Okey Dokey Quotes

Okey dokey, fire up the blender, let's make a furry-flurry smoothie out of that squirrel!

Ludo, for Christ's sake stop saying okey-dokey. We're master criminals. We're supervillains. Can't you come up with something that doesn't sound like we're a couple of hicks?" "Yes, Your Exalted Evilness. How's that? Or should I call you Dark Lady?

Okey —” “Don’t say it.” “Dokey.

You burn to have your photograph in a tennis magazine.” “I’m afraid so.” “Why again exactly, now?” “I guess to be felt about as I feel about those players with their pictures in magazines.” “Why?” “Why? I guess to give my life some sort of meaning, Lyle.” “And how would this do this again?” “Lyle, I don’t know. I do not know. It just does. Would. Why else would I burn like this, clip secret pictures, not take risks, not sleep or pee?” “You feel these men with their photographs in magazines care deeply about having their photographs in magazines. Derive immense meaning.” “I do. They must. I would. Else why would I burn like this to feel as they feel?” “The meaning they feel, you mean. From the fame.” “Lyle, don’t they?” “LaMont, perhaps they did at first. The first photograph, the first magazine, the gratified surge, the seeing themselves as others see them, the hagiography of image, perhaps. Perhaps the first time: enjoyment. After that, do you trust me, trust me: they do not feel what you burn for. After the first surge, they care only that their photographs seem awkward or unflattering, or untrue, or that their privacy, this thing you burn to escape, what they call their privacy is being violated. Something changes. After the first photograph has been in a magazine, the famous men do not enjoy their photographs in magazines so much as they fear that their photographs will cease to appear in magazines. They are trapped, just as you are.” “Is this supposed to be good news? This is awful news.” “LaMont, are you willing to listen to a Remark about what is true?” “Okey-dokey.” “The truth will set you free. But not until it is finished with you.” “Maybe I ought to be getting back.” “LaMont, the world is very old. You have been snared by something untrue. You are deluded. But this is good news. You have been snared by the delusion that envy has a reciprocal. You assume that there is a flip-side to your painful envy of Michael Chang: namely Michael Chang’s enjoyable feeling of being-envied-by-LaMont-Chu. No such animal.” “Animal?” “You burn with hunger for food that does not exist.” “This is good news?” “It is the truth. To be envied, admired, is not a feeling. Nor is fame a feeling. There are feelings associated with fame, but few of them are any more enjoyable than the feelings associated with envy of fame.” “The burning doesn’t go away?” “What fire dies when you feed it? It is not fame itself they wish to deny you here. Trust them. There is much fear in fame. Terrible and heavy fear to be pulled and held, carried. Perhaps they want only to keep it off you until you weigh enough to pull toward yourself.” “Would I sound ungrateful if I said this doesn’t make me feel very much better at all?” “LaMont, the truth is that the world is incredibly, incredibly, unbelievably old. You suffer with the stunted desire caused by one of its oldest lies. Do not believe the photographs. Fame is not the exit from any cage.” “So I’m stuck in the cage from either side. Fame or tortured envy of fame. There’s no way out.” “You might consider how escape from a cage must surely require, foremost, awareness of the fact of the cage.

club em if they want a club, ” Belch said, and chuckled. A Belch Huggins chuckle was a low, troll-like sound. “Club em if they want a club. That’s good. That’s pretty much okey-dokey. ” She became

She nodded and then made a gesture I knew well: a thumb-and-forefinger circle which means okey-dokey pretty much the world over. (Except, I guess, in certain rare cases where imbeciles flash it to mean whites rule.)

You close?” His voice holds a taunting note, his lips curved in a slight smirk. “You know I am,” I say desperately. I buck my hips but that just makes him stop moving. Frustration streaks through me. “Please.” “Please what?” He teases my nipple with rough fingertips. “Please let me come.” “Please let me come what?” Confusion rises for a moment, until I realize what he wants. “Please, Blake. Please let me come, Blake.” A huge grin stretches across his face. “Okey-dokey.

Alexander laughs. They kiss exuberantly. “Now—much more seriously,” she says, “what would you like to play, Captain? Marco Polo?” “How about Little Red Riding Tania?” he says, all teeth. “Okey-dokey.” Making her voice high high high, she says gamely, batting her eyes, “Oh, Captain, what big arms you have...” “All the better to hold you with, my dear.” He squeezes her wet body to him. “Oh, Captain, what big hands you have...” “All the better to grab you with, my dear.” He grabs her behind and presses into her. “Oh, my, Captain! What a—” Anthony takes a running jump, right into the pool, right into his mother and father. Alexander pushes his son underwater and when he releases him, Tatiana pushes her son underwater, and when she releases him they both embrace him and kiss his face. “Ant, want to play Marco Polo?” “Yes, Dad,” says Anthony. “You’re it. And no chasing only Mommy this time.

Yeah, there has to be a few screws loose when a girl asks you to drop everything to spend a three-day weekend on very short notice, and you say okey dokey without a care in the world.

One summer, a bachelor farmer hires a college student to help around the farm. Says the farmer, “Son, since you have done such a fine job here this summer, I am going to throw a party for you. You better be able to handle a few beers because there will be lotsa drinkin’ going on.” “Hey, I’m a college man—I can hold my liquor, believe you me. I should do just fine.” “There is also going to be a lot of fightin’, so I hope you can handle yourself with your fists.” “I have been working hard all summer and I think I’m in pretty good shape to defend myself.” “Okey-dokey, but did I mention that there will be lotsa sex?” “Thank God! I have been out here all summer without a date and I have been dying for some action. Say. . . what should I wear to this party?” “I don’t care. Its just gonna be me and you.

I’d been at the plant for three weeks when Curly invited me to his trailer for a drink. He lived just outside Hood River in a double-wide he shared with his mother, a woman he often spoke about. “I told Mother what you said about Dorothy’s mouth looking like a gunshot wound and, Lord, she just about bust a gut, she was laughing so hard. She is one funny lady, my mother. Nothing tickles her funny bone better than a knock-knock joke. You know any good sidesplitters?” Desperate as I was for company, I understood that I was clearly dealing with a loser. Management seemed the perfect career for a person like Curly. I could easily picture him in a short-sleeved shirt, the pocket lined with pens. Someone would ask him to check the time cards and he’d probably say something goofy like “Okey-dokey, artichokey.” I’d tried to straighten him out, but there’s only so much you can do for a person who thinks Auschwitz is a brand of beer. He

It’s Okey-Dokey to play the Hokey Pokey in Cahokia Poem You cannot play the Oompa-pah in Galaxy Andromeda. You cannot do the Can-can in Afghanistan. You cannot play ping-pong while sounding a gong. You cannot tick a tock when your name’s Mum to tick-a-lock. Gainsay or naysay to play the Cha-Cha in Panama. Nix beatnik tricks playing Second Fiddle doing a Paradiddle. Try not to play off-key when you know you have bats in your belfry. But it is Okey-Dokey to play the Hokey Pokey in Cahokia. --Poems that Will Never See the Light of Day, vol. I

Mooommmm-eeeee! What are you dooooo-ing?” Sean broke away abruptly and turned scarlet. There, at the end of the couch, stood Rosie, her pajama bottoms and panties missing, Harry standing beside her, his tail wagging out of his tutu. Sean grabbed a throw pillow and held it over the bulge in his jeans, although there was no way Rosie would know what was going on with him. “Kissing Sean,” Franci said very naturally. “Where are your pants?” “I pooped! I called you to check if I wiped good, but you dint come!” And with that she turned her back on them, bent over at the waist to touch her toes and exposed her butt. “Arrrggghhh,” Sean groaned, covering his eyes and sliding lower on the couch. Franci chuckled and stood. “Okey-dokey, looks like you did a good job. I like it when you save the inspection for the bathroom, though,” Franci said. “Let’s get your bottoms on and back to bed.” Sean collapsed against the couch and thought, I am not ready for this! How does a person get ready for this? When Franci came back, she was laughing at him. “Come on, stop it! The learning curve is really high here!” he complained. “When we get right down to it, marriage would be the least of your adjustments.” *

But the base of the lighthouse is always the darkest.” “What does that mean?” Martin asked. “It means that we are all as a lighthouse. We shine brightly for those far away to see, but we all stand at the base of our tower by the sea, oblivious to the light we ourselves give off.

You feel these men with their photographs in magazines care deeply about having their photographs in magazines. Derive immense meaning.' 'I do. They must. I would. Else why would I burn like this to feel as they feel?' 'The meaning they feel, you mean. From the fame.' 'Lyle don't they?' ... 'LaMont, perhaps they did at first. The first photograph, the first magazine, the gratified surge, the seeing themselves as others see them, the hagiography of image, perhaps. Perhaps the first time: enjoyment. After that, do you trust me, trust me: they do not feel what you burn for. After the first surge, they care only that their photographs seem awkward or unflattering, or untrue, or that their privacy, this thing you burn to escape, what they call their privacy is being violated. Something changes. After the first photograph has been in a magazine, the famous men do not enjoy their photographs in magazines so much as they fear that their photographs will cease to appear in magazines. They are trapped, just as you are.' 'Is this supposed to be good news? This is awful news.' 'LaMont, are you willing to listen to a Remark about what is true?' 'Okey-dokey.' 'The truth will set you free. But not until it is finished with you.' "maybe I ought to be getting back.' 'LaMont, the world is very old. You have been snared by something untrue. You are deluded. But this is good news. You have been snared by the delusion that envy has a reciprocal. You assume that there is a flip-side to your painful envy of Michael Change: namely Micheal Change's enjoyable feeling of being-envied-by-LaMong-Chu. No such animal.' 'Animal?' 'You burn with hunger for food that does not exist.' 'The burning doesn't go away?' 'What fire dies when you feed it?' ... 'Would I sound ungrateful if I said this doesn't make me feel very much better at all?' "LaMont, the truth is that the world is incredibly, incredibly, unbelievably old. You suffer with the stunted desire caused by one of its oldest lies. Do not believe the photographs. Fame is not the exit from any cage' 'So I'm stuck in the cage from either side Fame or tortured envy of fame. There's no way out.' 'You might consider how escape from a cage must surely require, foremost, awareness of the fact of the cage. And I believe I see a drop on your temple, right ... there ....' Etc.

If people say, ‘How can I help?’, the trick is not to go, ‘Help? Me! Nooooo. I don’t need any help. I’m totally fine, completely and utterly okay. All okey dokey in my world thanks. Sure, I was swallowed by a blue whale, digested in their stomach for three months, then spat out again and had to swim seventeen miles to shore but NOOO, I don’t need your help. What a ridiculous notion. What’s that? There’s something in my hair? Oh yes, it’s fine, that’s just a bit of mucus from the whale’s third stomach chamber.

I look through the crowd of people and somehow see him right away. He looks up at the same time and smiles as soon as our eyes meet. “Hey,” I say when we meet. He stops just inches from me and takes me in his arms, dipping me back a bit for a kiss. “Hey to you too.” He runs his hands over my arms.  “What’s this?” “Oh, I got you something.” “You did?” “I got it on a whim. I saw it at a market I walked through and thought—well, just look at it and you’llknow.” He takes the shopping bag from me and opens it up, pulling out a wool fedora. Looking it over, I worry he won’t get it. “Is this an Indiana Jones hat?” he asks. “Yes!” “I like it.” He smiles and puts it on, and even Harrison Ford would be jealous. “But, uh, why?” I lean back, staring at Archer like he just asked what color the sky is. “You’re Dr. Jones. Please do not tell me no one has ever said ‘okey-dokey Dr. Jones’ to you.” “It’s surprising now that you’ve pointed it out, but no, they haven’t.” He pulls me in and kisses me again. “Wait, there’s an Indiana Jones market going on?” “No, just some weird guy at a pop-up selling hats. He told me I had nice feet.” Archer chuckles. “I guess you do, though, in that dress, it’s hard to look past your tits.” I shimmy and wiggle my eyebrows. “That’s the point of a pushup bra.”