Longhorn Quotes

My heart leaves, hitchhikes right out of my body, heads north, catches a ferry across the Bering Sea and plants itself in Siberia with the polar bears and ibex and long-horned goats until it turns into a teeny-tiny glacier. Because I imagined it.

To this day, all I know is there are between two and four openings down there and that the set up inside looks vaguely like the Texas Longhorns logo.

She could already feel small waves of her juices fall from her newly-broken pussy, making a damp spot under her ass.

And that was the way it was in the old days before the country grew up and men put their guns away. Someday, and I hope it never comes, there may be a time when the Western hills are empty again and the land will go back to wilderness and the old, hard ways. Enemies may come into our country and times will have changed, but then the boys will come down from the old high hills and belt on their guns again. They can do it if they have to. The guns are hung up, the cows roam fat and lazy, but the old spirit is still there, just as it was when the longhorns came up the trail from Texas, and the boys washed the creeks for gold.

The University of Texas stadium was comparable to the Foxhole Court in size. The Longhorns and Foxes shared the same team colors, too, so the packed rafters looked familiar and comforting. Neil just had to ignore the crowd's challenging roar as they noticed the Foxes in their midst.

It was amazing how a shape-shifter could spot their mate from their scent alone.

Summer 2161: Brown, eleven, enrolled in Camp Longhorn by father over strenuous objections of mother. Typical outdoor summer camp in hill country of Texas

The University of Texas team ate their longhorn mascot, Bevo, in 1920.

Damn. Totally forgot. Guess I just got my man card yanked for not realizing football season had started. In my defense, I am a college fan (Go Longhorns!) and they don’t follow the same schedule as the NFL. I’m from the South, what can I say? It’s all about the college ball down here. I glanced up at the TV to see the Cowboys were indeed playing, and shook my head. Not a fan. Nope.

I open my window and take in the Frost Building—the tiers on top, like ears, the two windows that look like eyes. There is definitely an owl similarity. “This is a UT town, but the architects all went to Rice University and the owl is Rice University’s mascot. So that’s like a f-you to our mascot and to the Longhorns in general,

My heart leaves, hitchhikes right out of my body, heads north, catches a ferry across the Bering Sea and plants itself in Siberia with the polar bears and ibex and long-horned goats until it turns into a teeny-tiny glacier.

ZOEY WAS SO absorbed in her digging and the artifacts she was unearthing that she didn’t hear or see a thing until a pair of cowboy boots planted themselves in front of her. Uh-oh. Busted. Pulse thumping, she slowly raised her head, taking in the tips of those dusty boots to the frayed hem of faded Wranglers to the longhorn belt buckle that crowned his zipper—she stopped there a minute to admire the package—then moved on up to sinewy arms folded tightly over a chest so honed she could see the definition of muscles through his white cotton shirt.

When the longhorns could be gathered up and driven, it was theorized that the heat from the herd's mass attracted lightning. (Such was the radiant heat from a large herd that a cowboy's face would be blistered on whichever side of the herd he'd ridden by the day's end.) Their great horns also seemed to attract electricity, so that lightning and ground-electricity would bounce around from horn to horn throughout the herd - a phantasmagoric burning blue circuitry. The cracking of the cowboy's whips and the twitching of the cattle's tails also emitted sparkling "snakes of fire.

I felt my words sink deep, through the flags of the Bull Court, and the vaults below, down through the rubble of the ancient Labyrinths, through the virgin earth and the living rock, down to the sacred cavern where the dark lord stands in his bull shape, long-horned and curly-browed, with great eyes glowing red as embers in the night.

She was getting ready to attach a figure of a longhorn steer wearing a Christmas hat, compliments of Shelley's mother's Texas collection -- and thinking of how fun it was to see decoration from the various newcomers to the pack -- when she heard Guthrie shouting. Deep, frustrated showing. And cursing. Claws scrambled on the stone floor, boots tromped at a run toward the great hall, and then disaster struck. Women shrieked and shouted, but Calla was on the other side of the tree where she couldn't see the commotion. But then she saw the twelve-foot tree toppling over -- right toward her. Before she could get out of the way, something hit her hard from the side and slammed her against the floor. Just before the tree landed on top of them. He was on top of her, smelling like the great outdoors, fir tree, and musky, sexy male wolf, Guthrie. "Sorry," he mumbled against her ear, branches framing his head and touching the floor on either side of hers. "I meant to rescue you." She smiled. "From... the tree?

Down in the earth court a man was standing, naked down from the neck; broad-bodied, thick-legged, thatched with black hair on chest and groin and shins, a-straddle before the sacred Labrys. His trunk glistened with the chrism a shaking old man and woman smeared on him with half-palsied hands. From the neck down he was man, and base; above the neck he was beast, and noble. Calm and lordly, long-horned and curly-browed, the splendid bull-mask of Daidalos gazed out through the sorry huddle with its grave crystal eyes.

Few authors have captivated the American penchant for curiosity like Samuel Longhorne Clemens. Many have called his cantankerous alter ego, Mark Twain, the greatest American humorist-philosopher of his age-if not of all times. With his wry observations and forthright humor-unleashed in his particularly pithy paragraphs-Mark Twain became one of the most prolific satirists in American literature. The New York Times editorial, reporting of his death on April 22, 1910, said. “ He has been quoted in common conversation oftener, perhaps, than any of his fellow-countrymen, including Benjamin Franklin and Lincoln. In 1909, Mark Twain is quoted as saying, “ I came in with Haley's Comet in 1835. It is coming again next year, and I expect to go out with it. It will be the greatest disappointment of my life if I don't go out with Haley's Comet. The Almighty has said, no doubt: 'Now here are these two unaccountable freaks; they came in together, they must go out together.” His prediction was accurate-Mark Twain died of a heart attack on April 21, 1910, one day after the comet's closest approach to earth. In Mark Twain's Guide to Audacious Sarcasm-volume 1, Lowell Smith has assembled twenty of the classic cantankerous tales and wry observations of Mark Twain’s celestial career.

He lived in a hut on a bleak hillside, and was despised. Nobody knew his name, or how old he was, or where he even came from. If he’d ever had family in the neighborhood, they were either long gone or kept quiet about their link to the outcast. When people met him on the roads or in the fields, they turned aside, some saying a prayer, others mouthing a charm passed down from an older tradition. Children sometimes taunted him, the braver ones even threw stones, but only till an adult came and drove them away. Everyone knew it was bad luck to lay eyes on the nameless man, to spend even the briefest time within sight of him. The Sin-Eater was one of many boogeymen invoked by weary parents to keep fractious children quiet. He just happened to be real. He had only one function, and when he was needed, the people of the district did not need to seek him out. Some uncanny instinct told the Sin-Eater when he could enter a home where a wake was being held. It was his role to eat a simple meal from a wooden bowl placed on the chest of the corpse, and to take upon himself all the sins of any dead

Arms still crossed, Lindsay's clogs tapped on the sidewalk. “So Sam didn’t tell you I was a desperate orphan child with no life outside of work? This isn’t some kind of intervention, some kind of lame attempt to cheer me up?” He grinned.“Why would she do that?” “Because that’s how it sounded.” Nudging her shoulder, he grinning down at her. “You don’t look desperate, Dr. Lindsay, not by a long shot." “That’s because you don’t know me.” Lindsay bit her lower lip, arms still crossed, clogs still tap-tap-tapping. Her chest heaved. “My parent’s died in a car accident almost two years ago. It’s a difficult thing to get over. I’m still not exactly right. I guess she worries about me.” Ty sucked in his breath, thinking fast. “I’m really sorry about your parents, Linds.” As he put an arm around her shoulder, she broke into a self-conscious smile and shook her head. “Spend any time with me at all and you’ll find that Sam’s right. I’m a desperate orphan child, completely paranoid and irrepressibly horny.” “Whoa!” She looked so cute, but vulnerable, too. He closed the arm around her shoulder, squeezing her sideways to his chest. Embarrassed, she smiled as she elbowed his rib. Then she dropped her arms and stayed put, tucked close against him. It felt right, having her there.

Yup, we'll start driving these ill-tempered, longhorn cattle through wild and desolate country. There's coyotes and rattle snakes. There's the blistering sun, blinding dust storms, and wild rivers to cross. Then sometimes, just sometimes, there's a double-crossing, thieving cowboy riding right along beside you. And you don't know it until it's too late.

The average Texas cattle herd driven northward numbered 2,500 cows, composed primarily of hardy Texas longhorns, a breed that could travel long distances without water. A dozen cowboys, including a trail boss, along with 50–60 horses, four mules, and a chuck wagon (sometimes called a mess wagon) that hauled the food and bedding, accompanied the herd. Starting shortly after dawn, with a noon break, they moved about 15 miles a day. The trip could take from four to six months.

Roper’s nemesis, Crooked-Eye Allen, and the latter’s partners in crime, had put in an appearance the night before on Bois’ land and had managed to stampede and rustle Roper's entire herd of longhorns. Not only were the cattle long vanished, a Cherokee cowhand who had been mistaken for Roper had been shot and was possibly on his deathbed.

There was nothing but prairie and sky, the sun by day and the stars by night, and the cattle moving westward. If I live to be a thousand years old I shall not forget the wonder and the beauty of those big longhorns, the sun glinting on their horns; most of them six or seven feet from tip to tip.

Geryon had a trolley thing like of those kiddie trains that take you around zoos. It was painted black and white in a cowhide pattern. The drivers car had a set of longhorns stuck to the hood, and the horn sounded like a cowbell. I figured maybe this was how he tortured people. He embarrassed them to death riding around in the moo-mobile.

It was still the Wild West in those days, the Far West.… It was a land of vast silent spaces, of lovely rivers, and of plains where the wild game stared at the passing horseman. It was a land of scattered ranches, of herds of long-horned cattle, and reckless riders who unmoved looked in the eyes of life or of death. In that land we lived a free and hardy life, with horse and with rifle. We worked under the scorching midsummer sun, when the wide plains shimmered and wavered in the heat; and we knew the freezing misery of riding night guard round the cattle in the late fall round-up. In the soft springtime the stars were glorious in our eyes each night before we fell asleep; and in the winter we rode through blinding blizzards, when the driven snow-dust burnt our faces.… We knew toil and hardship and hunger and thirst; and we saw men die violent deaths as they worked among the horses and cattle, or fought in evil feuds with one another; but we felt the beat of hardy life in our veins, and ours was the glory of work and the joy of living.

The intensity of his stare is unsettling, to say the least. I'm pretty sure I've never looked at anything or anyone that way, except maybe a twenty-ounce sirloin at Longhorn.

I don’t know how to swim,” I said as we walked onto the back deck where the pool awaited. “I’ll teach you,” Bailey said, smiling over her shoulder. “First, I need to clean out some of the gunk from the storm.” After scooping up dead leaves and bugs until the pool looked pristine, Bailey jumped into the pool. “There’s a secret to swimming,” she said, giving me a wink. Tossing off my shirt, I didn’t think about how much I hated to go shirtless outside of the cage. I just walked into the water and returned her bright smile. “What’s the secret?” “Friction.” Before I could ask, Bailey slid her wet body against mine. “Lots of friction,” she murmured, grinning wildly. The moment my hands went to her ass, her legs wrapped around my waist. “I feel like I might drown. More friction might be necessary.” When I nibbled at her shoulder, she went soft in my arms. Getting cocky, I tugged at the strap of her bikini with my teeth. “Shit,” she muttered and I knew we had company. Glancing back, I found Kirk watching us while Sawyer gnawed at an ice cream. “Screwing my daughter in the pool,” he said, exhaling cigarette smoke. “I like a man with balls.” Bailey frowned. “We’re not screwing.” To ensure the moment was truly awkward, Bailey slid her hands up and down my chest. Nothing made a guy piss his pants like having his nutty girlfriend feel him up in front of her scary dad. “We’re going out to Longhorn’s for dinner tomorrow night. Brass Balls can come with us.” “Thanks, Pop,” Bailey said, grinning like her hands weren’t on my ass. “We’re grilling and your brothers are here.” Sawyer grinned at me then Bailey. “A man should die with a full stomach.” Snorting at his kid’s comment, Kirk took her hand then walked away. Bailey watched them leave then looked at me. “I was going to fuck you in the pool,” she whispered. “You’re going to get me killed.

The next two days, Nick and I played house in my apartment. For lunch and dinner, we joined the family. On Sunday, Nick came along for the club’s weekly family dinner at Longhorn Steakhouse. I knew he felt like an outsider, but Vaughn and Judd entertained him with their bromance. “Hard to believe they like the ladies,” I said to Nick who just grinned as the enforcers argued about who was a shittier friend. “Tawny never lets you play videogames.” This comment from Vaughn caused Tawny to roll her eyes. She looked at Raven who shrugged. “Raven insists on playing with us. That’s weird, man,” Judd said. When his wife opened her mouth in her defense, Vaughn raised his hand. “I got this,” he said, giving her a wink. “Judd is just jealous that you beat his ass in every game.” “Not every game,” Judd growled. Leaning against Nick, I whispered loudly. “They’re idiots.” Vaughn and Judd turned in unison and glared at me. “Do you play videogames?” Vaughn asked Nick. “Not really.” “Do you play pool?” Judd asked. “No.” Vaughn smirked. “I’ve seen you bowl, so we know you can’t do that either. What can you do?” “Tolerate Bailey!” Tucker hollered from farther down the table. “That makes him a fucking superhero.

For many years, Darrel Royal was the football coach for the University of Texas at Austin. They always had great teams and winning records. Sometimes, however, when they won a close game, a sportswriter would suggest that while the Longhorns were skilled, they had been lucky on that day. Hearing it one time too often, Coach Royal finally said, “Luck is partly the residue of design, the simple act of being prepared for luck when it arrives.” And there is something else to luck, Royal said—luck follows speed. Move, and luck finds you. Move quickly, and it finds you more often.

You can’t seriously expect me to trust my mane to a woman?” Sexism, alive and well in Arik’s world, the fault of the females in his pride who’d raised him. No coddling for Arik. They didn’t believe in letting him play with dolls or caving to others. His mother and aunts, not to mention his numerous female cousins, had taught him to be tough. They didn’t allow softness in his world, not when they groomed him as the future leader of their pride. He was all male, all the time, and dammit, a man used a barber, not a hairdresser. Even if she was cute. “Suit yourself. I’ve got more than enough men to take care of—” Was that his cat growling? “— without adding a pompous one to the list.” “Pompous?” Even if she’d pegged him right, it didn’t stop his indignant glare. A glare she chose to ignore. She crossed her arms over her chest, plumping her cleavage— ooh, pretty, shadowy cleft. His curious nature drew his eyes to the mysterious and beckoning vee until she cleared her throat. “My eyes are up here, big guy.” Caught. Good thing he was a cat. His kind had no shame, nor did they apologize. He shot her his most engaging, boyish grin. “My name is Arik. Arik Castiglione.” She didn’t react to his smile or titles, so he elaborated, “The CEO for Castiglione Enterprises.” He stretched his lips wide enough to engage his deadly dimple. And still failed to impress. She raised a brow. “Is that supposed to mean something?” Surely she jested. Within his mind, his poor lion lay down in a traumatized heap and crossed its paws over its eyes. “We are the largest importer of meat in the world.” Her shoulders lifted in a shrug. “I don’t check the label to see who brings me my steak. I just eat it.” “What about our chain of restaurants? A Lion’s Pride Steakhouses.” “Those I’ve heard of. Decent, I hear, but overpriced. I can get a bigger plate of food at LongHorn. And according to my girlfriends, the male waiters are cuter too.

Landry returned to school following the war and played fullback and defensive back for the Longhorn squads that won the 1948 Sugar Bowl and, his senior year, the 1949 Orange Bowl.

Do you need for me to get you over to Longhorn’s for supper then?” Now where did that come from? he berated himself. But it was asked, and now he couldn’t back out without looking ridiculous. “No need—I’m taking her myself,” Cody called down from his perch. “Did I ask you?” Jedediah straightened, irritated, and stared upward. “The lady can speak for herself.” “I don’t require anyone to take me to supper,” Patience announced archly. “But Cody was nice enough to ask me earlier. Maybe you’d care to join us?” Her smile was sweet and, Jedediah thought, genuine. “I’ll pass,” he told her. “I’ve got to get back to work. Riffraff passing through Nevada City are always keeping me on my guard, you know,” he said with a quick glance at Cody. He put his hat on and noticed Cody eyeing his badge, the muscles in his jaw flinching hard. Maybe he hadn’t seen it yesterday. Good! At least he knows who I am now.

Brezhnev and Nixon flew by helicopter down the coast south to San Clemente. Brezhnev stared out the window at the magnificent estates dotting the beaches for mile after mile. He remarked to Nixon that surely this was a trick, a “Potemkin village” of a sort, or special “dachas,” where only the elites of the U.S. government were able to live in such luxury. Nixon smiled and said, no, these were middle-class families who, by dint of the capitalist work ethos, owned these homes and raised families there. Brezhnev was dumbstruck that average people lived like that.

Never lose the common touch,” he told her afterward. “Never think anyone is better than you, but never assume you’re superior to anyone else. Try and be decent to everyone, until they give you a reason not to.

He did not appreciate the fact that his own fishing trip to Florida, coinciding with his wife giving premature birth, was splattered all over the front pages while Kennedy’s tryst with girls on friend George Smathers’s boat in Florida, while Jacqueline Kennedy was giving well-planned birth, was treated like a national secret by his media protectors.

This was the big trump card of Marxist-Leninist theory, the idea that people in the present were never more important than the goal, the plan, or the future—some utopian land that everybody would occupy once “purification” had rid it of the bourgeoisie.

Undoubtedly, the old Longhorn was the greatest of the Texians. We might still have made it through even without Sam Houston, but the Longhorn, the doughty old aborigine, not only nourished, clothed, and housed us, but set us an example of a way to live.

The folks at the Longhorn Ballroom in Texas had the same opinion as us about New York. Everything that came out of New

Can you sum it up in a few words?” Paul took a breath, bracing himself for his friend’s reaction. “My apartment building might be haunted.” Mike looked at Paul for a moment, then nodded. “Okay, now can you sum it up for me in a lot more words?

lich,

I imagined the situation was like when a toddler said fuck. It was absolutely hilarious, but no respectable adult in the child’s life wanted to validate the kid saying the word, so they tried their best not to laugh no matter how funny it was.

Besides, I didn’t know if she thought I looked more like a door-to-door Bible salesman or a frat boy, but she seemed to be incredibly annoyed by both prospects.

If it hadn’t been for Mexicans, the South Texas Anglos would never have learned how to cope right with longhorn cattle. If it hadn’t been for Texans, nobody else on the Great Plains would have learned how, either.

mine… it’s somewhere between a fog horn and a longhorn bull. The curtains pulled back and she stood there almost in tears. Then

cowboy

When visitors came to the fine state of Texas, they expected a dry, rolling plain studded with longhorn cattle, oil derricks, and an occasional cowboy in a huge hat. According to them, that plain had only one type of weather: scorching. That wasn’t true at all. In fact, we had two types, drought and flood.

More fun than a hungover, carbuncled cowboy might have while trying to stay aboard a longhorn, in a dusty rodeo, but it would be a close decision

The sun was already coming up, Richards thought, casting a critical glance toward the eastern horizon as he strode toward the line of waiting vehicles, his Mk 14 EBR in one hand—adjusting the straps of his plate carrier as he moved. The brim of his Texas Longhorns ball cap keeping the glare out of his eyes. This reminded him far too much of his time in Afghanistan—heading out from the FOB to track down Taliban insurgents. Working with the locals. His gaze fell on the up-armored Egyptian Army HMMVs outside the gate—on the young corporal standing in the open roof turret, feeding a long, glistening brass belt of ammunition into the loading port of the mounted M60. Some things never changed.

In the long winter evenings Evan and Della sat by the hearth and listened to the cowboy's tales of his life on the trail. "After a long, hot ride we finally camped at Red River. Cookie had our beans boiling in the pot, when an ornery steer got stuck in a mud hole. No one wanted to get him out, so they volunteered me for the job. I lassoed him and my horse gave him a good pull. Now you'd think that longhorn would have been grateful, but when I set him loose, he chased me around camp like I was a Spanish matador. He finally stopped when a pretty heifer called him over for a kiss." "Maybe that bull was just trying to say thank you," Evan said. "If you had stayed put he might have kissed you instead!" And the cowboy laughed.

The sounds of the canyon are different now. Settlers have crowded in. Fences and longhorns dot the land as far as the eye can see. Nowadays, I wake to the rumble of engines, do chores to the whoop and holler of a hundred cowhands, and go to sleep to the blast of the train whistles. But some days when I ride north beyond the last stand of salt cedar, I can once again hear the faint chords of the old songs. I hear the clatter of clashing horns. I hear the bellowing of the bulls. I hear the muffled thud of hooves as they hurl up dust. And I live on the keen edge of hope that one day the strains of that sweet, wild music will echo far beyond these canyon walls.

We must study the past if we’re to understand the present,

Longhorn sermon: two points with a whole lot of bull in between.

right

Look at you. You’re like a goddess.” Scarlett smiled at his compliment then reached down to squeeze her own tits. She heard every man in the room shift and moan when she began to fondle both her tits in her hands.

At the contact, he grunted as he spurted shorter versions of his longhorns on either side of his head. It was common shifter knowledge that this would happen when they became aroused at the touch of the mate they were destined to be with. It was a controllable reaction, but it eased the ache of torturous lust if one allowed it to happen.

She gasped and covered her mouth in realization she had spoken in a deep Texan drawl. Texas! I’m Texan! She felt a little triumphant that she’d solved another small piece of the mysterious puzzle of her amnesia.

Rhett shrugged. “Sorry, fellas. You know my boners happen at the worst of times. Just something our sexy little mate will have to get used to.” He had always had a problem with his raging erections popping up at random times, and now that his mate was finally under his roof, he was prepared for that pesky little problem to grow further.

She went into the bathroom and opened the drugstore bag. She smiled when she noticed Denzel had bought her a pink toothbrush. Somehow, she wasn’t surprised he’d kept her femininity in consideration when he picked it out.

She froze when she heard a low, rumbling growl in Leo’s chest as he began to tenderly caress the exposed globes of her raised ass. She screamed just as his hand disappeared then landed hard, the burning pleasure-pain vibrating straight to her cunt.

After Byron, the twins, and the triplets had all touched her, she couldn’t help but feel disappointed she didn’t lose her virginity. She’d hoped one would sneak into her room later. She couldn’t explain it, but a voice kept yelling in her head that tonight was the night she officially entered womanhood.

People think girls don’t go to school here because we’re ignorant shepherds. Attendance rates plummet when the seasonal herds of long-horned zebu turn towards our village and rise again when they leave and drop in another village further away. It’s not ignorance. It’s fear. Keep your daughters home or else … or else the village might get another stone statue or another wedding …

COYOTEE" "Was a cowboy I knew in south Texas His face was burnt deep by the sun Part history, part sage, part Mexican He was there when Pancho Villa was young And he'd tell you a tale of the old days When the country was wild all around Sit out under the stars of the Milky Way And listen while the coyotes howl Well he cursed all the roads and the oilmen And he cursed the automobile Said, "This is no place for an hombre like I am In this new world of asphalt and steel." Then he'd look off someplace in the distance At something only he could see He'd say, "All that's left now of the old days: Those damned, old coyotes and me." Now the longhorns are gone And the drovers are gone The Comanches are gone And the outlaws are gone Now Quantrill is gone Stand Watie is gone And the lion is gone And the red wolf is gone One morning, they searched his adobe He disappeared without even a word But that night, as the moon crossed the mountain One more coyote was heard

COYOTES" "Was a cowboy I knew in south Texas His face was burnt deep by the sun Part history, part sage, part Mexican He was there when Pancho Villa was young And he'd tell you a tale of the old days When the country was wild all around Sit out under the stars of the Milky Way And listen while the coyotes howl Well he cursed all the roads and the oilmen And he cursed the automobile Said, "This is no place for an hombre like I am In this new world of asphalt and steel." Then he'd look off someplace in the distance At something only he could see He'd say, "All that's left now of the old days: Those damned, old coyotes and me." Now the longhorns are gone And the drovers are gone The Comanches are gone And the outlaws are gone Now Quantrill is gone Stand Watie is gone And the lion is gone And the red wolf is gone One morning, they searched his adobe He disappeared without even a word But that night, as the moon crossed the mountain One more coyote was heard

The desert was the birthplace of Egyptian theology. Cattle, women, water and milk were sources of regeneration and nourishment. Without water or milk there was sickness and death. These associations proved to be psychologically significant and formed the foundations of the Dynastic religion with the underlying theme of birth-death-rebirth as well as linking the cow with the life providing and protecting Goddess. The inclusion of cattle related artefacts in burials suggests an association with the afterlife. Clay models of long-horn cows have been found in Amratian or Naqada I (4000-3500 BCE) graves.