Marching Powder Quotes

A Short Alternative Medical Dictionary Definitions courtesy of Dr Lemuel Pillmeister (also known as Lemmy) Addiction - When you can give up something any time, as long as it's next Tuesday. Cocaine - Peruvian Marching Powder. A stimulant that has the extraordinary effect that the more you do, the more you laugh out of context. Depression - When everything you laugh at is miserable and you can't seem to stop. Heroin - A drug that helps you to escape reality, while making it much harder to cope when you are recaptured. Psychosis - When everybody turns into tiny dolls and they have needles in their mouths and they hate you and you don't care because you have THE KNIFE! AHAHAHAHAHAHA!

I would die for my country. But I’d rather kill for it. Ready your troops. We march!

A common and natural result of an undue respect of law is, that you may see a file of soldiers, colonel, captain, corporal, privates, powder-monkeys, and all, marching in admirable order over hill and dale to the wars, against their wills, ay, against their common sense and consciences, which makes it very steep marching indeed, and produces a palpitation of the heart.

In the late summer of that year we lived in a house in a village that looked across the river and the plain to the mountains. In the bed of the river there were pebbles and boulders, dry and white in the sun, and the water was clear and swiftly moving and blue in the channels. Troops went by the house and down the road and the dust they raised powdered the leaves of the trees. The trunks of the trees too were dusty and the leaves fell early that year and we saw the troops marching along the road and the dust rising and leaves, stirred by the breeze, falling and the soldiers marching and afterward the road bare and white except for the leaves.

The coke bugs were out in force, doing military manoeuvres, all jazzed up on their Bolivian marching powder.

Your brain at this moment is composed of brigades of tiny Bolivian soldiers. They are tired and muddy from their long march through the night. There are holes in their boots and they are hungry. They need to be fed. The need the Bolivian Marching Powder.

Out ahead of them, Arkady began something very like a marching song, chanting lines answered by the other ferals, their voices ringing out across the sky, each to each. Temeraire added his own to the chorus, and little Iskierka began to scrabble at his neck, demanding, "What are they saying? What does it mean?" "We are flying home," Temeraire said, translating. "We are all flying home.

He bowed, still holding her hand, and then, without a word, released it, and marched out, very dignified. It was another fine tragic effect, but Cleone, when the door closed behind him, broke into an hysterical laugh. She was rather amazed, and a little apprehensive.

Down vith children! Do them in! Boil their bones and fry their skin! Bish them, sqvish them, bash them, mash them! Brrreak them, shake them, slash them, smash them! Offer chocs vith magic powder! Say “Eat up!” then say it louder. Crrram them full of sticky eats, Send them home still guzzling sveets. And in the morning little fools Go marching off to separate schools. A girl feels sick and goes all pale. She yells, “Hey look! I've grrrown a tail!” A boy who's standing next to her Screams, “Help! I think I'm grrrowing fur!” Another shouts, “Vee look like frrreaks! There's viskers growing on our cheeks!” A boy who vos extremely tall Cries out, “Vot's wrong? I'm grrrowing small!” Four tiny legs begin to sprrrout From everybody rrround about. And all at vunce, all in a trrrice, There are no children! Only MICE!

You have fallen badly, señor gringo. Bribery is a very serious crime in this country. You will have to pay.

And here, above the valley of Yarrow, Lord Culter and his brother and twenty men from Midculter in their wedding finery with, thank God, half armour beneath, waited to intercept the English army on its plundering march, with two shepherds, twelve arquebuses, some pikes, some marline twine, a leather pail of powder, shot, matches, some makeshift colours, and eight hundred rusted helmets from the Warden’s storehouse at Talla.

I looked at the huge charlatan with respect. Nicotine, dope, hash, barbiturates, speed, acid, smack, Colombian marching powder, ecstasy, alcohol in every form, all had entered the massive frame by some route and in quantities guaranteed to lay waste to the collected brains of three Melbourne universities or eight in Queensland. In theory, a scan of this man’s skull should reveal a place as grey and still as Kerguelen Island in winter. Yet from time to time there were clear signs of electrical activity.

Doing time is a real test of friendship. None of my old friends passed that test. Maybe none of them had even noticed that I was missing. To me, that made it even more special that people I had never met before came to visit me and did stick by me. Most of the travellers who had visited me were just passing through La Paz and couldn’t visit more than once or twice. However, many of them stayed in contact by letters and email. I glued the postcards they sent me from all over the world onto my wall. I received mail from the United States, Australia, Canada, Germany, England, Israel, Turkey and Japan. Whenever I felt sad, I would read what the tourists had written to me, and I would soon feel better again. Even though I only met many of these people once, I knew that they were real friends. You know how? I had nothing to give them. I couldn’t give them money, I couldn’t give them status, I couldn’t take them to fancy places and buy drinks for them. All I had were my stories and who I was, and that was enough for them to want to stay in contact. For the first time in my life, that was enough.

When Jasmine woke that morning she'd been dreaming of breakfast. Not cornflakes or melba toast, skim milk and a sorry slice of apple. No, Jasmine was elbow deep in creamy oatmeal slathered with brown sugar and hot cream. Next, a plate of eggs Sardou: poached eggs nestled sweetly in the baby-smooth bottoms of artichokes and napped with a blushing spiced hollandaise sauce. Jasmine stared up at the ceiling, her mouth a swamp of saliva as she mentally mopped the rest of the hollandaise sauce with a crust of crusty French bread before taking a sip of nutty chicory coffee and reaching for a freshly fried beignet so covered with powdered sugar it made her sneeze.

I am consoled only to see that I was not mistaken: Chicago is just as I remembered it. I was here twenty five years ago. My father brought me and Scott up to see the Century of Progress and once later to the World Series. Not a single thing do I remember from the first trip but this: the sense of the place, the savor of the genie-soul of the place which every place has or else is not a place. I could have been wrong: it could have been nothing of the sort, not the memory of a place but the memory of being a child. But one step out into the brilliant March day and there it is as big as life, the genie-soul of the place Which, wherever you go, you must meet and master first thing or be met and mastered. Until now, one genie-soul and only one ever proved too strong for me: San Francisco—up and down the hills I pursued him, missed him and was pursued, by a presence, a powdering of fall gold in the air, a trembling brightness that pierced to the heart, and the sadness of coming at last to the sea, the coming to the end of America. Nobody but a Southerner knows the wrenching rinsing sadness of the cities of the North. Knowing all about genie-souls and living in haunted places like Shiloh and the Wilderness and Vicksburg and Atlanta where the ghosts of heroes walk abroad by day and are more real than people, he knows a ghost when he sees one, and no sooner does he step off the train in New York or Chicago or San Francisco than he feels the genie-soul perched on his shoulder.

Sea and sky were a single ash-gray thing and the sands of the beach, which on March nights glimmered like powdered light, had become a stew of mud and rotten shellfish.

And that’s the great thing about Ye Olde Peruvian Marching Powder, he went on. It’s like psychic Saran Wrap: it locks in freshness so well that you can’t even feel your own soul ticking, much less anyone else’s.

San Pedro prison, apart from being a social microcosm, is also a microeconomy that operates under basic capitalist principles. In fact, it’s probably more efficient than the whole Bolivian national economy. And more democratic, too, but I’ll explain the prison election system to you another day.

Leaving the Connecticut River March 8, 1704 Temperature 40 degrees The only good thing about this rough land was firewood. No human had ever gathered a fallen branch here. So they could stay warm, but they had nothing to cook over the flames. It seemed to Eben the Indians ought to worry more about this than they did. They spent every daylight hour looking for game, found nothing and did not mention it. Instead, they sat by the fire, smoked and told war stories. It was the captives who discussed food, describing meals they had had a month ago or hoped to have in the future. They discussed pancakes, maple syrup and butter. Stew and biscuits and apple pie. Ruth said to Mercy, “You and Eben and Joseph are so proud of your savage vocabulary. Tell them they’re Indians, they’re supposed to know how to find deer.” “There aren’t any deer,” said Joseph. Ruth snorted. “We just have stupid Indians.” Suddenly the whole thing seemed hilarious to Mercy: a little circle of starving white children, crouching in the snow, and a little circle of apparently not starving Indian men, sitting in the snow, all of them surrounded by hundreds of miles of trees, while Ruth spat fire. “Ruth,” said Mercy, “do you know what your name means?” “My name is Ruth.” “Your name is Mahakemo,” Mercy told her. “And it means ‘Fire Eats Her’.” Mercy began to laugh, and Joseph and Eben and Sarah laughed with her. Even Eliza looked interested, but Ruth, furious to find that the Indians were laughing at her instead of being respectful of her, began throwing things at Mercy. Mercy rolled out of range while Ruth pelted her with Joseph’s hat and Tannhahorens’s mittens and then with snowballs; finding them too soft, Ruth grabbed her Indians powder horn. Mercy jumped up and ran away from Ruth and out into the snow, and in front of her were a pair of yellow eyes. The eyes were level with Mercy’s waist. They were not human eyes. No deer for humans also meant no deer for wolves. Mercy meant to scream, but Tannhahorens got there first, in the form of a bullet. Wolf for dinner. It turned out that the English could eat anything if they were hungry enough.

Victor Salva Victor Ronald Salva (born March 29, 1958) is an American film director. He is best known for directing the films Powder and Jeepers Creepers, and his conviction for child molestation. The fact that Jeepers Creepers II was left off this list of Salva’s notable accomplishments in favor of “child molestation conviction” is more damning than any Rotten Tomatoes ranking could ever be.

For once in his life, Charles didn't care what anyone thought of his behavior.  He marched straight up to Perry, tapped him on the shoulder, and jerked his thumb to indicate that Perry had better relinquish Amy to him. Now. Perry, grinning, bowed and backed off.  At the same time, Amy turned her head and saw Charles, her face breaking into such an expression of joy that he was nearly undone. "Charles!" she cried, and he knew then that if they weren't in the middle of a crowded ballroom, with everyone staring at them, she would've thrown herself straight into his arms.  As it was, she stumbled such that he had to catch her and set her on her feet, a move that he managed to carry off such that she barely missed a step.  "Oh, Charles, I've been waiting all evening for you to arrive!  Where have you been?" "Looking for you."  He stared at her.  "Amy, you look . . . ravishing," he said, and it was all he could do not to claim those smiling, carmine-rouged lips and kiss her senseless. "For once in my life, I actually feel ravishing!  Oh, Charles — will you look at all these powdered heads, the jewels and silks and satins, everyone having such a good time!  Isn't it just wonderful?  Isn't this just the most magical place on earth?" He swung her through the steps.  "Amy, I do not wish to spoil your enjoyment, but exactly what are you doing?" "I'm dancing!" she said, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling as he led her through the steps.  "Oh, Charles, this is such fun!  Your brother was so kind to give me this night . . . I feel like Cinderella!" "What?" "Lucien!  He was so grateful for what I did for you back in America that he gave me this night, this gown, a new identity, and . . . and, even these diamonds at my ears!  Well, he didn't actually give them to me, I understand that they belonged to your grandmother but he said that only someone with my coloring would be able to carry them off. . . ."  She blushed.  "Charles, you don't think everyone's staring at me because I'm the only one here with unpowdered hair, do you?  Lucien said that I really should leave it natural, and —" "No, Amy," he said tightly, realizing that everyone was staring at her, and it had nothing to do with her hair. It was because she was the most strikingly beautiful woman in the room and one couldn't help but stare at her. "Charles, are you angry?" "Yes, Amy, I am angry, quietly furious, in fact, but not with you." "Then with who?  Certainly, not Perry I hope, because he's now dancing with your sister — she has a tendre for him, you know." "And where did you learn that word, Amy?" "Oh, Nerissa taught it to me.  I understand it is quite the thing to know some French.  Oh, Charles, please don't be angry with Perry, he did nothing wrong —" "It's not Perry I'm angry with, it's Lucien."  The dance ended.  "And by God, I'm going to give him a piece of my mind." His

Hope is the last thing to die. It keeps us going through the darkest times,

On account of their puny size and disappointing taste, in France wild pears are known as "poires d'angoisse" or pears of anguish. In Versailles, though, in the kitchen garden, pears are bred for pleasure. Of the five hundred pear trees, the best usually fruit in January--- the royal favorite, a type called "Bon Chrétien d'Hiver," or "Good Christian of Winter." Each pear is very large--- the blossom end engorged, the eye deeply sunk--- whilst the skin is a finely grained pale yellow, with a red blush on the side that has been touched by the sunlight. It is known for its brittle, lightly scented, almost translucent flesh that drips with a sugary juice; that soaks your mouth when your teeth sink into it. The gardener here, Jean-Baptiste de La Quintinie, says that when a pear is ripe its neck yields to the touch and smells slightly of wet roses. This winter they have not ripened, though, but have frozen to solid gold. Murders of crows sit on the branches of the pear trees, pecking at the rime of them. They have become fairy fruit; those dangling impossibilities. What would you give to taste one? Spring always comes, though. Is it not magic? The world's deep magic. March brings the vast respite of thaw, that huge unburdening, that gentling--- all winter's knives and jaws turning soft and blunt; little chunks of ice riding off on their own giddy melt; everything dripping and plipping and making little streams and rivulets; tender pellucid fingers feeling their way towards the sea; all the tiny busywork. And with the returning sun, too, sex. Tulips, first found as wild flowers in Central Asia--- named for the Persian word "tulipan," for turban--- thrust and bow in the warm soil of Versailles, their variegated "broken" petals licked with carmine flames. The early worm-catchers begin their chorus, skylarks and song thrushes courting at dawn. Catkins dangle like soft, tiny pairs of elven stockings. Fairy-sized wigs appear on the pussy willows. Hawthorn and sloe put on their powder and patches, to catch a bee's eye.

On February 17, 1898, Captain William T. Sampson, USN was the President of the Board of Inquiry, investigating the explosion that sank the USS Maine. On March 26, 1898, he was given command of the Navy’s North Atlantic Squadron, with the temporary rank of Rear Admiral. Aboard the flagship USS New York, he sailed to Havana from Key West where he bombarded the city for several days, resulting in minor damage to the city. As part of his duties, he sealed Havana harbor and supervised the blockade of Cuba. At the time it was erroneously believed that the USS Maine was sunk by Spain. It was only recently that continuing investigation determined that the sinking was really caused by a bunker fire smoldering in the bituminous coal used for fuel. The fire heated the bulkhead separating the engine room from a magazine containing the powder bags used to fire the 10” guns. It was the resulting explosion, rather than Spanish mine that sank the USS Maine, killing 261 officers and crew out of the 355 men that manned the ship. It took over ten years before the USS Maine was refloated and towed out to sea, clearing the harbor. She was again sunk at a location, where she now rests 3,600 feet below the surface.