Panties In A Wad Quotes

You can call me Pastor-and before Mr. Sox Fan gets his panties in a wad, I want everyone to know I'm legit. I went online, took a minister's course in under an hour, and I'm ordained, baby.

Whatever you guys call it. Man up. Get your panties out of a wad. Put on your big boy shorts. Grow a set.

Raising kids is hard and raising toddlers feels IMPOSSIBLE most of the time. We all wonder if we’re fucking it up, so why not just be honest? The kind of people parents need in their lives are the ones they can call to come over for a drink and to bitch about their day while their kids play on the floor. You should be able to say, “Hey, toddlers are assholes,” without them getting their panties in a wad. You should be able to say, “I hate my fucking family sometimes” and “Cooking dinner sucks ass.” Fuck all this perfectionist, gratitude-out-the-ass bullshit. It’s okay to say it sucks when it sucks. Yes, there are people in the world who have it so much worse, but does that mean we can’t let off some steam? Of course not. You know what’s hard? Even harder than dealing with toddlers? Pretending it’s not hard.

Nine-thirty. I throw on my bathrobe. With soap in one hand, and potty, hairpins, panties, curlers and a wad of cotton in the other, I hurry out of the bathroom. The next in line invariably calls me back to remove the gracefully curved but unsightly hairs that I’ve left in the sink. Ten o’clock. Time

Without missing a beat, Mal flipped back his long blond hair. “You’re all incredibly freaking clueless. Sam’s around us like twenty-four seven and you don’t even notice when shit’s going down with him. Because I’m telling you, every time he looks at Marty since about forever, shit is definitely going down with that dude.” “Really?” I asked, despite myself. “Oh yeah. He gets all tense like his panties are in a wad or something. It’s actually quite entertaining.

Shit," he says. "I don't really – well, I've never done this before." "Stalk a girl?" "No. Apologize . Obviously I did something that offended you, since you huffed and stormed off from my place with your panties in a wad. I don't know, maybe it was the nudity or the whole stripper thing, but –" "Is this your apology?" I interrupt. "If it is, you really suck at it." "Fuck. You're kind of a pain in the –" "Again, not really helping." "Look," he groans in frustration. "I'm here with flowers. Obviously, I'm sorry that you got all pissy at my house." I laugh. "Goodbye, Mr. King.

What the fuck is that?” At the sound of V’s voice, John turned with the rest of them . . . and when he saw what was up at the head of the grand staircase, he blinked once. Twice. Twelve times. Lassiter was standing at the top of the carpeted steps, his blond-and-black hair styled in a pompadour, a heavy Bible under his armpit, piercings catching the light . . . But none of that was the real shocker. The fallen angel was dressed in a sparkling white Elvis costume. Complete with bell-bottoms, balloon sleeves, and lapels big enough to tent up the backyard. Oh, and rainbow wings that revealed themselves as he held his arms out, preacher style. “Time to get the party started,” he said as he jogged down, sequins winking and flashing. “And where the hell’s my pulpit?” V coughed out the smoke he’d just inhaled. “She’s having you do the service?” The angel popped his already mile-high collar. “She said she wanted the holiest thing in the house to do it.” “She got holey, all right,” somebody muttered. “Is that Butch’s Bible?” V asked. The angel flashed the goods. “Yup. And his BoC, he called it? I also got a sermon I did myself.” “Saints preserve us,” came from the opposite side of the crowd. “Wait, wait, wait.” V waved his hand-rolled around. “I’m the son of a deity and she picked you?” “You can call me Pastor—and before Mr. Sox Fan gets his panties in a wad, I want everyone to know I’m legit. I went online, took a minister’s course in under an hour, and I’m ordained, baby.” Rhage raised his hand. “Pastor Ass-hat, I have a question.” “Yes, my son, you are going to hell.” Lassiter made the sign of the cross and then looked around. “So where’s our bride? The groom? I’m ready to marry somebody.” “I didn’t bring enough tobacco for this,” V bitched. Rhage sighed. “There’s Goose in the bar, my brother—oh, wait. We don’t have a bar anymore.” “I think I’ll just run an IV of morphine.” “Can I put it in?” Lassiter asked. “That’s what she said,” somebody shot back

John jumped to the side as an entire keg came flying at his head. Fortunately, Vishous was able to grab it before the thing hit the mosaic floor out in the foyer—which would have been a bitch to fix. “We gotta keep him contained,” someone muttered. “Amen,” somebody else replied. “He gets free in the house, and it’ll be shit even Fritz won’t know how to clean up.” “I’ll take care of it.” Everyone turned and stared at Lassiter. The fallen angel with the bad attitude and even worse taste in just about everything had appeared from out of nowhere—and was looking serious, for once. “What the fuck is that?” V demanded as the angel put a thin gold pen up to his own mouth. Turned out it wasn’t a fancy Bic. With a quick puff, Lassiter discharged a tiny dart across the room—and when it hit Wrath in the shoulder, the impact was as if the King had been struck by a bullet in the chest. He went down hard, his body stiffening and then falling like an oak. “What the fuck did you do!” V pulled a Wrath and went for the angel. But Lassiter got right back in the Brother’s face. “He was going to hurt himself, the house, or one of you assholes! And don’t get your fucking panties in a wad. He’s just going to have a little nap—” Wrath let out a soft snore. Moving carefully, the Brotherhood closed in like they were checking out a grizzly and John went with them. As a circle formed around Sleeping Beauty, there was a lot of cursing under breaths. “If you’ve killed him—” Lassiter put his gold whacker away. “Does he look dead.” No, actually, the poor bastard looked like he was at peace with himself and the world, his coloring strong, his body so relaxed his shitkickers were lolling to the sides.

You can say your prayers, work your rites Burn your little candles day and night You can shimmy 'til dawn to the pounding drums But you best be ready when the Horned One comes, yeah If you wake to the sound of a hunting horn Dance a ring in the gathering storm If the Solstice time gets your panties in a wad It's just the coming of the Horned God He will call you out, make you sweat Give you a blessing that you'll never forget So revel in the chase and let your heartbeat run: Blessed are the children of the Horned One!” From Hymn to Herne by S.J. Tucker

Why can't he make it easier for us?" the staff asked, cursing under their breath as sifted the covers and floors on their hands and knees. "Why do we always have to be searching for blonde hair and blonde bobby pins? Why can't he get himself a steady brunette?" Perhaps the most troubling aspect of this story is that the staff picked hairs off the sheets instead of changing them. Which leads us to ponder how many sets of sheets the White House possessed. Perhaps not enough to keep up with JFK's constant soiling of them? Fresh sheets would have offered the added advantage of whisking away all those leftover panties, like the ones the first lady found wadded up underneath her pillow.