Mars Bar Quotes

1. You left a multipack of Mars Bars on top of your wardrobe. Can I have one? Dad x 2. I had three. Hope that's OK. Dad x 3. I'm just going to have one more. Dad x 4. Harriet, your Dad's made himself sick on an entire multipack of Mars Bars again. Please don't leave sweets where we can find them. A x

Addiction is when natural biological imperatives, like the need for food, sex, relaxation or status, become prioritised to the point of destructiveness. It is exacerbated by a culture that understandably exploits this mechanic as it's a damn good way to sell Mars bars and Toyotas.

Nothing is important, so people, realising that, should get on with their lives, go mad, take their clothes off, jump in the canal, jump into one of those supermarket trolleys, race around the supermarket and steal Mars bars and kiss kittens.

Dear Complete and Utter Stranger, The first thing that I have to say is that I hate oatmeal. I really hate it. And you know what? If you like oatmeal at all? I mean even the tiniest bit? I mean, say you were lost in the Himalayas, right, and you hadn't eaten anything except a Mars Bar for about seven years, right, and you're really cold and your fingers are all dropping off, right, and you look behind this rock, and there's this bowl of oatmeal? Say you would even think about eating the oatmeal? Well, JUST DON'T BOTHER WRITING TO ME, OKAY?

3 people get stranded on a remote Island A Banker, a Daily Mail reader & an Asylum seeker All they have to eat is a box of 10 Mars bars The Banker says "Because of my expertise in asset management, I''ll look after our resources" The other 2 agree So the Banker opens the box, gobbles down 9 of the Mars bars and hands the last one to the Daily Mail reader He then says " I'd keep an eye on that Asylum seeker, he's after your Mars Bar

With him big Phil from Notting Hill an old "face" from the sixties a pin up gangster with a "mars bar" weal scraping his left cheek and of course two "wag" slags in tow trussed up like French Poodles with "Bratz babe" stares and Gucci Handbags

Everyone knows how creative the Scots are. They're always sculpting, painting, singing songs, & writing plays. They invented television, the telephone, & deep-fried Mars bars.

deus tem que ser substituído rapidamente por poe- mas, sílabas sibilantes, lâmpadas acesas, corpos palpáveis, vivos e limpos. a dor de todas as ruas vazias. sinto-me capaz de caminhar na língua aguçada deste silêncio. e na sua simplicidade, na sua clareza, no seu abis- mo. sinto-me capaz de acabar com esse vácuo, e de aca- bar comigo mesmo. a dor de todas as ruas vazias. mas gosto da noite e do riso de cinzas. gosto do deserto, e do acaso da vida. gosto dos enganos, da sorte e dos encontros inesperados. pernoito quase sempre no lado sagrado do meu cora- ção, ou onde o medo tem a precaridade doutro corpo. a dor de todas as ruas vazias. pois bem, mário - o paraíso sabe-se que chega a lis- boa na fragata do alfeite. basta pôr uma lua nervosa no cimo do mastro, e mandar arrear o velame. é isto que é preciso dizer: daqui ninguém sai sem cadastro. a dor de todas as ruas vazias. sujo os olhos com sangue. chove torrencialmente. o filme acabou. não nos conheceremos nunca. a dor de todas as ruas vazias. os poemas adormeceram no desassossego da idade. fulguram na perturbação de um tempo cada dia mais curto. e, por vezes, ouço-os no transe da noite. assolam-me as imagens, rasgam-me as metáforas insidiosas, porcas. ..e nada escrevo. o regresso à escrita terminou. a vida toda fodida - e a alma esburacada por uma agonia tamanho deste mar. a dor de todas as ruas vazias.

What I eventually came to understand, about San Francisco, was that I was immersed in beauty and barred from seeing it.

The great expanding centre of ‘inner Britain’, London, did not build ships but it built aeroplanes, it did not mine coal but it made electrical equipment, it did not grow food but it did process it – into beer, refined sugar, Horlicks and Mars bars. It made tyres, Hoovers, films.

The original study showed that the GI of white bread was 69, while the GI of whole grain bread was 72 and Shredded Wheat cereal was 67, while that of sucrose (table sugar) was 59.5 Yes, the GI of whole grain bread is higher than that of sucrose. Incidentally, the GI of a Mars bar—nougat, chocolate, sugar, caramel, and all—is 68. That’s better than whole grain bread. The GI of a Snickers bar is 41—far better than whole grain bread.

What if . . . what if heaven is real, but only in moments? Like a glass of water on a hot day when you're dying of thirst, or when someone's nice to your for no reason, or . . . ' Mam's pancakes with Mars Bar sauce; Dad dashing up from the bar just to tell me, 'Sleep tight don't let the bedbugs bite'; or Jacko and Sharon singing "For She's a Squishy Marshmallow' instead of 'For She's A Jolly Good Fellow' every single birthday and wetting themselves even though it's not at all funny; and Brendan giving his old record player to me instead of one of his mates. "S'pose heaven's not like a painting that's just hanging there forever, but more like . . . like the best song anyone ever wrote, but a song you only catch in snatches, while you're alive, from passing cars, or . . . upstairs windows when you're lost . . .

The photograph is in my hand. It is the photograph of a man and a woman. They are at an amusement park, in 1959. In twelve seconds time, I drop the photograph to the sand at my feet, walking away. It’s already lying there, twelve seconds into the future. Ten seconds now. The photograph is in my hand. I found it in a derelict bar at the gila flats test base, twenty-seven hours ago. It’s still there, twenty-seven hours into the past, in its frame, in the darkened bar. I’m still there, looking at it. The photograph is in my hand. The woman takes a piece of popcorn between thumb and forefinger. The ferris wheel pauses. Seven seconds now. It’s October, 1985. I’m on Mars. It’s July, 1959. I’m in New Jersey, at the Palisades Amusement Park. Four seconds, three. I’m tired of looking at the photograph now. I open my fingers. It falls to the sand at my feet. I am going to look at the stars. They are so far away. And their light takes so long to reach us… All we ever see of stars are their old photohraphs.

I’m stuck in this thing and I’m wanting to leave. There are holes in the thing that hiss when I breathe. And the more that I sit here, the more I believe that I’m stuck in this thing and won’t ever leave. Back at the kennel, the whole cage was ours but maybe these walls are better than bars, or maybe I’m hurtling skyward to Mars and maybe those holes are actually stars!

MALE I AM ASHAMED "Male, I am ashamed today to be or not to be. Seeing your pleasures gained with bleeding stains. The pain and agony that satisfies thy libido insane. Hardness to limp life gone in a blink. Age no bar, nor relation is, and oh male your image is getting marred. The day is not far when Family, friends and society will scorn when a male is born because of some prick-ing thorns.

He had never had any money for candy with the Dursleys, and now that he had pockets rattling with gold and silver he was ready to buy as many Mars Bars as he could carry- but the woman didn't have Mars Bars. What she did have were Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, Drooble's Best Blowing Gum, Chocolate Frogs, Pumpkin Pasties, Cauldron Cakes, Licorice Wands and a number of other strange things Harry had never seen in his life.

—Éranse una vez los ojos más tristes de un bar... —dijo— que se reconocieron entre mucha gente. —Y se fueron de viaje a Grecia. —Sonreí triste. —Y se enamoraron de lo que podrían ser... —siguió. —... hasta que el mar se los tragó...

Sometimes I look up and imagine the falling of stars, Lotus flowers and blue five branched bars, Towers that crumble under the weight of the sky, Pillars way up high that come apart, Just a glance and one wish for a restart, Sand swirling around the world, the underside, The deep blue abyss from afar, The bubble that encapsulates the solar heart, A landscape filled with craters, undermined, The slow descent to a tectonic mars, One of soft piano, and a bright just as blue life-giving scar, The wide eyes of every lavender petal, frozen in time, Every name is forgotten, even those once heard before, The sound of the distant past trusting the future, A world where everything was paused, limelight, A time where it was you, yourself, and the dark, When the silence was dead and so is everything in the floor.

From the race’s conception, the press viewed it with skepticism. Sportswriters argued that the rich event was a farce arranged to pad Seabiscuit’s bankroll. Del Mar, conscious of the potential conflict of interest for the Howards and Smiths, barred public wagering on the race. But the press’s distrust and the absence of gambling did nothing to cool the enthusiasm of racing fans. On the sweltering race day, special trains and buses poured in from San Diego and Los Angeles, filling the track with well over twenty thousand people, many more than the track’s official capacity. Lin plastered a twenty-foot LIGAROTI sign on the wall behind the “I’m for Ligaroti” section, and scores of Crosby’s movie friends, including Clark Gable and Carole Lombard, Spencer Tracy and Ray Milland, took up their cerise and white pennants and filed in. “Is there anyone left in Hollywood?” wondered a spectator. Dave Butler led a chorus of Ligaroti cheers, and the crowd grew boisterous. Crosby perched on the roof with Oscar Otis, who would call the race for a national radio broadcast. In the jockeys’ room, Woolf suited up to man the helm on Seabiscuit while Richardson slipped on Ligaroti’s polka dots. Just before the race, Woolf and Richardson made a deal. No matter who won, they would “save,” or split, the purse between them.

una canción de Krahe. Contaba la historia de un marinero que cada mañana se acercaba a la lonja a vender lo que había pescado y, con el dinero, compraba lo que precisaba aquel día. Luego se iba al bar a beber y, al anochecer, al retirarse a descansar, de camino a casa, se acercaba al puerto para arrojar al agua las monedas sobrantes, devolviéndoselas al mar. Le gustaban la historia y la canción.

She was the first close friend who I felt like I’d re­ally cho­sen. We weren’t in each other’s lives be­cause of any obli­ga­tion to the past or con­ve­nience of the present. We had no shared his­tory and we had no rea­son to spend all our time to­ gether. But we did. Our friend­ship in­ten­si­fied as all our friends had chil­dren – she, like me, was un­con­vinced about hav­ing kids. And she, like me, found her­self in a re­la­tion­ship in her early thir­ties where they weren’t specif­i­cally work­ing to­wards start­ing a fam­ily. By the time I was thirty-four, Sarah was my only good friend who hadn’t had a baby. Ev­ery time there was an­other preg­nancy an­nounce­ment from a friend, I’d just text the words ‘And an­other one!’ and she’d know what I meant. She be­came the per­son I spent most of my free time with other than Andy, be­cause she was the only friend who had any free time. She could meet me for a drink with­out plan­ning it a month in ad­vance. Our friend­ship made me feel lib­er­ated as well as safe. I looked at her life choices with no sym­pa­thy or con­cern for her. If I could ad­mire her de­ci­sion to re­main child-free, I felt en­cour­aged to ad­mire my own. She made me feel nor­mal. As long as I had our friend­ship, I wasn’t alone and I had rea­son to be­lieve I was on the right track. We ar­ranged to meet for din­ner in Soho af­ter work on a Fri­day. The waiter took our drinks or­der and I asked for our usual – two Dirty Vodka Mar­ti­nis. ‘Er, not for me,’ she said. ‘A sparkling wa­ter, thank you.’ I was ready to make a joke about her un­char­ac­ter­is­tic ab­sti­nence, which she sensed, so as soon as the waiter left she said: ‘I’m preg­nant.’ I didn’t know what to say. I can’t imag­ine the ex­pres­sion on my face was par­tic­u­larly en­thu­si­as­tic, but I couldn’t help it – I was shocked and felt an un­war­ranted but in­tense sense of be­trayal. In a de­layed re­ac­tion, I stood up and went to her side of the ta­ble to hug her, un­able to find words of con­grat­u­la­tions. I asked what had made her change her mind and she spoke in va­garies about it ‘just be­ing the right time’ and wouldn’t elab­o­rate any fur­ther and give me an an­swer. And I needed an an­swer. I needed an an­swer more than any­thing that night. I needed to know whether she’d had a re­al­iza­tion that I hadn’t and, if so, I wanted to know how to get it. When I woke up the next day, I re­al­ized the feel­ing I was ex­pe­ri­enc­ing was not anger or jeal­ousy or bit­ter­ness – it was grief. I had no one left. They’d all gone. Of course, they hadn’t re­ally gone, they were still my friends and I still loved them. But huge parts of them had dis­ap­peared and there was noth­ing they could do to change that. Un­less I joined them in their spa­ces, on their sched­ules, with their fam­i­lies, I would barely see them. And I started dream­ing of an­other life, one com­pletely re­moved from all of it. No more chil­dren’s birth­day par­ties, no more chris­ten­ings, no more bar­be­cues in the sub­urbs. A life I hadn’t ever se­ri­ously con­tem­plated be­fore. I started dream­ing of what it would be like to start all over again. Be­cause as long as I was here in the only Lon­don I knew – mid­dle-class Lon­don, cor­po­rate Lon­don, mid-thir­ties Lon­don, mar­ried Lon­don – I was in their world. And I knew there was a whole other world out there.

It is true. I did fall asleep at the wheel. We nearly went right off a cliff down into a gorge. But there were extenuating circumstances.” Ian snickered. “Are you going to pull out the cry-baby card? He had a little bitty wound he forgot to tell us about, that’s how small it was. Ever since he fell asleep he’s been trying to make us believe that contributed.” “It wasn’t little. I have a scar. A knife fight.” Sam was righteous about it. “He barely nicked you,” Ian sneered. “A tiny little slice that looked like a paper cut.” Sam extended his arm to Azami so she could see the evidence of the two-inch line of white marring his darker skin. “I bled profusely. I was weak and we hadn’t slept in days.” “Profusely?” Ian echoed. “Ha! Two drops of blood is not profuse bleeding, Knight. We hadn’t slept in days, that much is true, but the rest . . .” He trailed off, shaking his head and rolling his eyes at Azami. Azami examined the barely there scar. The knife hadn’t inflicted much damage, and Sam knew she’d seen evidence of much worse wounds. “Had you been drinking?” she asked, her eyes wide with innocence. Those long lashes fanned her cheeks as she gaze at him until his heart tripped all over itself. Sam groaned. “Don’t listen to him. I wasn’t drinking, but once we were pretty much in the middle of a hurricane in the South Pacific on a rescue mission and Ian here decides he has to go into this bar . . .” “Oh, no.” Ian burst out laughing. “You’re not telling her that story.” “You did, man. He made us all go in there, with the dirtbag we’d rescued, by the way,” Sam told Azami. “We had to climb out the windows and get on the roof at one point when the place flooded. I swear ther was a crocodile as big as a house coming right at us. We were running for our lives, laughing and trying to keep that idiot Frenchman alive.” “You said to throw him to the crocs,” Ian reminded. “What was in the bar that you had to go in?” Azami asked, clearly puzzled. “Crocodiles,” Sam and Ian said simultaneously. They both burst out laughing. Azami shook her head. “You two could be crazy. Are you making these stories up?” “Ryland wishes we made them up,” Sam said. “Seriously, we’re sneaking past this bar right in the middle of an enemy-occupied village and there’s this sign on the bar that says swim with the crocs and if you survive, free drinks forever. The wind is howling and trees are bent almost double and we’re carrying the sack of shit . . . er . . . our prize because the dirtbag refuses to run even to save his own life—” “The man is seriously heavy,” Ian interrupted. “He was kidnapped and held for ransom for two years. I guess he decided to cook for his captors so they wouldn’t treat him bad. He tried to hide in the closet when we came for him. He didn’t want to go out in the rain.” “He was the biggest pain in the ass you could imagine,” Sam continued, laughing at the memory. “He squealed every time we slipped in the mud and went down.” “The river had flooded the village,” Sam added. “We were walking through a couple of feet of water. We’re all muddy and he’s wiggling and squeaking in a high-pitched voice and Ian spots this sign hanging on the bar.

Look Jane!” Brenda nudged her daughter. “Look who’s over there!” “Damn!” Jane had smudged the fingernail she’d been painting. A tiny frown of exasperation marred her pretty face. Then she brightened as she saw him – Richard from accounts, jostling at the bar with the rest of the lunchtime crowd. “What’s he doing here?” she wondered aloud. “Wouldn’t have thought this was his scene.” “Don’t be silly!” Brenda admonished. “It’s a hot day. Lots of people fancy a cold lager with their lunch. It’s perfectly natural.” She sometimes despaired at her daughter’s lack of insight. How could such a pretty girl be so empty-headed? And when would Jane ever find a steady boyfriend? Brenda had high hopes for Richard in this direction. He was old enough to be a good influence; brilliantly clever; in line for promotion – he would be perfect for Jane. “Call him over, Mum!” Jane suggested excitedly.

Sometimes the sun is covered by dense layers of dark clouds. A person looking up would swear that there is no sun. But still the sun shines. At night, when there is no light, still the sun shines. During rain or hail or hurricane or tornado, still the sun shines. Does the sun ask itself, "Am I good? Am I worthwhile? Is there enough of me?" No, it burns and it shines. Does the sun ask itself, "What does the moon think of me? How does Mars feel about me today?" No, it burns, it shines. Does the sun ask itself, "Am I as big as other suns in other galaxies?" No, it burns, it shines. In this country in the coming years, I think that there will be a terrible storm. I think that the skies will darken beyond all recognition. Those who walk the streets will walk them in darkness. Those who are in prisons and mental institutions will not see the sky at all, only the dark out of barred windows. Those who are hungry and in despair may not look up at all. They will see the darkness as it lies on the ground in front of their feet. Those who are raped will see the darkness as they look up into the face of the rapist. Those who are assaulted and brutalized by madmen will stare intently into the darkness to discern who is moving toward them at every moment. It will be hard to remember, as the storm is raging, that still, even though we cannot see it, the sun shines. It will be hard to remember that still, even though we cannot see it, the sun burns. We will try to see it and we will try to feel it, and we will forget that it warms us still, that if it were not there, burning, shining, this earth would be a cold and desolate and barren place. As long as we have life and breath, no matter how dark the earth around us, that sun still burns, still shines. There is no today without it. There is no tomorrow without it. There was no yesterday without it. That light is within us—constant, warm, and healing. Remember it, sisters, in the dark times to come.

You’ll be quoting from Braveheart next.’ ‘They can take our women! They can take our freedom, and our deep-fried Mars Bars! But they’ll never take our shitey weather,

and I have a tiny little moment of anxiety, because I can't remember whether or not we're meant to be boycotting mars bars.

Frankly, I'm a recent convert to the delights of pure plantation chocolate. I adore chocolate in all its many forms, but my current passion is couture chocolates made with the selected beans from single plantations all around the world-- Trinidad, Tobago, Ecuador, Venezuela, New Guinea. Exotic locations, all of them. They are--out and out--the best type of chocolate. In my humble opinion. The Jimmy Choos of the chocolate world. Though truffles are a fierce competitor. (Strictly speaking, truffles are confectionary as opposed to chocolates, but I feel that's making me sound like a chocolate anorak.) Another obsession of mine is Green & Black's chocolate bars. Absolute heaven. I've turned Autumn on to the rich, creamy bars, which she can eat without any guilt, because they're made from organic chocolate and the company practices fair trade with the bean growers. Can't say I'm not a caring, sharing human being, right? When my friend eats the Maya Gold bar, she doesn't have to toss and turn all night thinking about the fate of the poor cocoa bean farmers. I care about Mayan bean pickers, too, but frankly I care more about the blend of dark chocolate with the refreshing twist of orange, perfectly balanced by the warmth of cinnamon, nutmeg and vanilla. Those Mayan blokes certainly know what they're doing. Divine. I hope they have happy lives knowing that so many women depend on them. So as not to appear a chocolate snob, I also shove in Mars Bars, Snickers and Double Deckers as if they're going out of fashion. Like the best, I was brought up on a diet of Cadbury and Nestlé, with Milky Bars and Curly Wurlys being particular favorites---and both of which I'm sure have grown considerably smaller with the passing of the years. Walnut Whips are a bit of a disappointment these days too. They're not like they used to be. Doesn't stop me from eating them, of course---call it product research.

El arrepentimiento es perpetuo Debo recalcar también otra verdad: el arrepentimiento bíblico es perpetuo—el hijo de Dios se arrepentirá hasta que Dios lo lleve a su morada. El arrepentimiento es un modo de pensar permanente, un aborrecimiento continuo del mal. ¡Oh, cuántas almas preciosas han sido condenadas aquí mismo! Parecen arrepentirse por un tiempo. Dejan sus antiguas compañías y dejan los lugares donde cometían sus pecados: el bar, el salón de baile, la casa de la prostituta. Parecen aceptar a Cristo. Aun predican, enseñan y testifican de él. Pero porque son “oidores pedregales” (Mar. 4:5, 6, 16, 17), sólo duran un tiempo. Empiezan a enfriarse, volviendo gradualmente a sus costumbres de antes. Vuelven al pecado, vuelven a aquello a lo que habían renunciado. Uno a uno vuelven a sus antiguos pecados y compañeros, y vuelven al mundo. Eso es porque su arrepentimiento no era perpetuo: no surgió del nuevo nacimiento sino de la carne. La Palabra de Dios los describe: “Ciertamente, si habiéndose ellos escapado de las contaminaciones del mundo, por el conocimiento del Señor y el Salvador Jesucristo, enredándose otra vez en ellas son vencidos, su postrer estado viene a ser peor que el primero. Porque mejor les hubiera sido no haber conocido el camino de la justicia que después de haberlo conocido, volverse atrás del santo mandamiento que les fue dado. Pero les ha acontecido lo del verdadero proverbio: El perro vuelve a su vómito, y la puerca lavada a revolcarse en el cieno” (2Pe. 2:20-22). En muchos casos, ese volver es lento. ¡Pocos vuelven de una sola vez! Primero, anhelan la “libertad”; escudriñan la Palabra de Dios para averiguar cuánta libertad tienen, para poder vivir lo más cerca posible al pecado. Luego, poco a poco vuelven a este pecado y a aquel otro. Por último, ya no tienen un testimonio para Cristo, sino sólo una confesión de fe externa. El pecado ya no los molesta. No lo aborrecen ni están en contra de él. Se dicen a sí mismos que Dios ya no quiere que se arrepientan y aborrezcan al pecado. Piensan que están en el camino de vida, no obstante, ¡el pecado ya no los molesta! Entonces se vuelven a esos pecados de los cuales una vez se habían arrepentido, diciendo: “¡Ahora tenemos libertad para andar en estos caminos!” Pero, ¡oh, mis amigos, esto no es libertad, sino un permiso para hacer lo que siempre has querido hacer, permiso para andar en el pecado sin restricciones! ¡Has jugado con fuego y tu corazón está ahora endurecido por el engaño del pecado! (Heb. 3:12). También te advierto: ¡cuídate del arrepentimiento que no continúa! No es un arrepentimiento bíblico auténtico, tu corazón volverá a estar satisfecho con la basura del mundo: “De ceniza se alimenta; su corazón engañado le desvía, para que no libre su alma, ni diga: ¿No es pura mentira lo que tengo en mi mano derecha?” (Isa. 44:20). Por lo tanto, nunca lo olvides: el verdadero arrepentimiento es perpetuo. Si te has convertido de verdad, aborrecerás y dejaras tus pecados por el resto de tu vida[7]. Y anhelarás ser santo, ser como Cristo y agradar a Dios. Yo te pregunto: “¿Alguna vez has poseído tú el arrepentimiento bíblico auténtico que Dios ordena de todos los hombres?

It had been a wake-up call and now all she wanted was to keep her dad in sight and make sure he didn't eat too many Mars Bars or drink too much beer.

(...) Meu coração é um sapo rajado, viscoso e cansado, à espera do beijo prometido capaz de transformá-lo em príncipe. Meu coração é um álbum de retratos tão antigos que suas faces mal se adivinham. Roídas de traça, amareladas de tempo, faces desfeitas, imóveis, cristalizadas em poses rígidas para o fotógrafo invisível. Este apertava os olhos quando sorria. Aquela tinha um jeito peculiar de inclinar a cabeça. Eu viro as folhas, o pó resta nos dedos, o vento sopra. Meu coração é um mendigo mais faminto da rua mais miserável. Meu coração é um ideograma desenhado a tinta lavável em papel de seda onde caiu uma gota d’água. Olhado assim, de cima, pode ser Wu Wang, a Inocência. Mas tão manchado que talvez seja Ming I, o Obscurecimento da Luz. Ou qualquer um, ou qualquer outro: indecifrável. Meu coração não tem forma, apenas som. Um noturno de Chopin (será o número 5?) em que Jim Morrison colocou uma letra falando em morte, desejo e desamparo, gravado por uma banda punk. Couro negro, prego e piano. Meu coração é um bordel gótico em cujos quartos prostituem-se ninfetas decaídas, cafetões sensuais, deusas lésbicas, anões tarados, michês baratos, centauros gays e virgens loucas de todos os sexos. Meu coração é um traço seco. Vertical, pós-moderno, coloridíssimo de neon, gravado em fundo preto. Puro artifício, definitivo. Meu coração é um entardecer de verão, numa cidadezinha à beira-mar. A brisa sopra, saiu a primeira estrela. Há moças na janela, rapazes pela praça, tules violetas sobre os montes onde o sol se p6os. A lua cheia brotou do mar. Os apaixonados suspiram. E se apaixonam ainda mais. Meu coração é um anjo de pedra de asa quebrada. Meu coração é um bar de uma única mesa, debruçado sobre a qual um único bêbado bebe um único copo de bourbon, contemplado por um único garçom. Ao fundo, Tom Waits geme um único verso arranhado. Rouco, louco. Meu coração é um sorvete colorido de todas as cores, é saboroso de todos os sabores. Quem dele provar, será feliz para sempre. Meu coração é uma sala inglesa com paredes cobertas por papel de florzinhas miúdas. Lareira acesa, poltronas fundas, macias, quadros com gramados verdes e casas pacíficas cobertas de hera. Sobre a renda branca da toalha de mesa, o chá repousa em porcelana da China. No livro aberto ao lado, alguém sublinhou um verso de Sylvia Plath: "Im too pure for you or anyone". Não há ninguém nessa sala de janelas fechadas. Meu coração é um filme noir projetado num cinema de quinta categoria. A platéia joga pipoca na tela e vaia a história cheia de clichês. Meu coração é um deserto nuclear varrido por ventos radiativos. Meu coração é um cálice de cristal puríssimo transbordante de licor de strega. Flambado, dourado. Pode-se ter visões, anunciações, pressentimentos, ver rostos e paisagens dançando nessa chama azul de ouro. Meu coração é o laboratório de um cientista louco varrido, criando sem parar Frankensteins monstruosos que sempre acabam destruindo tudo. Meu coração é uma planta carnívora morta de fome. Meu coração é uma velha carpideira portuguesa, coberta de preto, cantando um fado lento e cheia de gemidos - ai de mim! ai, ai de mim! Meu coração é um poço de mel, no centro de um jardim encantado, alimentando beija-flores que, depois de prová-lo, transformam-se magicamente em cavalos brancos alados que voam para longe, em direção à estrela Veja. Levam junto quem me ama, me levam junto também. Faquir involuntário, cascata de champanha, púrpura rosa do Cairo, sapato de sola furada, verso de Mário Quintana, vitrina vazia, navalha afiada, figo maduro, papel crepom, cão uivando pra lua, ruína, simulacro, varinha de incenso. Acesa, aceso - vasto, vivo: meu coração teu.

Tania,” Alexander said amiably, “I promise, I will just feed you and send you home. Let me feed you, all right?” Holding the bags in one hand, he placed the other hand on her hair. “It’s for your birthday. Come on.” She couldn’t go, and she knew it. Did Alexander know it, too? That was even worse. Did he know what a bind she found herself in, what unspeakable flux of feeling and confusion? They crossed the Field of Mars on their way to the Summer Garden. Down the street the river Neva glowed in the sunlight, though it was nearly nine o’clock in the evening. The Summer Garden was the wrong place for them. Alexander and Tatiana couldn’t find an empty bench amid the long paths, the Greek statues, the towering elms, and the intertwined lovers, like tangled rose branches all. As they walked, her head was lowered. They finally found a spot near the statue of Saturn. It was not the ideal place for them to sit, Tatiana thought, since Saturn’s mouth was wide open and he was stuffing a child into it with derelict zeal. Alexander had brought a little vodka and some bologna ham and some white bread. He had also brought a jar of black caviar and a bar of chocolate. Tatiana was quite hungry. Alexander told her to have all the caviar. She protested at first, but not vigorously. After she had eaten more than half, scooping the caviar out with the small spoon he had brought, she handed him the rest. “Please,” she said, “finish it. I insist.” She had a gulp of vodka straight from the bottle and shuddered involuntarily; she hated vodka but didn’t want him to know what a baby she was. Alexander laughed at her shuddering, taking the bottle from her and having a swig. “Listen, you don’t have to drink it. I brought it to celebrate your birthday. Forgot the glasses, though.” He was spread out all over the bench and sitting conspicuously close. If she breathed, a part of her would touch a part of him. Tatiana was too overwhelmed to speak, as her intense feelings dropped into the brightly lit well inside her. “Tania?” Alexander asked gently. “Tania, is the food all right?” “Yes, fine.” After a small throat clearing, she said, “I mean, it’s very nice, thank you.

the house. She was ashamed about the Mars Bar

The very mention of S & M leather bars made Ramiz’ eyes light up and he asked, "Where are the S/M bars located? I’d like to check them out." "There is one called Porto de Mar. On our way back, we will pass by the place. You will need a membership pass to enter. However, I know the manager and owners of that club. I can speak to them and get you in. They are very friendly people; since you are visiting for a few days, I’m sure they will be happy to entertain you. They speak a little English, all you’ll need to understand," explained our host. I could tell Ramiz was excited that he would soon be visiting an establishment where ‘birds of his feather flocked together.’ For the rest of the evening he had a happy grin on his face, knowing he would soon be a slave again.

Mars Bar Parties.

It's imposible to even imagine Lucy Ricardo without Ethel Mertz, and because of that, this dynamic duo set the bar for future female friendships on TV. Consider Laverne and Shirley, Kate and Allie, Mar and Rhoda, Wilma and Betty, and Cagney and Lacey - where would they have been without Lucy and Ethel.

Num bar à beira-mar, com ondas a desfazerem-se em espuma nas estacas e o luar testemunha de encontros na areia, ele conheceu uma mulher. Elas viviam todas a mesma Vida. Vidas que gritavam naquele universo de bebidas e venda do corpo. A luz era baça para dar ambiente. E elas eram pintadas, muito pintadas. Algumas escondiam olhos azuis no fundo de olheiras negras. Mas aceitavam tudo com naturalidade. Era tudo lógico. Tudo era apenas para ganharem o pão. Nas mesas homens de idade avançada desfaziam-se em sorrisos e ficavam por momentos mergulhados na ilusão do rejuvenescimento. Porque elas eram pródigas em carinhos. Eles tinham dinheiro. E quando alguém descobria a verdade ou se lembrava da verdade, havia nos seus sorrisos ríctus de tristeza que abafavam mergulhando-os nos copos espumantes. Foi ali que encontrou a mulher que o desejou. Ele queria dela o desejo desinteressado. Queria que o luar e o mar fossem as únicas testemunhas dos seus encontros. Ela gostava dele. Mas precisava de dinheiro para viver. O emprego dela era aquele. Os outros estavam vedados para ela. Custava-lhe aceitá-la como era. Sonhara sempre a mulher muito diferente. Nunca lançada ferozmente na conquista do pão. E de uma maneira trágica. Queria a posse desinteressada, beijada pela espuma do mar, na areia amarela. E tudo acabou quando ela lhe confessou que estava grávida dum outro homem. A solução era só uma. Não podia ficar sem trabalhar alguns meses para depois ter a despesa dum filho. E foi tão simples, tão natural, tão sem culpa na sua confissão, que ele fugiu e nunca mais voltou ao bar da beira-mar.

Incidentally, the GI of a Mars bar—nougat, chocolate, sugar, caramel, and all—is 68. That’s better than whole grain bread. The GI of a Snickers bar is 41—far better than whole grain bread.

The palace still shook occasionally as the earth rumbled in memory, groaned as if it would deny what had happened. Bars of sunlight cast through rents in the walls made motes of dust glitter where they yet hung in the air. Scorch-marks marred the walls, the floors, the ceilings. Broad black smears crossed the blistered paints and gilt of once-bright murals, soot overlaying crumbling friezes of men and animals which seemed to have attempted to walk before the madness grew quiet. The dead lay everywhere, men and women and children, struck down in attempted flight by the lightnings that had flashed down every corridor, or seized by the fires that had stalked them, or sunken into stone of the palace, the stones

When the handwritten guidance program was transcribed in Florida, a superscript bar was mistakenly left off the program. That one mistake meant that the program wasn’t able to correct the rocket’s course. Both the hardware failure of the Atlas antenna and the software bug in its guidance system meant that Mariner was completely out of control.

I bang on the glove box to get it to pop open and snag a Mars bar out. Gotta have a snack for the ride home. On second thought. I pause, rooting through my stash and pull out a Coffee Crisp. Dev reaches for it, and I smack his hand away. “Not for you.” “Fuck you.” “Fuck you too. Eat your pie.

A good summary measure of time compression is a simple cumulative elapsed time bar. Just lay out a bar from left to right, its length representing a total cycle, say, for a new-product test program that took two months. Each day is one slice of the bar. Color in each slice depending on whether value was added that day, with green for value and white for delays, queues, rework, and other avoidable downtime. Results usually show a little green in an essentially white bar.

I just stepped outside, and what did I see? If the pinnacle of our social gatherings is to stand around, consuming free food and cheap wine, while merely existing in the same space as others, then we've set the bar for human interaction rather low, haven't we? But it gets better - or worse, depending on your perspective. People aren't just standing; they're sprawled on floors or perched on tables, opening their mouths only to shovel in food or to gossip about others. This isn't just setting the bar low; it's digging it into the ground. Imagine a true celebration of humanity, where we connect genuinely, share talents like live music, and uplift each other. Instead, we're at these so-called 'parties,' where the entertainment is watching others or idle gossip, all while in environments more suited for cleaning than socializing. It's not the mark of a smart city but a society content with mediocrity, maybe even regressing in hygiene and social grace. Perhaps it's time to look beyond, to Mars, where the party might just be starting, and every gathering could showcase our potential for greatness, not just our complacency and disregard for basic hygiene.

Murphy glanced longingly at the junk food stalls. “Do you think the fried Mars bar truck will be here?” “You’re such a guy.” Leeda readjusted the garment bag she was carrying, trying to keep it steady over one shoulder. “I like my guy-like qualities,

Finding Water On Mars As An April Fool’s Prank. Every April Fool’s Day, which is the first day of every April, we all try our hardest to prank and pun each other. All this is done for fun and laughter. According to “Universe Today,” not even big science hotshots like NASA are above a few harmless pranks. Never was this more obvious than in 2005, when NASA pranked the world about finding water on Mars. On March 31, 2005, a teaser was posted on NASA’s Astronomy Picture of the Day website. It was titled “Water on Mars!” with a presentation to follow the next day, on April 1. This left people ecstatic. This was an incredible find for the human race. If there was water on Mars, then that meant there could have been life on Mars at one stage. Science was about to make a huge leap forward. The next day, April 1, 2005, NASA posted their presentation of water on Mars, and it left the whole world either in tears or crying from laughter. Their presentation was a picture of a glass of water standing on top of two Mars chocolate bars. It was water on Mars, but not the kind that everyone was hoping for.

Milky Way, AirHeads, Mars bars, Twix, Kit Kat, Chunky, mr. Goodbar, York Peppermint Patties, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, Mike and Ike, Atomic FireBall, JuJu Fish, Sour Neon Worms, Goobers, Laffy Taffy, Nerds, Sugar Daddy, Baby Ruth, Snickers, Kisses, M & M’s (plain and peanut), gummi bears, Dots, Junior Mints, Milk Duds, Good & Plenty, Whoppers, Twizzlers, Dum Dum, Skittles, Butterfinger, Starburst, Crunch, Jolly Rancher, Sweet Pops, Tootsie Roll….

I'd met his mother; I'd have traded her for a Mars Bar and still think I'd been overpaid, but that wasn't the point.

He had never had any money for candy with the Dursleys, and now that he had pockets rattling with gold and silver he was ready to buy as many Mars Bars as he could carry — but the woman didn’t have Mars Bars. What she did have were Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans, Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum, Chocolate Frogs, Pumpkin Pasties, Cauldron Cakes, Licorice Wands, and a number of other strange things Harry had never seen in his life. Not wanting to miss anything, he got some of everything and paid the woman eleven silver Sickles and seven bronze Knuts.

Back in mid-1997, the candy company Mars noticed an unexpected uptick in sales of its Mars bar. ... What had happened? NASA had happened. Specifically, NASA's Pathfinder mission. ... Pathfinder's destination? Mars.

He thought it’d be funny to open one of those Mars Corp boxes and grab a Snickers. Maybe he’s in a Snickers commercial right now? Maybe he was just hungry/angry. Getting Hangry? He’d bite into a Snickers Bar and be in zen peace. Wouldn’t that be funny?

Havana Cafe Bar de temática cubana ubicado en la principal playa de Palma de Mallorca, la Playa de Palma. Disfruta de un cóctel mientras contemplas las espectaculares puestas de sol sobre el mar Balear. Los cruceros se deslizan lentamente hasta el puerto deportivo de Palma y los turistas y lugareños pasan junto a ti en el paseo marítimo. Palma, promociones en bebidas, bares, clubes, lounges, pubs, clubes nocturnos, vida nocturna, entrada con lista, calendario de eventos, música en vivo, horarios de espectáculos, promociones bebidas, happy hour. La salsa, el baile y las risas son una constante en Havana Café, Mallorca. Dirección: Carretera Arenal 4 Playa de Palma, 07610 Palma de Mallorca, Majorca Spain para más información haga clic aquí

Boys go to Mars to get candy bars. Girls go to Jupiter to get more stupider.

The Sunset was transformed. The grocery store on Irving was gourmet. A girl I was friends with in high school worked the meat counter. People who looked like frat boys crowded the streets, wearing college sweatshirts and sipping health drinks out of giant Styrofoam containers. They even moved the old post office, which felt like a grievous insult. Everything got converted by money and I started to miss these grim places that offered no happy memories, but I wanted them back. The bars with sticky floors and French tickler dispensers in the bathrooms, like the Golden Grommet, which we called the Golden Vomit, for the old Irish men who slept in its doorway, waiting for it to open at seven a.m. I missed the lonely, unreliable streetcars, which now ding-dinged every eight minutes and were full of people in expensive shoes with careful hair.

Heheh. The old whoopee cushion in the hand trick. It's ALWAYS funny." The kid gave a confused giggle as Sans tucked his hand back into his pocket. "Anyways, you're a human, right? That's hilarious. I'm Sans. Sans the Skeleton. I'm actually supposed to be on watch for humans right now. But…y'know…" Sans shrugged, "I don't really care about capturing anybody. Now my brother, Papyrus, he's a human-hunting FANATIC." Motion over the kid's head drew Sans's attention briefly and his face lit up. He'd know that silhouette anywhere, even from this distance through the light fog. "Hey, actually, I think that's him over there." He focused back on the kid, catching the tail end of their rotation to see what he was looking at. "I have an idea." The kid looked back at him. "Go through this gate thingy." The kid glanced at the gate, worry marring their expression. Sans nodded. "Yeah, go right through. My bro made the bars too wide to stop anyone." It was a breath, a moment that allowed Sans to watch as the kid's worry turned into determination, before the kid turned right around and walked through the massive structure's posts. Sans kept pace with them, following them through to the other side and then some. Surprisingly enough, the oddly-shaped lamp that had always been next to his station was suddenly conveniently-shaped and very useful, especially with his brother heading their way. "Quick, behind that conveniently-shaped lamp.