Loose Cannon Quotes

Jason muttered "And I saw something...Really terrible." "That was Hera," Thalia grumbled, "Her Majesty, the Loose Cannon." "That's it, Thalia Grace," Said the goddess. "I will turn you into and aardvark, so help me-" "Stop it, you two," Piper said. Amazingly, they both shut up.

That was Hera. Her Majesty, the Loose Cannon.

The way the moon dashes through clouds that blow Loosely as cannon-smoke... Is a reminder of the strength and pain Of being young; that it can't come again, But is for others undiminished somewhere.

I'm tightly wound. I'm a loose cannon. Both - I'm a tightly wound loose cannon, a tight loose.

You can't do that kind of thing normally, but normal dumped without a note nearly a month ago. These days, I'll happily set fire to a bridge the second after I've crossed it - I don't plan on being around for the consequences to catch up with me.

Words were dangerous when loosed. They were more powerful than cannon and more unpredictable than storms. They could turn men’s heads inside out and warp their destinies. They could pick up kingdoms and shake them until they rattled.

The guy was cracking down on the Brotherhood, organizing shifts, trying to turn four loose cannons like V, Phury, Rhage, and Z into soldiers. No wonder he always looked like his head hurt.

Mulder had too brilliant a record to be dismissed as a loose cannon. His bosses had to find another way to protect their peace of mind. They did. They made Scully his partner.

That was Hera,” Thalia grumbled. “Her Majesty, the Loose Cannon.” “That’s it, Thalia Grace,” said the goddess. “I will turn you into an aardvark, so help me—

When there is evil in someone, it grows, unattended by all and fielded by its harborer. I know this; I feel it each and every day, growing stronger inside of me till one day—snap—it will take control, and every logical thought process, every thought of survival and preservation, will disappear, and I will be a loose cannon, fired and on my path of destruction, with nothing but my own doom ahead of me and the demise of whoever lay in my final path.

He went from a fun-loving loose cannon to a monkey with a machine gun. Sure, it’s cute, but eventually someone’s going to get hurt.

There was nothing for him, and in the end, he had to acknowledge that he was too dangerous to just keep around like some loose cannon

I know. I just…I don’t like losing control like that and I didn’t want you guys to think I was a loose cannon.

Some of us feel as if we’re outsiders. People occasionally talk about us in hushed tones, whispering that we’re a bit of a lone wolf, or at times a loose cannon. They don’t want to say it to our faces because every now and again we can be a little bit unpredictable. But they look at us with a strange curiosity, because in comparison – although they’re often very successful at ‘fitting in’ – they lead lives that are drab, dreary and monotonous. They’re not unruly like the Carefree Scamps. We have a divine spark of unruliness within us. And it’s that unruliness which has kept us young.

So if you think you’re dangerous, I’m a wrecking ball. I’m a loose cannon. A wildfire. I can burn houses down. I can burn cities down too. So don’t ever make the mistake of trying to kiss me again. Because I don’t want a needy girl clinging to me and you don’t want a guy giving you your first lesson in heartbreak.

Miller sighed. This was exactly the kind of thing that made him want to live in an igloo on a glacier. Even penguins seemed like too much company at a moment like this.

I’m a loose magical cannon, but Lucas is my anchor. He keeps me grounded and can withstand the magical storm that seems to follow me around.

I’m not scared of anything.” “That makes you stupid, not brave,

Faith was meaningless if you only had it because your parents had brainwashed you into it.

Like a fighter pilot that goes full throttle, Like a bullet train that wants to lead, Like an inspiring game of spin the bottle, I desired creativity and its unique speed. Like a lady who walks with dignity and pride, Like a gentleman who stands by justice and truth, Like a loose cannon with a constructive attitude, I treasured the power of gratitude.

My mother was in the kitchen ironing. Physically she’s a younger version of my Grandma Mazur, and physically I’m a younger version of my mother. Mentally and emotionally my mother is on her own. Lunacy seems to have skipped a generation and my mother is left to bear the burden of maintaining standards of decorum for the family. My grandmother and I are the loose cannons.

Being drunk doesn’t change the kind of person you are. If it did, everyone would get violent when they were drinking. Alcohol just makes it easier to do the shit you already wanted to do.

I think there’s something about certain people’s chosen ‘lifestyle’ which ages them. I can’t explain it any other way. Leaving school, building a career, getting old before their time as they take on more and more stress lacks that one essential element that we had oodles of as youngsters, and that’s fun. We had lively, buoyant and animated fun. We were carefree at an age when you’re supposed to be carefree. We were breezy, jaunty and happy-go-lucky. The flip side of this is that at times it may make some of us feel as if we’re outsiders. People occasionally talk about us in hushed tones, whispering that we’re a bit of a lone wolf, or at times a loose cannon. They don’t want to say it to our faces because every now and again we can be a little bit unpredictable. But they look at us with a strange curiosity, because in comparison – although they’re often very successful at ‘fitting in’ – they lead lives that are drab, dreary and monotonous. They’re not unruly like the Carefree Scamps. We have a divine spark of unruliness within us. And it’s that unruliness which has kept us young.

Barrons’ head whipped around and he stared at me. You said nothing of this to me? You said nothing to me about my mother? What do you know about her? About me? His dark gaze promised retribution for my oversight. So did mine. I hated this. Barrons and I were enemies. It confused my head and hurt my heart. I’d grieved him as if I’d lost the only person who mattered to me, and now here we were, adversaries again. Were we destined to be eternal enemies? One of us is going to have to trust the other, I told him. Your first, Ms. Lane. That was the whole problem. Neither of us would take the risk. I had a lengthy list of reasons why I shouldn’t, and they were sound. My daddy could take the case all the way to the Supreme Court, arguing my side. Barrons didn’t inspire trust. He didn’t even bother trying. When hell freezes over, Barrons. Same bloody page, Ms. Lane. Same bloody— I turned my gaze away in the middle of his sentence, the ocular equivalent of flipping him the bird. Ryodan was watching us, hard. “Butt out,” I warned. “This is between him and me. All you need to do is keep my parents safe and—” “Little hard to do when you’re such a fucking loose cannon.

It was as Aeduan stared into her bloodshot eyes that a cannon boomed in the distance. South. Where the Threadwitch must now be. Without thought, Aeduan drew in a long, deep breath. His power stretched wide; his witchery latched on to the scent of his own silver taler, still dangling from her neck. Yes, she was south. Hurry, he thought, for clearly violence was breaking loose. It always did in the Contested Lands.

The inhabitants, in their darkened rooms, were possessed by that terror which follows in the wake of cataclysms, of deadly upheavals of the earth, against which all human skill and strength are vain. For the same thing happens whenever the established order of things is upset, when security no longer exists, when all those rights usually protected by the law of man or of Nature are at the mercy of unreasoning, savage force. The earthquake crushing a whole nation under falling roofs; the flood let loose, and engulfing in its swirling depths the corpses of drowned peasants, along with dead oxen and beams torn from shattered houses; or the army, covered with glory, murdering those who defend themselves, making prisoners of the rest, pillaging in the name of the Sword, and giving thanks to God to the thunder of cannon—all these are appalling scourges, which destroy all belief in eternal justice, all that confidence we have been taught to feel in the protection of Heaven and the reason of man.

The earthquake crushing a whole nation under falling roofs; the flood let loose, and engulfing in its swirling depths the corpses of drowned peasants, along with dead oxen and beams torn from shattered houses; or the army, covered with glory, murdering those who defend themselves, making prisoners of the rest, pillaging in the name of the Sword, and giving thanks to God to the thunder of cannon—all these are appalling scourges, which destroy all belief in eternal justice, all that confidence we have been taught to feel in the protection of Heaven and the reason of man.

Soldier’s heart, we called it after the war. I once had a bit of an episode because they had lined the street with flags, and the wind came up and they were all snapping … the sound wasn’t like cannon fire at all, but it still was, you know?” I nodded. I did indeed know. “Then one of the flags came loose and it blew toward me.” He snorted. “Found myself down a stairwell two streets over.” His voice had that light veneer of humor that we all get, because if we don’t pretend we’re laughing, we might have to admit just how broken we are. It’s like telling stories at the bar about the worst pain you’ve ever been in. You laugh and you brag about it, and it turns the pain into something that will buy you a drink.

Six or seven minutes past 2 P.M. on September 11, 1973, an infiltration patrol of the San Bemardo Infantry School commanded by Captain Roberto Garrido burst into the second floor of the Chilean Presidential Palace, Santiago's Palacio de La Moneda. Charging up the main staircase and covering themselves with spurts from their FAL machine guns, the patrol advanced to the entrance of the Salon Rojo, the state reception hall. Inside, through dense smoke coming from fires elsewhere in the building and from the explosion of tear gas bombs, grenades, and shells from Sherman tank cannons, the patrol captain saw a band of civilians braced to defend themselves with submachine guns. In a reflex action, Captain Garrido loosed a short burst from his weapon. One of his three bullets struck a civilian in the stomach. A soldier in Garrido's patrol imitated his commander, wounding the same man in the abdomen. As the man writhed on the floor in agony, Garrido suddenly realized who he was: Salvador Allende. "We shit on the President!" he shouted. There was more machine-gun fire from Garrido's patrol. Allende was riddled with bullets. As he slumped back dead, a second group of civilian defenders broke into the Salon Rojo from a side door. Their gunfire drove back Garrido and his patrol, who fled down the main staircase to the safety of the first floor, which the rebel troops had occupied.
 Some of the civilians returned to the Salon Rojo to see what could be done. Among them was Dr. Enrique Paris, a psychiatrist and President Allende's personal doctor. He leaned over the body, which showed the points of impact of at least six shots in the abdomen and lower stomach region. After taking Allende's pulse, he signaled that the President was dead. Someone, out of nowhere, appeared with a Chilean flag, and Enrique Paris covered the body with it.

Slothrop is just settling down next to a girl in a prewar Worth frock and with a face like Tenniel’s Alice, same forehead, nose, hair, when from outside comes this most godawful clanking, snarling, crunching of wood, girls come running terrified out of the eucalyptus trees and into the house and right behind them what comes crashing now into the pallid lights of the garden but—why the Sherman Tank itself! headlights burning like the eyes of King Kong, treads spewing grass and pieces of flagstone as it manoeuvres around and comes to a halt. Its 75 mm cannon swivels until it’s pointing through the French windows right down into the room. “Antoine!” a young lady focusing in on the gigantic muzzle, “for heaven’s sake, not now. . . .” A hatch flies open and Tamara—Slothrop guesses: wasn’t Italo supposed to have the tank?—uh—emerges shrieking to denounce Raoul, Waxwing, Italo, Theophile, and the middleman on the opium deal. “But now,” she screams, “I have you all! One coup de foudre!” The hatch drops—oh, Jesus—there’s the sound of a 3-inch shell being loaded into its breech. Girls start to scream and make for the exits. Dopers are looking around, blinking, smiling, saying yes in a number of ways. Raoul tries to mount his horse and make his escape, but misses the saddle and slides all the way over, falling into a tub of black-market Jell-o, raspberry flavor, with whipped cream on top. “Aw, no . . .” Slothrop having about decided to make a flanking run for the tank when YYYBLAAANNNGGG! the cannon lets loose an enormous roar, flame shooting three feet into the room, shock wave driving eardrums in to middle of brain, blowing everybody against the far walls. A drape has caught fire. Slothrop, tripping over partygoers, can’t hear anything, knows his head hurts, keeps running through the smoke at the tank—leaps on, goes to undog the hatch and is nearly knocked off by Tamara popping up to holler at everybody again. After a struggle which shouldn’t be without its erotic moments, for Tamara is a swell enough looking twist with some fine moves, Slothrop manages to get her in a come-along and drag her down off of the tank. But loud noise and all, look—he doesn’t seem to have an erection. Hmm. This is a datum London never got, because nobody was looking. Turns out the projectile, a dud, has only torn holes in several walls, and demolished a large allegorical painting of Virtue and Vice in an unnatural act. Virtue had one of those dim faraway smiles. Vice was scratching his shaggy head, a little bewildered. The burning drape’s been put out with champagne. Raoul is in tears, thankful for his life, wringing Slothrop’s hands and kissing his cheeks, leaving trails of Jell-o wherever he touches. Tamara is escorted away by Raoul’s bodyguards. Slothrop has just disengaged himself and is wiping the Jell-o off of his suit when there is a heavy touch on his shoulder. “You were right. You are the man.” “That’s nothing.” Errol Flynn frisks his mustache. “I saved a dame from an octopus not so long ago, how about that?” “With one difference,” sez Blodgett Waxwing. “This really happened tonight. But that octopus didn’t.

I'm tightly wound. I'm a loose cannon. Both - I'm a tightly wound loose cannon, a tight loose.

Apparently, the real me is a loose cannon.” His mouth tilted at the corners. “I’m wild and dangerous.” And she wanted wild and dangerous so badly she could almost taste it.

The FBI is always finicky in its dealings with journalists. It views them as unreliable, uncontrollable, publicity-seeking loose cannons, which is largely true. Journalists view the FBI as hidebound, bureaucratic, and legalistic, which is also largely true.

Papa was a loose cannon, he was unpredictable and they never knew what to expect from him. Nasir

My friends know I’m a cannon... maybe a loose one at times. You don’t necessarily want to take me to a china or antique shop... but you’ll definitely want me next to you at every f***ing war you’re in.

On the television, a woman was scrubbing her kitchen tile with her magical new mop. It had not only cleaned the tough-to-reach space behind the fridge, it had saved her marriage, listened to her deepest secrets and given her orgasms too.

They say if you don’t know who the loose cannon in your group is, it’s probably you.

In an age of general religious revival, the most powerful image of Christian love available to any midcentury believer was supplied by the black protesters who stood praying and singing while segregationist policemen loosed dogs and water cannons on them. Through

So, what’s the verdict?” God looked around. They knew what he was asking. Did they wanna work with Steele? After what happened, God had a little more of a say if he wanted the man on his team. He, himself, was psyched as shit to see what else Steele could do. The guy was a loose cannon. A hothead and terrible with authority… but wasn’t that their team motto? Steele would be uncontrollable, and God knew exactly where to put him. When they all nodded in agreement, God pointed at Ruxs and Green. “You guys got a third. Go get your new partner.

Dirty Harriet there is a loose cannon. She pulled a gun on my men.” “They were unconscious.” “What if they weren’t? We’d have had a fire fight in the middle of the street on Christmas night.” “Do you really want someone like that around your daughter?” “Considering she detected the threat against this home when your men couldn’t, yes.

Untrustworthy people, by their nature, demand attention because they are loose cannons.

Some of the best romances of my life, all started by mistake. You belonged to another, I was free, chained to my life of imagination, but you wanted reality to come take ahold of me. You grasped me with a grip meant for Swisher Sweets and steering wheels. I'm a loose cannon, I'll blow you up and away without concern, but I will cry over your loss and empty myself for days. I'm not worth a prayer or even a drop of tonic in your gin, but I'll get under your skin the way you bedded yourself into mine.

Beck had a reputation as a loose cannon even before he discovered the tumor. He was impatient with theories and studies. He wanted to use whatever worked.

Bravery without vision is a loose cannon, and vision without bravery is a search for a cannon. But put both together, and you have an armada.

Rudy Giuliani is always good about making an appearance wherever the action is. He shakes hands, smiles, offers comforting words to the patients and their loved ones. He vows to make the city safer. One thing I’ll say about Rudy, he may be a loose cannon, but he’s always great in a crisis. He can pull it together better than anyone, looking calm, concerned, and strong. He’s got the kind of personality that thrives when surrounded by chaos, naturally making people feel safer.

But West? Well, he was a fucking loose cannon.

Stop overanalyzing things. You know too much thinking makes you confused,” Harold says, watching her. “It was a discarded cigarette, or a spark from the fire. That’s what they’ve settled on.” “But after what was said? After what we all decided?” “A discarded cigarette.” He took the biscuit and broke it in half. “A spark from the fire.” “Do you really believe that?” “Loose lips sink ships.

We just need to stay calm,” said Harold. “None of this loose talk. We did nothing wrong, understood?

The dress rehearsal must have been disastrous, the reactions of the first-night audience a confirmation of this, lasting right into the second scene, even after the singing of ‘Pirate Jenny’ in the stable. But with the ‘Cannon Song’ the applause suddenly burst loose. Quite unexpectedly, inspiredly, improvisedly, management and collaborators found themselves with the greatest German hit of the 1920s on their hands.

Personal relationships start unraveling, business partnerships begin to fall apart and your credibility decreases as you become known as “a loose cannon.” Effective

Avery, I’m a loose cannon with this thing. Do you trust me?” Lily’s voice shook when she asked, but Avery’s did not when she answered. “With my life. Always.

They’ll murder us,” he told the pillowcase. “They won’t.” “They’ll use us to fuel the barbecues.” “They aren’t going to set anyone on fire.” “Clearly you know nothing about Catholics,” Miller snapped. “We love setting people on fire when we don’t approve of how they live their lives. It’s kind of our raison d’être.

The Director eyed her nervously, as though she were some unstable substance. Zoe, observing this, whispered to Frances, "I'm the sort of woman who scares the pants off that sort of man. They wait to be set upon.

It occurred to him for the first time that gender rules in dating were stupid. Why did someone’s gender have anything to do with who bought food? Or picked out flowers? It wasn’t until both people on the date had the same equipment that it suddenly seemed stupid. Why should he always get to decide what he wanted to do while the other person had to follow along? He had a vague urge to call all his old girlfriends and apologize, though he wasn’t entirely sure why.

But once you were done, you felt better? Having said it. Uh, coming out? It was better after?” Church bit his lower lip, his mobile face folding into an expression almost like a wince. “You’re thinking about lying to me,” Miller said mildly, and Church dropped his eyes and laughed, a little shamefaced. “Yeah, I was.” “Don’t. Please?” “It’s just that it never really ends. Coming out, I mean. Like, the first time you say it to someone, it feels huge, you know? It feels good too, like you’re committed. But it doesn’t only happen once. Every day, any time the subject comes up, any time a form asks for your wife’s name or someone in line making small talk asks if you’re waiting for your girlfriend or something, it’s there. You have to decide whether you’re gonna fix the assumption the other person made. So it’s better in some ways, Miller, but it’s never something you can put a check mark next to.

Loosely as cannon-smoke to stand apart (Stone-coloured light sharpening the roofs below) High and preposterous and separate— Lozenge of love! Medallion of art! O wolves of memory! Immensements! No, One shivers slightly, looking up there. The hardness and the brightness and the plain Far-reaching singleness of that wide stare Is a reminder of the strength and pain Of being young; that it can’t come again, But is for others undiminished somewhere. — Philip Larkin, from “Sad Steps,” Collected Poems (Farrar Straus and Giroux, 2001)

A loose cannon destroys the ship that it is supposed to protect. A loose mouth can do the same.

press-ganged’, ‘taking the wind out of your sails’, ‘shot across the bows’, ‘loose cannon’, ‘shipshape’, ‘batten down the hatches’ belong more obviously to the sea. Others such as ‘close quarters’, ‘cut and run’, ‘fathoming’ something, ‘broad in the beam’ and the ‘cut of your jib’ take a moment

TV’s essential characteristics make it the perfect education for sociopaths, facilitating deceit, acquisitiveness, intransigence, and validating a worldview only loosely tethered to reality.

That was Hera,” Thalia grumbled. “Her Majesty, the Loose Cannon.

the wholeness of her presence reminds me weekly of my ultimate goal: to develop the ability to handle life’s loose cannons with the grace of someone whose internal work has healed them on a cellular level.

Who do you think you are?” “I’m a combat nurse. A good one.” “That may be,” Mrs. Henderson said, “but you’re also a loose cannon. You have just exposed this hospital to liability. You’re fired.

After the initial, brutal, shock at her death and the demonstrations of love and regret, not just across Britain, but throughout the world, it was conveniently forgotten that she was for a time widely seen as a destructive influence upon the whole fabric of the British monarchy, and spoken of in terms a good deal less kind than the cliché ‘loose cannon’.

I am the Grand Magus. I won’t be spoken to like this!” The table erupted in screams. “I’ll speak to you however I please!” Luther shot back. “You’re a loose cannon, Luther!” Phillip shook his finger at him. “It’s Dr. Loose Cannon to you!

A person might have an all-consuming desire to maximize human happiness. But if that person has no comprehension of what sorts of things generally serve lasting human happiness; no capacity for recognizing other people’s emotion, aspirations, current purposes; no ability to engage in smoothly cooperative undertakings . . . then that person is not a moral saint. He is a pathetic fool, a hopeless busybody, a loose cannon, and a serious menace to society.