s precipice and joyriding over flesh, we’d put our hands away like chocolate to be saved for later, and deciphered the calligraphy of each other’s eyelashes, translated a paragraph from the volumes of what couldn’t be said.

Everyone watched Maddy. Not outright – the glances came at her like light dancing off a mirror ball, moments of eyes flicking across her face and gone. It was almost as if the class were on a collective joyride at her expense: the more miserable she felt, the more excited their smirks became.

All great achievements arose from dissatisfaction. It is the desire to do better, to dig deeper that propels a civilization to greatness. All of us have heard the story of Icarus, the young boy who took the wings his father built for him. Wings that were meant to carry him over the ocean to freedom and used them instead for a joyride. For a brief moment Icarus felt what it was like to live like a god, to touch the sun, to soar above the common man. And for doing so he payed the ultimate price. Like Icarus we too have been given gifts: knowledge, education, experience. And with these gifts comes the responsibility of choice. We alone decide how our talents are bestowed upon the world. This is our destiny and we hold it in the palm of our hands.

I worked hard as [fuck] to get here.

you didn’t have to be stupid to be happy.

I had a dream about you last night... I think flying saucer activity is pretty easy to explain; if I had one, I'd go joyriding too.

It can’t be a joyride without a few bumps. No, it wouldn’t be a joyride at all.

Joining a gang is like sky diving without a parachute. Oh, at first it’s all fun, as you take on gravity in a thrilling and exhilarating free fall towards earth. The truth is, anything that is risky and dangerous always starts out as fun. But the odds are always stacked in gravity’s favor, for you will eventually come face to face with the earth, and mother earth always wins those battles. The same thing can be said about being in a gang.

Those of us who’ve bypassed the exits for marriage and children tend to motor through our thirties like unlicensed drivers, unauthorized grown-ups. Some days it’s great—you’re a badass outlaw on the joyride that is life! Other days you’re an overgrown adolescent borrowing your dad’s car and hoping the cops don’t pull you over. Along

Come on, baby,” Jake says climbing out of the car. By the time I’m out of the car, the star-struck young guy is taking the car keys from Jake and is walking around to the driver’s side with a huge smile on his face. “You didn’t just give the car to a random stranger did you?” I ask, smirking. “No,” he chuckles, gently swotting my behind with his hand. “He works for the place we’re going to. He’s going to go park the car for us … he’ll probably joy ride it first – can't say I blame him because I would if I was him – but as long as it’s back for when we need it, I’m cool.” “Aww, you’re so sweet, baby, letting the teenager go for a joyride in the hire car.” I nudge him with my hip.

It was a love affair of the highest order, an unsupervised joyride into the depths of what could have been, me back into the womb, bathed in her mercurial amniotic fluid, imagining that she might rub her belly with pride, no longer pretending I wasn’t there as she had the first time. She would push and strain in labor and keep me this time, forever.

Longest. Elevator. Ride. Of. His. Life. As Trez stood next to Selena in a glass-walled torture chamber, he was resolutely facing the closed doors—and praying for some kind of Dr. Who time warp thingy that had him stepping out of the goddamn thing rightfuckingnow. Eyeballs locked on the glowing line of numbers above the chrome doors, he wanted to vomit. L . . . 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50. “44” had yet to light up because they were in the screaming-fast, liver-in-your-loafer, express part of the joyride. “Oh, you should look out here,” Selena said, pivoting toward the all-access pass to vertigo. “This is so much fun!” A quick glance over his shoulder and he nearly hurled. His beautiful queen had not just gone over to the glass, but put her palms on it and leaned into the ever-higher view. Trez snapped back around. “Almost there. We’re almost at the top.” “Can we go down and come up again? I wonder what the descent is like!” Actually, maybe they should head back to the lobby. He was fairly sure he’d left his manhood there when this rocket ride had ignited.

Who’s getting ugly? I’m all for it. May you two be very happy together and raise a brood of artisanal Brooklyn kids with names like Basket and Weave.

A victim will do some crazy things to stop being a victim, and maybe you did, too. But that doesn’t make you crazy, and it doesn’t make you evil.

Strength does not come from winning. Your struggles develop your strengths. When you go through hardships and decide not to surrender, that is strength.”—Arnold Schwarzenegger   Being

According to some versions of the story, Phaethon’s little joyride also burned the people of Africa so their skin became darker. I don’t know about that. I guess the Greeks were trying to explain why people have different skin colors, but I think it’s just as likely that humans were originally dark, and some god of laundry washed the Europeans with Clorox by accident and they got all bleached out.

Cletus takes a sizeable gulp from the bottle, then points at Arden. “You’d learn something from that one, boy. She’s a hard worker. A survivor. Gets things done. That girl doesn’t know it, but she’s going places in life.

In the rearview mirror, they saw the young officer stumble out of the precinct just in time to see them speed away. "A little slower on the turns, Alfred," Bruce managed to say as they screeched around a corner and bolted into a freeway tunnel. Alfred chuckled. He still had his hospital band wrapped around his wrist. "WayneTech cars aren't made for slow turns, Master Wayne." "And you wonder where I get it from." Bruce felt as if his stomach could touch his spine. Even in his Aston Martin, he'd never been able to drive the way Alfred was now. "I used to be in the Royal Air Force, Master Wayne," Alfred answered in a dry tone. "At least I have an excuse. Just because one can doesn't mean one should. I expect you not to use this against me the next time you go for a joyride." "I'll try not to," Bruce managed to reply as he clutched the edges of his seat. In the back seat, Harvey looked green.

Joybird shrugged. The girl knew absolutely nothing about her. “My dad left when I was six—then two years later, my mom died, so . . .” Riley sat up straighter. “You shitting me? I thought you grew up on a unicorn farm or something.

The problem was that he’d found out along the way, through a pretty long string of lovers, that you could burn out on passion and romance the same way you could burn out on bad dope or optimism or any other damn thing. It happened. And once it happened it was forever. So that then, even when something undisputably good came along, you maintained a kind of reserve. Not that you didn’t mine it for everything it was worth. Sure you did. But you stayed a little aloof from it too. Because mines had a tendency to come crumbling down in the course of time and when they did it was a whole lot better to be sitting on top of one than to get caught in the dark deep inside.

Whenever Shirley was away, Mark and I would take full advantage. One day, we “borrowed” her BMW X5 and took it for a joyride. We thought we got away with it, till some store clerk remarked to her, “I didn’t know your boys drove! I saw them driving around yesterday.” Shirley came home and was determined to get to the bottom of it. She knew better than to ask us--we’d have some lame excuse. So she went right to Julianne. She knew she could crack her. “Did Derek and Mark take my car?” she asked. Jules didn’t even hesitate. “Yes! And they were smoking, too!” Mark and I stood there, our mouths hanging open. Not only had she told on us, she’d offered more details than were even asked!

Time would heal the wound that was Frank; the world would continue to spin, to wobble, its axis only slightly skewed, momentarily displaced, by the brief, shuddering existence of one man -one THING - a post-human mutant, a blurred Xerox copy of a human being, the offspring of the waste of technology, the bent shadow of a fallen angel; Frank was all of these things. . . he was the sum of everything dark and sticky, the congealment of all things wrong and dark and foul in this world and every other seedy rathole world in every back-alley universe throughout the vast garbage dump of creation; God rolled the dice and Frank lost. . . he was a spiritual flunkie, a universal pain-in-the-ass, a joy-riding, soul-sucking cosmic punk rolling through time and space and piling up a karmic debt of such immense magnitude so as to invariably glue the particular vehicle of the immediate moment to the basement of possibility - planet earth - and force Frank to RE-ENLIST, endlessly, to return, over and over, to a flawed world somewhere to spend the Warhol-film-loop nights of eternity serving concurrent life sentences roaming the dimly lit hallways of always, stuck in the dense overshoes of physicality, forever, until finally - one would hope there is always a FINALLY - eventually, anyway - God would step in and say ENOUGH ALREADY and grab Frank by the collar of one of his thrift-shop polyester flower-print shirts and hurl him out the back door of the cosmos, expelling the rotten orb into the great wide nothingness and out of our lives - sure, that would be nice - but so would a new Cadillac - quit dreaming - it just doesn't work that way. . .

Nothing is off-limits to me, tiny human. You think the desire in your heart is buried, but I couldn't ignore it if I tried! It means this: you want me to peace out? Shut it all down? Fine! I'll go! But you'll never get your next wish. Your secret wish. [. .] A mother's love. A father you know. A world at peace. A sky of stars. This could be yours . . . or you could lose it forever. And I can go. Doesn't matter to me, you finite speck.

way to respond to such a test is to give an ambiguous answer and then change the topic. For example, you could respond by saying - “It’s hard to know what people mean to say when you cannot see their body language, mannerisms, etc.” Never qualify yourself in your emails. If she mentions in an email that she loves the car that you are standing next to in one of your photographs, get her talking about why she loves it. Ask her about her interest in automobiles. You could even ask her if she has a need for speed. Do not begin talking about how you bought that car last year and it cost you a pretty penny. Do not talk about how it goes from zero to 60 miles per hour in under five seconds or how people always ask you to give them a joyride in it. Do not bite on her bait. A woman will do this to see if a man might slip up and show her exactly how desperate he is to get validation from other people, especially women. Sample questions Which of the following animals do you like? a. Komodo dragon (+5) b. Bonobo (+3) c. Dog (0) d. Cat  (-1) Your friends would describe you as: a. Sweet and supportive (+5) b. Feisty, fun and sassy (+3) c. Strong and independent (0) d. Totally random (-1)

known psychotic who nevertheless was allowed to move freely, an assassinated leading Negro national politician, endless other assassination attempts, unsuccessful, partly successful, and successful; d) So many casual killings in public streets and public parks and public transports that most lawful citizens avoided going out after dark, especially the elderly; e) Public school teachers and state university professors who taught that patriotism was an obsolete concept, that marriage was an obsolete concept, that sin was an obsolete concept, that politeness was an obsolete concept—that the United States itself was an obsolete concept; f) School teachers who could not speak or write grammatically, could not spell, could not cipher; g) The nation’s leading farm state had as its biggest cash crop: an outlawed plant that was the source of the major outlaw drug; h) Cocaine and heroin called “recreational drugs,” felony theft called “joyriding,” vandalism by gangs called “trashing,” burglary called “ripping off,” felonious assault by gangs called “muggings,” and the reaction to all of these crimes was “boys will be boys,” so scold them and put them on probation but don’t ruin their lives by treating them as criminals; i) Millions of women who found it more rewarding to have babies out of wedlock than it would be to get married or to go to work.

She began to think of all the people in Belfast who were drinking or drugging themselves into bearable insensibility that night. People would be hitting other people in the face with broken bottles. People were avowing and making love to people for whom they truly cared nothing; other people were screaming hatred at those whom they really did love. People were destroying things, daubing walls with paint and breaking up telephone boxes; joy-riding stolen cars into stone walls. In hospitals and homes, people were watching others dying, hoping and praying that the inevitable would not happen, while other people were planning murder. People elsewhere were trying to commit suicide, fumbling with change for the gas meter or emptying brown plastic bottles of their pills and tablets, which were bitter and dry in the mouth. And there are, she thought, there must be, people who think as I do.

They Should Have Asked My Husband You know this world is complicated, imperfect and oppressed And it’s not hard to feel timid, apprehensive and depressed. It seems that all around us tides of questions ebb and flow And people want solutions but they don’t know where to go. Opinions abound but who is wrong and who is right. People need a prophet, a diffuser of the light. Someone they can turn to as the crises rage and swirl. Someone with the remedy, the wisdom, and the pearl. Well . . . they should have asked my ‘usband, he’d have told’em then and there. His thoughts on immigration, teenage mothers, Tony Blair, The future of the monarchy, house prices in the south The wait for hip replacements, BSE and foot and mouth. Yes . . . they should have asked my husband he can sort out any mess He can rejuvenate the railways he can cure the NHS So any little niggle, anything you want to know Just run it past my husband, wind him up and let him go. Congestion on the motorways, free holidays for thugs The damage to the ozone layer, refugees and drugs. These may defeat the brain of any politician bloke But present it to my husband and he’ll solve it at a stroke. He’ll clarify the situation; he will make it crystal clear You’ll feel the glazing of your eyeballs, and the bending of your ear. Corruption at the top, he’s an authority on that And the Mafia, Gadafia and Yasser Arafat. Upon these areas he brings his intellect to shine In a great compelling voice that’s twice as loud as yours or mine. I often wonder what it must be like to be so strong, Infallible, articulate, self-confident …… and wrong. When it comes to tolerance – he hasn’t got a lot Joyriders should be guillotined and muggers should be shot. The sound of his own voice becomes like music to his ears And he hasn’t got an inkling that he’s boring us to tears. My friends don’t call so often, they have busy lives I know But its not everyday you want to hear a windbag suck and blow. Encyclopaedias, on them we never have to call Why clutter up the bookshelf when my husband knows it all!

Wow. Not only did you steal the car for a joyride, but you decided to go grocery shopping after? You’ve got some balls on you, and your arrogance knows no bounds.

One of his front teeth was chipped from the time he’d taken his daddy’s Porsche for a joyride and run into a PLEASE SLOW DOWN FOR CHILDREN sign.

Sounds like a great place to get killed. Hard pass.

Jetpack Joyride Version:

Oh, no, nope, shoot. Are we about to human mate?

Okay, well, on Borelletrox V, the males are kept completely isolated from all images of the female until Binding Day and the females are, erm, let's just say they’ve' got a lot of--

Oh, get off it with that. So sensitive about language. Mate, love, nest, whatever. Point is, it stinks, especially when it goes bad. I get wanting to run away.

What up you guys, I'm back!

I think . . . I've got everything I want.

What? Why are you making the glee nose? The death of my world is funny? The final vengeance of my people? I will kill you.

I'm not going to lie: there are no good options here.

Don't let this consume you. Try not to blame me. Don't live in hate. Or grief. Just live.

I see.” I pulled the application form back. “In that case this intern thing isn’t for you. I’ve already got one joyrider in my programme, I don’t need another”.

And he can tell he's already got her hooked on raising Cain

There was a guy named Saul two cells over who had a fetish for joyriding with stolen cars. He was about as decent a guy as you’d meet in prison. He had his demons—his seemingly more innocuous than most—but the demons did him in.

What had become of my life? It was a nonstop joyride of glamour and junk-punches lubricated by ghost slime and monster fluids. I didn't sign up for this snot-fest.

Damn it, Cora, we could have been exposed! You can’t take joyrides like that. What if someone saw you?” Nessa lectured. “And you, Noah; stop it with the dirty thoughts. She just lost her boyfriend so don’t even think about it. Do we understand each other?

Cam pitied them. They had no idea of the particular joy of a Friday afternoon at four o'clock, or the hedonistic thrill of a Saturday-midnight joyride that took all of Sunday to recover from

Then we talked a lot about our parents and how we didn't want to become them, but we had no other role models--or "maps," Alex kept saying. "My father is a terrible map, mostly because he doesn't ever lead me anywhere." And I thought about my parents being maps that led to places I didn't want to go--and it made a shocking amount of sense, using the word maps to describe parents. It almost made you feel like you could fold Mom and Dad up and lock them away in the glove compartment of your car and just joyride for the rest of your life maybe.

We can see American English downtown in any city in the States. We would look up a block of “apartments” to a “penthouse,” be deluged by the “mass media,” go into a “chain store,” breakfast on “cornflakes,” avoid the “hot dog,” see the “commuters” walking under strips of “neon,” not “jaywalking,” which would be “moronic,” but if they were “executives” or “go-getters” (not “yes-men” or “fat cats”), they would be after “big business,” though unlikely to have much to do with an “assembly line” or a “closed shop.” There’s likely to be a “traffic jam,” so no “speeding,” certainly no space for “joy-riding” and the more “underpasses” the better. And of course in any downtown city we would be surrounded by a high forest of “skyscrapers.” “Skyscraper” started life as an English naval term — a high light sail to catch the breeze in calm conditions. It was the name of the Derby winner in 1788, after which tall houses became generally called skyscrapers. Later it was a kind of hat, then slang for a very tall person. The word arrived in America as a baseball term, meaning a ball hit high in the air. Now its world meaning is very tall building, as typified by those in American cities. Then you could go into a “hotel” (originally French for a large private house) and find a “lobby” (adopted from English), find the “desk clerk” and the “bell boy,” nod to the “hat-check girl” as you go to the “elevator.” Turn on the television, flick it all about and you’re bound to find some “gangsters” with their “floozies” in their “glad rags.” In your bedroom, where the English would have “bedclothes,” the Americans have “covers”; instead of a “dressing gown” you’ll find a “bathrobe,” “drapes” rather than “curtains,” a “closet” not a “wardrobe,” and in the bathroom a “tub” with a “faucet” and not a “bath” with a “tap.

There was more to the city than he'd thought at first, especially once he got away from the circular communities mimicking villages. Young people joyriding the gondola lines, elders playing slow games of skill, an entire community brewing various kinds of sweet alcohol. He discovered more recreational drugs than he'd expected, but because this was Tatian, they seemed to have few negative consequences and leave people mostly happy and calm. Yet he couldn't bring himself to even consider participating in any of it, not for long. Even though he'd had forty years to come to terms with the death of his old friends, their ghosts returned to him. Brigana would have convinced him to take a break, Khaluu would have proven surprisingly knowledgeable about hallucinogens, and Eratius would have resisted at first but eventually joined them.

Don’t put your life on pause because you worry about what dickheads you’ll never meet think. Free yourself from the belief that we have forever and start to live with a boldness that comes when there’s no going back. That is the energy we’re going for.

Everybody always wanted to do something, and here come the guys who always wanted to joyride in a city bus.

This is why museums are so wonderful: walking around, observing mankind's joyride from slime to WiFi, you see incredible ironwork, inspirational pottery, fabulous vellums, and exquisite paintings, and - across these disciplines- tons of fruity historical humping. Men fucking men, men fucking women, men going down on women, women pleasuring themselves - it's all there. Every conceivable manifestation of human sexuality, in clay and stone and ocher and gold.

Uma Akkolyte: "When I was a little girl, my mother gave me a pair of shoes and put me on a train and I watched as she exploded with the rest of Cairo. "I lived hating her for a long time. I thought when she died ... [sic.] "I thought it meant she didn't love me enough to live. "But I want you to know. "I love you more than anything. "And I know I'm rambling, but I am really scared right now. Not for me. Don't worry about me. I'm gonna go see my mom now. "I'm scared for you. So just do me one favor, okay ... [sic.] "... [sic] Don't let this consume you. Try not to blame me. "Don't live in hate. Or grief. "Just-- "Live.

He was living in a spartan one-bedroom apartment in Somerville, but during my recruiting trips Sidley put me up at the luxe Charles Hotel adjacent to campus, where we slept on smooth high-quality sheets and Barack, rarely one to cook for himself, could load up on a hot breakfast before his morning classes. In the evenings, he parked himself in my room and did his schoolwork, giddily dressed in one of the hotel’s thick terry-cloth robes. At Christmastime that year, we flew to Honolulu. I’d never been to Hawaii before but was pretty certain I’d like it. I was coming from Chicago, after all, where winter stretched through April, where it was normal to keep a snow shovel stashed in the trunk of your car. I owned an unsettling amount of wool. For me, getting away from winter had always felt like a joyride. During college, I’d made a trip to the Bahamas with my Bahamian classmate David, and another to Jamaica with Suzanne. In both instances, I’d reveled in the soft air on my skin and the simple buoyancy I felt anytime I got close to the ocean. Maybe it was no accident that I was drawn to people who’d been raised on islands. In Kingston, Suzanne had taken me