Pouch Funny Quotes

Sicarius, are you ready for a hike?” She faced him only to find he had armed himself—more so than usual. In addition to his daggers and throwing knives, he held two rifles, two pistols, two cargo belts laden with ammo pouches, and a bag of his smoke grenades. “Or a single-handed all-out assault on the forest?

would be funny if Mr. Piccolo resembled a piccolo, but he doesn’t. Actually, he’s quite round. More like a bass fiddle. He has a big pouch of a belly that stretches the oversized turtleneck sweaters he always wears. He has a round face, too. He’s mostly bald and his scalp shines like a bowling ball. He wears square eyeglasses, which are always sliding down

In the garden of my childhood my mother grew corn and asparagus, beans, zucchini, and more, but the thing I remember most is the cherry tomatoes, bushy in their cages, the leaves slightly sticky, funny smelling. My mother wore long-sleeve shirts to weed the tomatoes. I remember her plucking them off the bush, my brother and me opening our mouths like baby birds for her to pop them in. I closed my eyes to experience the exact moment my teeth pierced the smooth skin and the tomato exploded in a burst of acid sweet, the seeds slightly bitter in their jelly pouches. The sensation was so unexpected each time it happened that my eyes flew open. And there was my mother, smiling at me. That is what I remember. My mother did not smile often. We have pictures where she is smiling, me or my brother nestled on her lap. You can tell she loves us. Her body language shows it. But mostly we knew she loved us because of how hard she worked for us. Usually elsewhere. But the garden—the garden was her project. In the little time she had not devoted to work and cleaning and trying to hold her small world together, my mother grew food. My brother and I didn't help in the garden, but we were usually playing nearby. We always wanted to be nearby when she was home. I remember her letting us crawl through the dried cornstalks after the ears had been harvested. I remember running my hands through the asparagus that had been allowed to go to seed. I remember eating plums from the old tree that lived in the corner of the yard. I remember her feeding us tomatoes fresh off the vine and still warm from the sun. When I think of those tomatoes, it is not the flavor that moves me. They were shockingly sweet and tangy, but that is not what I remember the most. It is not what I yearned for. Eating cherry tomatoes meant my mother was home; it meant she was smiling at me.

Emily tossed her body armor down on her office floor with a curse. She turned at the sound of soft laughter behind her. Olivia stood in the doorway, her favorite white and red coffee mug cradled in both hands in front of her. “I never thought I’d hear the day where you’d cuss,” Olivia said. “Yeah well, you try putting together your Inceptor Body Armor,” she growled, “without instructions. There is not a single person in this entire clinic that knows how to do this.” She glared down at the pile of gear. “There’s pouches and pockets and straps and…” “And lions and tigers and bears, oh my,” Olivia said. Emily glared at her friend. “Not funny.” “It’s a little funny. Seeing you flustered like this? Totally funny.” Olivia moved closer to the pile of gear sitting next to the empty plastic bags it had come in. She toed an empty pouch. “Did you just pick this up?” “An hour ago. I thought it would come put together. I mean, who just hands a soldier a pile of gear and says ‘here you go, figure it out’?” “That would be the U.S. Army,” a male voice said.