Listener Quips And Quotes

Okay, you’ve primped enough. Now go bug someone else,” Ethan said, shooing me out the door. “I have to clean the bathroom.” “That should be interesting,” I quipped. “Maybe I should stay and watch.” “Maybe you should stay and help.” Cupping one hand behind my ear, I grinned, pretending to listen. “I think I hear Marc calling.

I came to another passageway and paused to examine the scene. I saw myself dead and lying on the ground with Ren kneeling beside me. He leaned over my inert body investigating. I heard him whisper, “Kelsey? Is it you? Kelsey, please. Talk to me. I need to know if it’s really you.” He picked my body up and cradled it lovingly in his arms. I checked to make sure he had the gada and the backpack, which he did, but I’d been fooled before. Then he said, “Don’t leave me, Kells.” I closed my eyes and listened to his voice begging me to live. My heart started thumping wildly, a different reaction than I’d had in the past visions. I took a step closer and hit a barrier again. I spoke to him softly, “Ren? I’m here. Don’t give up.” He raised his head as if he’d heard me. “Kelsey? I can hear you, but I can’t see you. Where are you?” He lowered me, or the body that looked like me, to the ground, and it disappeared. I told him, “Close your eyes and feel your way to me.” He stood slowly and closed his eyes. I closed my eyes too, and tried to focus not on his voice but on his heart. I imagined my hand on his chest, feeling the strong thump of his heart beneath my fingers. My body seemed to move of its own volition, and I took several steps forward. I concentrated on Ren, his laugh, his smile, how I felt being near him, then, suddenly, my hand touched his chest, and I could feel his heart beating. He was there. I opened my eyes slowly and looked at him. He reached out a hand to touch my hair, but then he pulled it back. “Is it really you this time, Kells?” “Well, I’m no maggoty corpse, if that’s what you mean.” He grinned. “That’s a relief. No maggoty corpse would be that sarcastic.” I countered, “Well, how do I know it’s really you?” He considered my question for a moment and then ducked his head to kiss me. He tugged me flush up against his chest, pulling me closer than I even thought possible, and then his lips touched mine. His kiss started out warm and soft, but quickly turned hungry and demanding. His hands ran up my arms, to my shoulders, and then cupped my neck. I wrapped my arms around his waist and luxuriated in the kiss. When he finally pulled back, my heart was pounding in response. When the power of speech returned, I quipped, “Well, even if it isn’t really you, I’ll take this version.” He laughed and relief flooded both of us. “Kells, I think you’d better hold my hand the rest of the way.” I smiled gaily back at him. “No problem.

That’s what I wanted. An honest conversation. Not one where my mouth turned into a geyser of random confessions—my bra fits funny, and I once boned that bartender—but a conversation in which those superficial details faded away and we dared to tell the truth about our own suffering. This was the closeness I had always been drinking toward. I drank for other reasons, so many other reasons, but closeness was the richest reward. The part where we locked in on each other, and one person sifted out the contradictions of who they were and how they got there, and the other person just… listened. I’m not sure when I stopped listening. Somehow it became my duty to entertain the masses. To be always on. I stopped being someone who talked with their friends and I started talking at them. Amusing anecdotes, rants deployed on cue. I wasn’t the only one. We were all out there on our social media stages with clever quips and jazz hands. This was not a cultural moment that rewarded quiet contemplation.

Quipped one frustrated Colorado rancher in the early 1920s, "Wolves have all been trapped at, shot at, and poisoned at so long that they can damn near speak English!" ...To the specter of the rancher, the most we can say today is that wolves have yet to learn the language of humans, while we, if only in the most primitive fashion, have begun listening to theirs.

What happened? Many things. But the overriding problem was this: The auto industry got too comfortable. As Intel cofounder Andy Grove once famously proclaimed, “Only the paranoid survive.” Success, he meant, is fragile—and perfection, fleeting. The moment you begin to take success for granted is the moment a competitor lunges for your jugular. Auto industry executives, to say the least, were not paranoid. Instead of listening to a customer base that wanted smaller, more fuel-efficient cars, the auto executives built bigger and bigger. Instead of taking seriously new competition from Japan, they staunchly insisted (both to themselves and to their customers) that MADE IN THE USA automatically meant “best in the world.” Instead of trying to learn from their competitors’ new methods of “lean manufacturing,” they clung stubbornly to their decades-old practices. Instead of rewarding the best people in the organization and firing the worst, they promoted on the basis of longevity and nepotism. Instead of moving quickly to keep up with the changing market, executives willingly embraced “death by committee.” Ross Perot once quipped that if a man saw a snake on the factory floor at GM, they’d form a committee to analyze whether they should kill it. Easy success had transformed the American auto

A capable wife who can find?” Really? This question in Proverbs 31:10 is snarky! Yet this is the nature of Proverbs: Its insights can be acidic, comforting, funny, scary. Proverbs captures some of the same qualities that catch our attention in quips on our T-shirts: “What goes around comes around.” “If you’re too open-minded, your brains will fall out.” People have always favored edgy, clever, pithy sayings—even if they’re a little mean. So we understand this about the style of Proverbs, set it aside, and look to see if something more important is being said. It is. The author describes not simply the virtues of a capable wife but the characteristics of wisdom itself. Verse 26 says that the wife “opens her mouth with wisdom.” In verse 27, translated as “she looks well to the ways of her household,” that first Hebrew phrase (“she looks well to”) is pronounced sophia (tzo-fi-ya). Sophia is the Greek word for wisdom. It’s probably an intentional pun. Wisdom is “in the house,” so to speak! And what does wisdom do? It “does not eat the bread of idleness.” Wisdom is not passive but attentive and active. Now the many tasks that lead up to verses 26 and 27 are put into context: The wise one goes to work, acts with savvy and kindness, takes responsibility, dispenses justice and mercy, serves and honors those around her. Wisdom is not something to be possessed as an achievement or an academic exercise: It is meant to be lived. There’s our message. Not that we are never to reflect or contemplate or spend time listening to and learning from God; but when we have learned something, that’s just the beginning. The learning becomes real when we act upon it. We grow wise as we apply God’s word in our daily decisions. We can’t leave wisdom sitting in the corner.

Muffled voices filtered through the closed door as Edmund greeted his wife. When less than a minute later, a very male groan accompanied the rhythmic creaking of a piece of furniture, she gaped. Not much for preliminaries, sixteenth century Scotsmen. Ignoring the sharp grunts of a male engaged in intercourse and the unsurprising lack of happy female noises, she retreated to the farthest place in the cottage from that door, which happened to be the workbench and raised stone hearth that formed the kitchen. She wasn’t about to waste an opportunity to study a late-medieval Scottish cottage. Just as she held up to the lantern light a sharp cleaver with a wooden handle polished from years of regular use, Darcy ducked in the front door. At the same time, Edmund shouted, “Aye! Christ, Fran, take my seed, lass. Take it. Aaarrghhhhh!” Then barely audible, “Glorious, woman. Ye’re glorious.” Darcy paled as his wide eyes jumped from the closed bedroom door to her. “If I had to listen to them go at it for another second, I was going to put myself out of my misery,” she quipped, wagging the cleaver. When his eyes went even wider, she said, “Joking, Darcy. I was joking.” She put down the cleaver and raised her hands. His eyes relaxed and the corner of his mouth lifted. He came to the workbench and picked up the enormous blade. “Well, so long as ye arena using it, mayhap I’ll carve the roast.

I grew up around some great philosophers: they were coal miners and cowboys born in the 1920s. They were also vets of World War II. Listen to your elders, there isn’t any better wisdom for you.

Daylight slanted in through the bars making his eyes glint like polished steel. Motes of dust frenzied in his atmosphere as if drawing energy from the electric force of his presence. A thin ring of gold glinted in his left ear, and sharp cheekbones underscored an arrogant brow. He’d look stern but for his mouth, which was not so severe. It bowed with a fullness she might have called feminine if the rest of his face wasn’t so brutally cast. Mercy hadn’t realized she’d been staring at his lips, gripped with a queer sort of fascination until they parted and he spoke. “You were quite impressive back there.” “What?” Mercy shook her head dumbly. Had he just complimented her? Had they just been through the same scene? She’d never been less impressed with herself in her entire life. Would that she could have been like him. Smooth and unaffected. Infuriatingly self-assured. And yet…he’d only been that way after breaking the nose of the officer who'd struck her, and possibly his jaw. Lord but she’d never seen a man move like that before. “I listened to your deductions,” he explained. “From where you were hiding in the closet?” she quipped, rather unwisely. Something flickered in his eyes, and yet again she was left to guess if she’d angered or amused him. “From where I was hiding in the closet,” he said with a droll sigh as he shifted, seeming to find a more comfortable position for his bound hands. “You’re obviously cleverer than the detectives. How do you know so much about murder scenes?” Mercy warned herself not to preen. She stomped on the lush warmth threatening to spread from her chest at his encouragement, and thrust her nose in the air, perhaps a little too high. “I am one of only three female members of the Investigator Eddard Sharpe Society of Homicidal Mystery Analysis. As penned by the noted novelist, J. Francis Morgan, whom I suspect is a woman.” “Why do you suspect that?” His lip twitched, as if he also battled to suppress his own expression. “Because men tend to write women characters terribly, don’t they? But J. Francis Morgan is a master of character and often, the mystery is even solved by a woman rather than Detective Sharpe. His heroines are not needlessly weak or stupid or simpering. They’re strong. Dangerous. Powerful. Sometimes even villainous and complicated. That is good literature, I say. Because it’s true to life.” He’d ceased fighting his smile and allowed his lip to quirk up in a half-smile as he regarded her from beneath his dark brow. “Mathilde’s murderer now has one more person they’d do well to fear in you.” She leveled him a sour look. “Does that mean you fear me?” He tilted toward her. Suddenly—distressingly—grave. “You terrify me, Mercy Goode.

Mary Catherine took a moment and managed to gather everyone’s attention without saying a word. Then she said, “Listen, everyone. I know we’re worried about Brian. You can believe your father is doing everything he can to help him. But sometimes things don’t work out the way we expect them to. Not better, not worse—just not like we expect.” Now she was playing to the crowd’s full attention. “My brother Ken wanted to come to America. He’s a big, burly lad and a great fan of the Kennedys. All he talked about was coming to Boston. But he got in trouble.” Shawna said, “What kind of trouble?” We were all hooked. “It was a bar fight, and Ken punched a man who hit his head when he fell on the floor. My brother was charged with assault and later convicted. He didn’t have to go to jail, but he had a conviction on his record, and that kept him from doing what he expected to do. That conviction kept him from coming to America. But you know what?” Chrissy and Bridget both said, “What?” “Things turned out differently for him. He met a lovely girl. And now he lives right there in Dublin with two beautiful kids. He has a good job and is happier than he could ever think of being. It’s different from what he expected, but certainly not worse. Sometimes things happen in life, and we just have to accept them.” I could almost see the kids understanding what she was saying and feeling better. It felt like the pace of eating even picked up. But Seamus was still quiet. None of his usual silly quips or semi-risqué jokes. When I looked at him, I could see why. He was silently crying, trying to hide it from the kids.

We’ll be okay, my love. I’ll make it okay. And there is some good news. Yeah? You defeated the one-eyed squirrel as I slept? I quipped. Tyrrik’s joy at my humor radiated through our bond. No, he said solemnly. He still runs rampant, leading a life of debauchery. Worse, he’s inspiring others to join his band of nefarious villainy. Did I think that one day I’d be flying next to Lord Nightmare listening to his jokes about squirrels? Not for a second. Obviously, it was the little things for him. We’re heading the wrong way then. He’s the real enemy.

So, after that meeting with the Women’s Sports Foundation, she called King to ask her how the national team could get the federation to listen to them. “You just don’t play. That’s the only leverage you have,” King told Foudy. “They depend on you, you’re representing them, you make them money, and you have to say no.” And that’s exactly what the veteran players did. Julie Foudy, Mia Hamm, Briana Scurry, Michelle Akers, Joy Fawcett, Kristine Lilly, Carla Overbeck, Carin Jennings, and Tisha Venturini rejected U.S. Soccer’s offer for a contract for 1996, and the nine players did not attend a training camp in December 1995, just months away from the Olympics. Hank Steinbrecher, U.S. Soccer’s secretary general, told reporters that the players were being greedy, quipping that they were more worried about lining their pockets—or, rather, shoes. “Our team is favored to win it all and we

Congratulations. You’ve practiced music, you’ve listened to a self-important rant, and you’ve delivered quips at awkward points. I dub you graduated from Wit’s school of practical impracticality.