Popeye Quotes

I am what I am, and that's all that I am.

This is Popkenchurch. Popkenchurch is when you buy fried chicken and Cajun rice from Popeyes, biscuits from KFC, and fried okra and corn on the cob from Church’s.

I yam what I yam, and that's all what I yam.

Jamie: Maybe you could stop being a neat freak and ease off with barking orders at me. Dante: I resent the neat-freak statement. And I do not bark. Jamie: Sure you don't, Popeye. Dante: And it wouldn't kill you to use the shoe rack. I mean, it's right by the door. Jamie: Stop putting my CD's in chronological order, and I'll work on the shoe rock thing. Dante: How about alphabetical order? Jamie: How about you go to therapy?

God was gone; it was the silence of his departure. It was a rainy night. It was the myth of the rainy night. Dean was popeyed with awe. This madness would lead nowhere. I didn't know what was happening to me, and I suddenly realized it was only the tea that we were smoking; Dean had bought some in New York. It made me think that everything was about to arrive - the moment when you know all and everything is decided forever.

... a bullock, backing in alarm from the halter, crashed its craggy behind into my midriff. The wind shot out of me in a sharp hiccup, then the animal decided to turn round in the narrow passage, squashing me like a fly against the railings. I was pop-eyed as it scrambled round; I wondered whether the creaking was coming from my ribs or the wood behind me.

He sallied forth, having told all those bally lies with the clear, blue, pop-eyed gaze of a young child.

Can you run?” said Hazel. “I think not. Why you pop-eyed, back-door saucer-scraper—

In Louisiana, one of the first stages of grief is eating your weight in Popeyes fried chicken. The second stage is doing the same with boudin. People have been known to swap the order. Or to do both at the same time.

The only thing that's worse than people who say "I am what I am" is people who say "I yam what I yam" while doing a Popeye imitation.

It was the look which Ajax had in his eyes when he defied the lightning, the look which nervous husbands have when they announce their intention of going round the corner to bowl a few games with the boys. One could not say definitely that Lord Marshmoreton looked pop-eyed. On the other hand, one could not assert truthfully that he did not.

If I'm not me, who am I. And If I'm somebody else, why do I look like me?

[The USA in the '70s] The country's cinematic output was appropriately bleak, reflecting the moroseness and self-hatred that riddled the national psyche. Anti-heroes such as Bonnie and Clyde, Travis Bickle, Popeye Doyle and the Corleones dominated the box office and the public wallowed in a morass of guilty introspection. There was never a country in more desperate need of a blow job than the United States of America: enter George Lucas.

We, who fill our stomachs with nothing but boiled lettuce, raw lettuce, spinach, spinach and more spinach. Maybe we'll end up being as strong as Popeye, though so far I've seen no sign of it!

Who would you rather buy your Duck Soup from, me or some other guy? OK fine, but what if that other guy is SOLD OUT? Then what? What do you mean you'll just go to Popeyes for a Spicy Chicken Sandwich?!

Popeyes is coming to town, and with it The Spicy Chicken Sandwich. As a duck farmer I'm jealous. I wish I had a food item that customers were willing to stab each other over. What great marketing: We offer something that's worth getting knifed in line for the chance to buy.

I yam what I am.

I Yam What I Yam

I yam what I yam and dats all what I yam

You're the man now,' she said to me after my father died, 'you're the man.' Then she turned to Popeye, our calico tom, and said, 'You're the cat now, Popeye, you're the cat,' as if she'd always worn a veil over her face and had never known we were men and cats all along.

I am what I am and that's all that I am.

I'm strong to the finish 'cause I eats me spinach.

The Popeyes Spicy Chicken Sandwich was so popular that customers stabbed each other to get it, and then seeing that passion, McDonald's created its own Spicy Chicken Sandwich. Here on my duck farm, I fully support McDonald's trying to get their customers to stab each other.

I watch these kids. They don't seem entirely unhappy. A few times I've even circled the Free Clinic on foot, trying to catch a closer glimpse of these kids and their lives as they pop in and out of the clinic's Sputnik-era, gone-to-seed building--Lancaster's future trolls and Popeyes loitering out back having hushed paranoid conversations. And once I even went to have a look where they hang out in a big way, out in the delivery bay behind the now-closed Donut Hut, the delivery bay grotto out back with a floor spongy with pigeon shit, chewing gum, cigarette ashes, and throat oysters--dank and sunless. I went to visit this place once when all the druggies were away, having their druggy lives downtown doing their druggy things: yelling at parked cars and having conversations with amber lights. I visited this place and I was confused: confused and attracted. Who do these people think they are? How can they not care about the future or hot running water or clean sheets or cable TV? These people. And on the walls down at the delivery bay, do you know what they had written? Written in letters several hands high, letters built of IV needles attached to the cement with soiled bandages and wads of chewing gum? They had written the words WE LIKE IT.

I yam what I yam"...

I am what I am

I am what I am, and that's all that I am.

Christ – wid ye take a look at that numpty? Fuckin "Popeye" izzit?’ Jimmy gestured towards the bar. ‘C**t obviously husnae hud his spinach, eh?

White vividly recalled sitting “pop-eyed with wonder” at the edge of his chair while Roosevelt spoke “with a kind of dynamic, burning candor” about his plans.

You’re the man now,” she said to me after my father died, “you’re the man.” Then she turned to Popeye, our calico tom, and said, “You’re the cat now, Popeye, you’re the cat,

And so, in her first month in the apartment on the corner of Flatbush and Parkside above the Popeyes, August learns that the Q is a time, a place, and a person.

Y así, durante su primer mes en el piso de la esquina entre Flatbush y Parkside, encima del Popeyes, August aprende que la línea Q es un momento, un lugar y una persona.

Like Popeye says, “I yam what I yam.” And I know that Harry and I did the best we could, making it all up as we went along.

he had been resting against an entrance hatch that had swung inwards. Inside was a pop-eyed lunatic with a wild grin, a bouffant hair style and far too much scarf.

He couldn't have fallen in love with her in a couple of hours." "Why not? I fell in love with her in a couple of minutes. I worshipped her immediately we met, the popeyed little excrescence.

God was gone; it was the silence of his departure. It was a rainy night. It was the myth of the rainy night. Dean was popeyed with awe. This madness would lead nowhere. I didn’t know what was happening to me, and I suddenly realized it was only the tea that we were smoking; Dean had bought some in New York. It made me think that everything was about to arrive—the moment when you know all and everything is decided forever.

Popeye the Sailor Man has more cultural longevity. Only women and poofs read or write now. Otherwise, these days, no sooner has someone been sodomised by a close relative than they think they can write a memoir. The game’s up.

I once got stabbed, and all I got to show for it was a Popeyes Spicy Chicken Sandwich. Oh, and a scar. But that was years ago, so I think they should release a Spicy Duck Sandwich—and when purchased, it would include a FREE knife.

We stare at each other pop-eyed over the burlap sack and laugh as if we're afraid to stop. Somebody needs to say the magical, abracadabrical words that will turn tonight's crime into a joke. Marta has buttoned her wet sweater up to her neck. Petey's vanished. Now Raffy swirls the flashlights with true panic. Our joke keeps hatching and waddling forward in a snaky black procession, growing longer and less funny by the second, and this time nobody, not even Raffy, knows the punch line.

What we eat is funny and what we drink is even more hilarious: turkeys, Gallo port, hot dogs, watermelons, Popeyes, salmon croquettes, frappes, Christian Brothers port, orange rye bread, canteloupes, Popeyes, salads, cheese--booze, grub and Popeyes.

God was gone; it was the silence of his departure. It was a rainy night. It was the myth of the rainy night. Dean was popeyed with awe. This madness would lead nowhere. I didn’t know what was happening to me, and I suddenly realized it was only the tea that we were smoking;

This is a time in baseball when steroids have become a pretty big deal. On our team, you got Barry Bonds, who is hitting home runs like a mortar barrage, and whose head has grown to a size where when they make his promotional bobble-head, they just do the whole thing to scale, while across the bay in Oakland, Mark McGwire now has forearms like Popeye and will only speak in dialects of horse, and they’re keeping José Canseco chained to a post under the ballpark and throwing him raw meat until right before game time, so the league is starting to get sensitive about it.

I wanted a real diary, but there wasn't time to visit a stationery store, so instead I ran down to Thrift Drug and got you. According to your cover, you're an 'Official Popeye the Sailor Spiral-Bound Notebook, copyright © 1959 King Features Syndicate.' When I look into your wizened face, Popeye, I know you're a man I can trust.

I yam what I yam.

I am what's I am and that's all that's I am.

I am what I am, and that's all that I am.

I have something for him.” “What is it?” he said in Greek. “Drugs?” “Yes.” “Well, give me something, for God’s sake,” he said, swaying forward, pop-eyed. He was far too drunk for sleeping pills. I gave him an Excedrin. “Thanks,” he said, and swallowed it with a big sloppy drink of his whiskey. “I hope I die in the night. Where do you suppose he went, anyway? What time is it?

NASA documents from 1966 confirm the United States weather modification programme with a budget of hundreds of millions of dollars and in the 1990s the US military was publishing papers expounding the war possibilities of weather manipulation, or 'geoengineering' as it is also known. American scientist J. Marvin Herndon described in the International Journal of Environmental Research and Public Health in 2015 how weather modification has been happening for decades and includes the 'make mud, not war' programme named Project Popeye to create monsoon-scale rain during the Vietnam War. US Air Force document AF 2025 Final Report published in 1996 explained how artificially-generated floods, hurricanes, droughts and earthquakes 'offers the war fighter a wide range of possible options to defeat or coerce an adversary'.

Victor proceeded to roll the biggest bomber anybody ever saw. He rolled (using brown bag paper) what amounted to a tremendous Corona cigar of tea. It was huge. Dean stared at it, popeyed. Victor casually lit it and passed it around. To drag on this thing was like leaning over a chimney and inhaling. It blew into your throat in one great blast of heat. We held our breaths and all let out just about simultaneously. Instantly we were all high.

I used to worry about exclamation marks, but what the hell. Sometimes I feel some enthusiasm. So I put in an exclamation point. About five years ago, I began to question the whole concept of "improvement." I think I'm done being "improved." That's part of my prose style, and I'm certainly not going to change it now. And I may lose weight or get my wardrobe finally in order, but the chances on all that are low. "I yam what I yam," as Popeye says.

Também nunca me fora revelada a pequena tatuagem azul, como a de Popeye, no alto do braço direito, quase na altura do ombro — as palavras "Marinha dos EUA" entre os braços em gancho de uma pequena âncora —, percorrendo a hipotenusa do deltoide. Um pequeno símbolo, se fosse necessário, de todas as milhões de circunstâncias da vida daquele outro indivíduo, daquela enxurrada de detalhes que constituem a confusão de uma biografia humana — um pequenino símbolo que chamava a minha atenção para o motivo pelo qual nossa compreensão das pessoas é sempre, na melhor das hipóteses, ligeiramente equivocada.

Matilda and Lavender saw the giant in green breeches advancing upon a girl of about ten who had a pair of plaited golden pigtails hanging over her shoulders. Each pigtail had a blue satin bow at the end of it and it all looked very pretty. The girl wearing the pigtails, Amanda Thripp, stood quite still, watching the advancing giant, and the expression on her face was one that you might find on the face of a person who is trapped in a small field with an enraged bull which is charging flat-out towards her. The girl was glued to the spot, terror-struck, pop-eyed, quivering, knowing for certain that the Day of Judgement had come for her at last.

Patting the ground to her left, Jaime frowned. Gazing around and finding no sign of what she was looking for, her frown deepened. “Did you hide my drinks?” Shaya shook her head. “No, why?” “I came out with, like, eight, and they’re gone.” “You sure you didn’t drink them all?” “I can’t have, or I’d be drunk, wouldn’t I?” “Oh yeah, I never thought of it like that.” Suddenly four heads were peering down at them, smiling in amusement, but only one held Jaime’s attention. “Hey, Popeye, how’s it going?” “Popeye,” chuckled Shaya with a pig-like snort. Tao, Trick, and Marcus chuckled, too. “What you doing down there, baby?” Dante asked, smiling. She was absolutely wasted. Seeing the eight empty bottles at her feet, he could guess why.

Depend upon it, before you have been teaching for a term, everyone in the form knows pretty well 'the sort of stuff that goes down with Prickly Pop-eye.' In the crude old days they knew that what 'went down', and the only thing that 'went down', was correct answers to factual questions, and there were only two ways of producing those: working or cheating. The thing would not be so bad if the responses which the pupils had to make were even those of the individual master. But we have already passed that stage. Somewhere (I have not yet tracked it down) there must be a kind of culture-mongers' central bureau which keeps a sharp look-out for deviationists. At least there is certainly someone who sends little leaflets to schoolmasters, printing half a dozen poems on each and telling the master not only which the pupils must be made to prefer, but exactly on what grounds.

I had never touched this particular knob before and shall never find it again. This moment of conscious contact holds a drop of solace. The emergency brake of time. Whatever the present moment is, I have stopped it. Too late. In the course of our, let me see, twelve, twelve and three months of life together, I ought to have immobilized by this simple method millions of moments; paying perhaps terrific fines, but stopping the train. Say why did you do it? the popeyed conductor might ask. Because I liked the view. Because I wanted to stop these speedy trees and the path twisting between them. By stepping on it's receding tail. What happened to her would perhaps not have happened, had I been in the habit of stopping this or that bit of our common life, prophylactically, prophetically, letting this or that moment rest and breath in peace. Taming time. Giving her pulse respite. Pampering life, life - our patient.

If only I could coexist as peacefully with you as I do with my wolf,” Jaime said as they walked back to pack territory hand in hand. Dante frowned at her. “We coexist peacefully…when you’re not making a mess of our room and ignoring what I say.” “Maybe you could stop being a neat freak and ease off with barking orders at me.” “I resent the neat-freak statement. And I do not bark.” She snickered. “Sure you don’t, Popeye.” “And it wouldn’t kill you to use the shoe rack. I mean, it’s right by the door.” “Stop putting my CDs in chronological order, and I’ll work on the shoe rack thing.” A short pause. “How about alphabetical order?” “How about you go to therapy?” A frustrated growl escaped him. “How about I just shove my cock in your mouth? That should shut you up. Hey!” he whined when she drummed her fingers against his temple. “What’re you doing?” She shrugged. “I just felt like tapping some ass.” His mouth dropped open. Her smirk had him growling again. “Bitch.” “Jerk.” “Love you, baby.” “Love you, Popeye.

At the time that he had seriously begun to consolidate his organization, Parker was working in a custom photo lab. The reader who is not much taken by audiovisual pastimes may have a deficient picture of that place where Parker was employed; or perhaps not so much a deficient picture--the dyes faded, shoddily spotted, brutishly burned in and doltishly dodged by subhuman technicians under the glare of the enlargers--as an image which had been misfiled in the archives of the memory, representing instead one of those bleak Photo Drive-Ups and Presto Printses located nowadays on the corner of almost every large parking lot, in which the clerks wait sadly behind their glass counters, but no one comes in, and the air becomes darker and darker over the course of the morning as a result of exhaust fumes (there goes another brain cell; ping! - THAT thought will never be completed now); and the pink chubby tots smiling at your from the walls in sample enlargements become steadily more grimy, and by the lunch break they are brown; and the day ticks off on the loud digital clock; and then finally a car creeps into the lot, and a popeyed couple locks that vehicle doors listlessly; they request a reprint of a washed-out snapshot of their son who was killed in the Indian Wars, and they go away; and after a long time here comes a slick-haired teenager who once took a few pix of his girlfriend holding a balloon at the zoo in front of the monkey cage on a dirty overcast day, and the clerk can tell just by looking at this customer that they won’t come out, because the guy’s a loser if the clerk knows anything at all about losers and in fact he knows a hell of a lot about losers because why else would he be stuck with this job?

Popeys is greasy!

Is that a threat?” One of the Codds pushed to his feet. A big man, but pop-eyed and wide of mouth, with dead white flesh. He looked as if his father had sired him on a fish, but he still wore a longsword. “Dagon Codd yields to no man.

Where's the entrance to the exit?

It hadn’t really occurred to me that the Pike girls would be competing against each other. What if one of them did win the pageant? The other would lose not just to strangers or even friends, but to her own sister. How awful! On the other hand, I was beginning to think that there wasn’t much chance that either girl would win, not with banana-peeling and rude Popeye songs.

Uno de éstos, José Pascual Santamaría, conocido por Popeye, ganó la orden de Lenin a título póstumo combatiendo sobre Stalingrado. Y cuando el periódico Zashitnik Otechevsta titulaba Derrotemos al enemigo como los pilotos del capitán Alexander Guerasimov, pocos sabían que ese heroico capitán Guerasimov se llamaba en realidad Alfonso Martín García, y entre sus camaradas era conocido por El Madrileño. O que una unidad de zapadores minadores integrada por españoles, bajo el mando del teniente Manuel Alberdi, combatió desde Moscú hasta Berlín, dándose el gusto de rebautizar calles berlinesas escribiendo encima, con tiza, los nombres de sus camaradas muertos. En cuanto a lucha de guerrillas,

guess by now you probably have a picture in your mind of some disgusting gremlin looking creature straight out of the pages of Harry Potter, with wispy bits of silver hair, wrinkled features and a long pointy nose protruding from ancient spectacles. Exotic crystal earrings hang from oversized, weathered ear lobes, because I have to have crystal. Yep, crystal is my thing. I have to wear crystal, like, all the time. Crystal to me, is like armour is to Ironman, Spinach is to Popeye, a pencil is to Mr Squiggle and kryptonite is to Superman. Hang on, that’s wrong. Kryptonite kills Superman doesn’t it?

This one has Olive Oyl getting it doggy-style from Popeye.

Well hello, Miss Josie!” Don Yates stepped stiffly out of the pickup, approaching me with a slightly bow-legged gait. He’d been tall once but had become stooped and shrunken in his later years. He’d been a bull-rider in his younger days, and he’d been beaten up and put back together a time or two. Nettie said he’d broken every bone in his hands by the time his career was over. His fingers were as big around as sausages, his palms thick and muscular. Combine that with his built up forearms, and he looked a little like Popeye - all arms, no butt, and bowed legs.

Look at him. There’s no more chance he’ll make a decent record than Bug turning down a Family Meal at Popeye’s.” Cal

el destino es un juego incierto, para la vida de todos, sin excepción.

Past an empty stretch of white wall with stone flowers inset below windows, he spied a pair of pop-eyed pimp-eyes as urgent as whore-eyes but roundly comical as the pimp twisted himself from side to side not to be sexy but to be urgent as if to say Jimmy this is your one and only chance to get the woman whose cunt will satisfy you for ever and ever, in sickness and in health, so help me God, but you have to come with me right now down this dark dark alley past the sign that says MOVIES and left by the trash cans following the luminescence of my white straw hat and white jeans and the whites of my eyes which I will continually turn back upon you to make sure that you stay with me all the way to the barred basement windows where your good fortune waits for you already saying oh Jimmy Jimmy but as soon as the man opened his mouth he became as monotonous as the intricacies of brick walls and the steel lattice-windows of bars, and Jimmy walked away.

Henry escorted us deeper into the Foundry and before long we began encountering other employees. Some were merely odd – like the wild-haired, wild-eyed man in a white lab coat who kept telling a pop-eyed hunchback in a black cloak that his name was supposed to be pronounced "Fronk-en-steen," along with the handsome young man with curly black hair wearing a corset, fishnet stockings, 70s glam-rock boots, and far too much make-up.

si el perro guardián muerde a todos por igual, es un buen perro”.

I'm Popeye the sailor man  dum dum I live in a cara-van  dum dum I op-en the door And fall-on the floor I'm Popeye the sailor man  dum dum

When he had ate his fill, and proceeded from the urgent first cup and necessary second to the voluntary third which might be toyed with at leisure, without any particular outcry seeming to suggest he should be on his guard, he leant back, spread the city’s news before him, and, by glances between the items, took a longer survey of the room. Session of the Common Council. Vinegars, Malts, and Spirituous Liquors, Available on Best Terms. Had he been on familiar ground, he would have been able to tell at a glance what particular group of citizens in the great empire of coffee this house aspired to serve: whether it was the place for poetry or gluttony, philosophy or marine insurance, the Indies trade or the meat-porters’ burial club. Ships Landing. Ships Departed. Long Island Estate of Mr De Kyper, with Standing Timber, to be Sold at Auction. But the prints on the yellowed walls were a mixture. Some maps, some satires, some ballads, some bawdy, alongside the inevitable picture of the King: pop-eyed George reigning over a lukewarm graphical gruel, neither one thing nor t’other. Albany Letter, Relating to the Behaviour of the Mohawks. Sermon, Upon the Dedication of the Monument to the Late Revd. Vesey. Leases to be Let: Bouwerij, Out Ward, Environs of Rutgers’ Farm. And the company? River Cargos Landed. Escaped Negro Wench: Reward Offered. – All he could glean was an impression generally businesslike, perhaps intersown with law. Dramatic Rendition of the Classics, to be Performed by the Celebrated Mrs Tomlinson. Poem, ‘Hail Liberty, Sweet Succor of a Briton’s Breast’, Offered by ‘Urbanus’ on the Occasion of His Majesty’s Birthday. Over there there were maps on the table, and a contract a-signing; and a ring of men in merchants’ buff-and-grey quizzing one in advocate’s black-and-bands. But some of the clients had the wind-scoured countenance of mariners, and some were boys joshing one another. Proceedings of the Court of Judicature of the Province of New-York. Poor Law Assessment. Carriage Rates. Principal Goods at Mart, Prices Current. Here he pulled out a printed paper of his own from an inner pocket, and made comparison of certain figures, running his left and right forefingers down the columns together. Telescopes and Spy-Glasses Ground. Regimental Orders. Dinner of the Hungarian Club. Perhaps there were simply too few temples here to coffee, for them to specialise as he was used.

Popeyes Naked Sandwiches: At any Popeyes, you have the option to get your sandwich “naked,” which means no breading on your meat. 196 Long John Silver’s Side of Crumbs: A free box of batter parts that have fallen off the fish or chicken. It’s a great topping for salads. 197 Dunkin’ Donuts Turbo Hot Coffee: A coffee with an extra shot of espresso in it. 198 Burger King’s Frings: Can’t decide between fries and onion rings? Order the Frings and they’ll give you half and half. 199 McDonald’s Monster Mac: A Big Mac made with eight meat patties. 200 Onions and garlic are both foods that accelerate

While researching Champagne I became so fascinated with the repeated suggestion that I finally broke down, and ran out one night to bring back the merely average fried chicken from my local gas station, which I ate with a bottle of Nicholas Feuillatte brut. It was everything promised, the Champagne taming the grease while amplifying the salty, rich flavor, and it made even this run of the mill fried chicken much better. It was so good I don’t know how I’ll ever go back to beer. I can’t endorse KFC, but if you have a Popeye’s near you, I suggest putting down this book, taking a break, making a fried chicken-and-Champagne run, and then picking up where you left off, decadently satisfied. Just don’t buy Korbel or Cook’s.

Nice to meet ya,” Popeye said. He sort of held his hand out. “Do we shake?” “Of course,” Ronald said, enveloping the small man’s hand in his massive hairy one. “Decorum doesn’t go away just because there are bodies on the ground.” Ronald

I'm asking God to give you a Popeye moment. A moment when God blesses you with a divine burden: something that bothers you so deeply, you're moved from complacency to action.

She swallowed. “Who’s there?” she called out. Her voice, she was surprised to hear, sounded steady, confident. “I said, who’s there?” She saw the foot slide forward. The sneaker was completely black after all. Reeboks, as a matter of fact. A man, a big man, followed the sneakers. He was dressed entirely in black. Black sneakers, black socks, black sweater, black pants. His shirtsleeves were pushed up, revealing powerful forearms the size of Popeye’s. He stepped out from inside the doorway and smiled at her. The smile was wide, bright, but mostly . . . unfeeling. It touched no other part of his face. When she looked up into his dark, bleak eyes, a cold chill rippled in her belly And

Explicación dada a una pregunta no formulada es confesión anticipada…

The boycotts against Hearst’s newspapers were soon expanded to include his newsreels. At Williams College, then at Amherst, then elsewhere, students booed the Hearst newsreels—at Amherst, they drowned them out with cries of “We Want Popeye! We Want Popeye!”—and picketed the theaters that carried them, forcing theater owners to protect themselves by removing the name Hearst from the titles.

What happened to the pope when he went to Mount Olive? Popeye almost killed him!

But they could be frightening, too. “Watching Watergate in Archie Bunker Country,” said the cover of the June 18 issue of New York magazine. It began with the author, top-drawer trend journalist Gail Sheehy, recording what happened when the proprietor of Terry’s Bar in Astoria, Queens, asked his patrons if he might tune the bar’s TV to the hearings. Nine men cried “Forget it!” “The majority called for Popeye cartoons. But Terry couldn’t find a channel that wasn’t polluted with the ‘search for unvarnished truth.’ They had no choice. Television was suppressing their freedom not to know.” These ironworkers, sandhogs, elevator operators, and beer truck drivers said things like this: that Ted Kennedy “killed a broad” (“Now there was a mountain, and they made a molehill

My money’s on the smart brother,” Popeye said. “Fuck you!” Max shouted down. “I was talking about you!” Popeye yelled back. “Oh, cool. Thanks!” Max smiled as he looked at his brother. “You’re the dumb one.” “That’s

Jolted by a twentyfold increase in testosterone, a bull changes into a sort of spinach-eating Popeye, a self-confident jerk ready to fight anyone in his path.

THE UNICORN POPCORN POPPED LIKE POPEYES 3 Piece SPECAIL  ( ͡͡ ° ͜ ʖ ͡ °)

I yam what I yam and that's all what I yam

If Popeye had eaten a quarter of the spinach we saw him eat in the cartoons, he would’ve died of oxalic acid poisoning.

What makes one name more a person than another? Is the name the real thing, then? And the person only what his name says? Is that why to the simplest and friendliest of questions: “What is your name?” put to you by Moses, You would not say, and said instead “I am who I am.” Like Popeye? I Yam What I Yam? Afraid you were, weren’t you, to give out your name? Afraid they would know the name and then know you? Then they wouldn’t fear you? It’s quite all right. Don’t be vexed. I mean no offense. I understand.

Home-run hysteria peaked in 1998 when the Cards’ Mark McGwire and the Cubs’ Sammy Sosa battled to break perhaps the most sacred record in all of baseball, Roger Maris’s sixty-one home runs in a single season. Both players didn’t just break it; they shattered it: McGwire hitting seventy home runs and Sosa sixty-six. La Russa managed McGwire when he broke the record, and McGwire admitted that during the season he had taken a steroid precursor known as “Andro,” short for androstendione. Andro was available over the counter at the time, although the NFL and the Olympics had banned it. McGwire made no attempt to hide his use of it. He kept a bottle on the shelf of his locker in plain view, and La Russa does not believe that McGwire ever used anything other than Andro (he also stopped taking it in 1999 and still hit sixty-five home runs). He was big when he came into the league in 1986 and over time became dedicated to working out as often as six days a week in order to prevent further injuries. In the early 1990s, he actually lost weight to take pressure off a chronically sore heel; weight loss runs counter to the bloated look of someone on steroids. But the same could not be said of Canseco. Despite a body that ultimately metamorphosed into an almost cartoonish shape—Brutus meets Popeye—he denied throughout his career that he ever had taken steroids, until his playing days ended in 2002. Two weeks later, ever the performer, he admitted with much ballyhoo that he had indeed been on the juice. Rickey Henderson was another high-profile player who moved to his own brooding rhythms. In all of La Russa’s years of managing, no player in baseball has ever been more dangerous than Henderson with his combination of on-base percentage and base-stealing skills and power. Impervious to pressure unlike any player La Russa had ever seen before, he became a marked man around the league because he could beat you in so many ways, and he still starred for almost the entire decade of the 1980s.

Since you don’t want him,” Hendrix says with a smirk, “tell him I like long walks on the beach and my safe word is Popeyes.

That's all I can stands, 'cause I can't stands no more.

me take care of you until the bar opens, or you can get a regular job like at Target or something.” “Excuse me?” “Look, there goes a Popeyes… Oh, Starbucks; heard they got some good benefits. McDonald’s, that’s a popular choice. I own a few Taco Bells, so I’m sure I can pull some strings there.

I'm strong to the finich cause I eats me spinich.

Pity feeds humiliation like spinach tools up Popeye.

Jardin du Luxembourg A merry-go-round of freshly painted horses sprung from a childish world vividly bright before dispersing in adult oblivion and losing its quaint legendary light spins in the shadows of a burbling circus. Some draw toy coaches but remain upright; a roebuck flashes past, a fierce red lion and every time an elephant ivory-white. As if down in the forest of Fontainebleau a little girl wrapped up in royal blue rides round on a unicorn; a valiant son hangs on to the lion with a frantic laugh, hot fists gripping the handles for dear life; then that white elephant with ivory tusks - an intense scrum of scarves and rumpled socks though the great whirligig is just for fun. The ring revolves until the time runs out, squealing excitedly to the final shout as pop-eyed children gasp there in their grey jackets and skirts, wild bobble and beret. Now you can study faces, different types, the tiny features starting to take shape with proud, heroic grins for the grown-ups, shining and blind as if from a mad scrape.

Quite hypnotising a somewhat popeyed circle, he declared that there was no such thing as fantasy. There was a scale of illusions, declared he, which could be more or less solid according to the way they were sold.

answer?” I shrugged. “Answer shmanser. In the immortal words of Popeye, I yam what I yam. I know my patterns and limitations, needs and hang-ups. So I go on. Right? I endure. I enjoy what I can. There aren’t any more forks in the road to take. Keep walking.

the little man with the grey hair parted in the middle and blue pop-eyes was an international celebrity on the subject of conditioned reflexes in the higher anthropoids. His books were hailed as revolutionary masterpieces by all except the keepers of the monkey-houses at a number of zoos.

Companies don’t even need to merge in order to pay workers less than they’d have to pay in a truly free labor market. I’d assumed only high-end employees were ever required to sign noncompete contracts—an HBO executive prohibited from going to work at Netflix, a coder at Lyft who can’t take a job coding for Uber. But no: shockingly, noncompetes have come to be used just as much to prevent a $10-an-hour fry cook at Los Pollos Hermanos from quitting to work for $10.75 at Popeyes. Of all American workers making less than $40,000 a year, one in eight are bound by noncompete agreements. As another way to reduce workers’ leverage, three-quarters of fast-food franchise chains have contractually prohibited their restaurant operators from hiring workers away from fellow franchisees.

We pulled through the Popeyes and I ordered a sixteen-piece, spicy, “Bonafide Family Meal.

My baby sister, Janet, kept us all occupied with her antics. She could climb out of any enclosure and I actually found her on top of a bookcase one day. I gave her the nickname “Sweet Pea” after the character in the Popeye cartoon strip who possessed similar talents. She was a bundle of nervous energy and liked to tear out her pretty blonde hair in bunches, smiling all the while. I think she enjoyed all the attention from all of her supervisors. Thanksgiving was soon upon us, the time when Grandma would take out all her recipes and spices from a large Oriental tin she kept for the holiday seasons. I especially loved her Swedish Spritz Cookies pressed from a cookie press. Grandma took out the cookie sheets and said, “Carol Ann, you be in charge of the nonpareils. Linda, you can sprinkle the red and green sugar on the cookies after I press them out.” “Where did you get this recipe, Grandma?” “In Sweden, actually. I’ll tell you all about it as we bake. After only a three-year stay in Washington, during which Mr. Bliss was assigned to two different positions: first to the Washington, D.C. Conference on the Limitation of Armaments and then as Chairman of the Diplomatic Service Board of Engineers, President Warren Harding finally made Mr. Bliss, a lifelong Republican, the Ambassador to Sweden.