Rider Funny Quotes

Believe me, It would be better if we didn't meet again. Go back to school. Go back to your life. And next time they ask you, say no. Killing is for grown-ups and you're still a child.

She tried to smile sympathetically, but with her face it wasn't quite possible.

It's funny how things work out sometimes.

Trojan, Durex, Lifestyles, Trojan Magnum (oh yeah, my three foot cock definitely needed those), Contempo, Vivid and Rough Rider. Seriously? There was a condom brand called Rough Rider? Why not just go with Fuck Her Hard and be done with it? I stood in the "Family Planning" aisle of the grocery store, trying to decide which condom brand was more effective. Family Planning…give me a break. How many people came to this aisle because they were planning a family? They came to this aisle to AVOID planning a family. --Carter

Riley tried not to hyperventilate or think too closely about the Alien movies and their take on extraterrestrial encounters. When he was done checking his belly and chest for signs of distension, it added reassuringly, 'Listen, I’m not going to mess with you, okay? Or… breed in you. Gah. That’s disgusting.

Tell him if he harms you, I'll scorch the ground where he stands.' 'Oh, for fuck's sake, Tairn.' I roll my eyes and walk to Dain, whose jaw is locked, but his eyes are wide with apprehension. 'Tell him, or I'll take it up with Cath.' 'Tairn says if you harm me, he'll burn you,' I say as dragons to the left and right launch skyward without their riders, headed back to the Vale. But not Tairn. Nope, he's still standing behind me like an overprotective dad. 'I'm not going to harm you, ' Dain snaps. 'Word for word, Silver One.' I blow a breath out slowly. 'Sorry, he actually said, if you harm me, he'll scorch the ground where you stand.' I turn and look over my shoulder. 'Better?' Tairn blinks. Dain keeps his eyes on me, but I see it there, the swirling anger Tairn warned me about. 'I would rather die than harm you, and you know it.

What else would they be?” “No idea.” Arik shrugged … “Aliens, mabye?” “Aliens.” Thanatos’s voice was flat, disbelieving. “Your scepticism is funny, coming from one of the Four fucking Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

He thought it was funny that she could hack a bloodthirsty demon to death, but something as natural as having a baby made her quake. Not that Kynan blamed her. He’d happily choose taking a bullet to the gut over squeezing a bowling ball out of his ass. Women were amazing.

Man, Grandma, what big hair you have." "The better to style with, my dear.

Whatever else the entity was, Young was starting to suspect it was also part cockroach.

Permission to shoot the fucker in the face when it comes over the rim?

He’s unrepentant,' McClane pronounced, 'and insulting. And possibly suicidal. Can we kick him in the face?

For some reason riding a caffeinated dragon just sounded like a monumentally bad idea.

Surely my lord will not hide his beautiful white legs!" exclaimed Infadoos regretfully. But Good persisted, and once only did the Kukuana people get the chance of seeing his beautiful legs again. Good is a very modest man. Henceforward they had to satisfy their aesthetic longings with his one whisker, his transparent eye, and his movable teeth.

We’re good to move.” “Cool.” Kolya’s smile was every bit as tight-lipped as Riley’s, but it was real. “Tell us when you need help.” “And tell us before your chest explodes,” Andrej muttered, “so we can shoot the alien babies when they pop out.” Riley made a rude gesture. “McClane says, go fuck yourself.” Kolya chuckled. “Let’s keep him.

How would you... like my legs?” “Out of my way.

El Paso,” Andrej echoed slowly. “You do know there’s nothing in El Paso but dust, heat, and illegal aliens, right?

Good job remaining professional, Aetos.' Xaden scratches the relic on his neck I'm all but certain doesn't actually itch. 'Really shows those leadership qualities to their best advantage.' One of the riders down the table whistles. 'Do you boys just want to whip it out and measure? It would be faster.

Little Red, Little Red, what's in the chip bag, Little Red?" And in the same singsong voice I answered, "Nothing at all, Nothing at all, Nothing at all but your grandpa's head.

You tell your brother he's gonna pay for that car in silver.

You are the smartest of your year. The most cunning.' I gulp at the compliment, brushing it off. I was trained as a scribe, not a rider. 'You defended the smallest with ferocity. And strength of courage is more important than physical strength. Since you apparently need to know before we land.' My throat tightens from his words, emotion forming a knot I have to swallow past. Oh. Shit. I hadn't spoken those words. I'd thought them. He can read my thoughts. 'See? Smartest of your year.' So much for privacy. 'You'll never be alone again.' 'That sounds more like a threat than a comfort,' ...

She giggled when it was funny and when it wasn’t and when she was about to kick ass. It was just who she was. She didn’t laugh to cover nervousness. It was because she found most things in life to be strangely awesome and absurd at the same time.

Once Errol righted himself into some semblance of horsemanship, they set off at an easy canter. That is, the other horses set off at a canter, while Errol's horse settled into a teeth-shattering trot. After a hundred paces he could feel Horace's backbone through the saddle. The other riders pulled ahead without a backward glance, leaving him to his four-footed torture.

You," he purred, "are a HILF." "A what?" "A Horseman I'd like to fuck.

No hurricanes in the house!

How funny you are, and how kind and smart. When I told him you read Dragon Rider when you were six, he was like, ‘Wow, I have to meet this kid.’ ” “Did you tell him anything else?” I said. Mom smiled at me. Her smile kind of hugged me.

It seemed that, after contact with a few human generations, sand hogs would begin to understand human speech. The irony was that after coming to understand their riders fully, the beasts often ended up abandoning them and heading off into the wilderness.

Funny thing about having choices taken away from you—it tended to make things all kinds of crystal clear. You either felt relief all the way into your bones because it was the right decision even if you hadn’t made it, or every cell inside you cried out in rebellion and loss and regret because you learned—too late—what it was you really wanted.

When he stepped back, I cradled the cups so my moobs spilled into them, and said, “I don’t even need the implants.” “For the zillionth time,” Lydia said, “they’re not ‘implants.’ We’re not performing surgery here, though if you use that word one more time, I might be tempted to get out an X-acto knife and make your wish come true.” I clasped the bra closer to my chest.

It’s funny, too, because whenever we purposely teach a horse something we want them to do or know and are successful in doing so, we pat ourselves on the back and think we’ve done a good job. Yet, when we inadvertently teach a horse behavior we didn’t want (and more times than not, unwanted behavior has indeed been taught inadvertently), we blame the horse for learning it and then refer to them as being disrespectful. I don’t know . . . but it seems to me we can’t really have it both ways.

Tell me one thing. Has Rider Sinclair done something to hurt you in any way? If he has,I'll shoot that man!" Willow was taken aback by Miriam's vehemence. "No,no," she hastily assured. "He might have hurt my feelings some but that's all." "I noticed he wasn't being very gentlemanly, but I overlooked it because I thought perhaps he was still showing his temper over the Scofield incident." "You're probably right. But, Miriam, this ain't, er,isn't about Sinclair, not entirely anyway. It's about me." Willow's smile was sad. "Being a man would be easier and a hell of a lot more fun but I ain't built right. So, I want you to teach me how to look and act like a fine and proper lady. You will, won't you?" Merry chuckles bubbled and rolled out of Miriam. "Oh, Willow!" More chuckles. "I know I shouldn't laugh right now, but I can't help myself. You say the most awful things!" Willow didn't know if she should be insulted or not, but since it was Miriam laughing at her, she gave her the benefit of the doubt. "I know my wanting to be a real lady is funny, but not that funny." "No,no." Miriam laughed, gasping for breath. "No that, the part about you're not being built right.

After a while, Trevor said, “Know something funny? Chassie wants us to talk. She thinks it’ll help if we get everything out in the open.” “So she doesn’t realize that was our issue? That we couldn’t be open?” Trevor frowned. “First time you’ve said ‘we’ in that old argument, Ed. You always blamed me for us not holdin’ hands and shit.” “I’ve learned the hard way maybe you were right about the kinda baggage other people hide when they’re showing a different face to the world.” When Edgard didn’t elaborate, Trevor demanded, “You gonna explain that comment? Or you gonna sit there with that smug-ass look and make me guess?” “Trying to explain it when you’re in a piss-poor mood would be a waste of breath.” Edgard gave Trevor a cool once-over. “And for the record, I’m not acting smug. I’m just as screwed up about all this with Chassie as you are.” “Right. I’m sure you’re happy as shit.” Seething, Edgard snapped, “You never had the balls to tell me how you felt when we were together every goddamn day, so don’t you ever f**king presume to tell me anything about the way I feel now when you haven’t seen me for three and a half f**king years.” “I didn’t mean—

In all your travels around Alagaësia, with Angela and without, you’ve never found anything that might explain this mystery? Or even just something that might be of use against Galbatorix.” I found you, didn’t I? “That’s not funny,” growled Eragon. “Blast it, you have to know something more.” I do not. “Think, then! If I can’t find some sort of help against Galbatorix, we’ll lose, Solembum. We’ll lose, and most of the Varden, including the werecats, will die.” Solembum hissed again. What do you expect of me, Eragon? I cannot invent help where none exists. Read the book. “We’ll be at Urû’baen before I can finish it. The book might as well not exist.” Solembum’s ears flattened again. That is not my fault. “I don’t care if it is. I just want a way to keep us from ending up dead or enslaved. Think! You have to know something else!” Solembum uttered a low, warbling growl. I do not. And-- “You have to, or we’re doomed!” Even as Eragon uttered the words, he saw a change come over the werecat. Solembum’s ears swiveled until they were upright, his whiskers relaxed, and his gaze softened, losing its hard-edged brilliance. At the same time, the werecat’s mind grew unusually empty, as if his consciousness had been stilled or removed. Eragon froze, uncertain. Then he felt Solembum say, with thoughts that were as flat and colorless as a pool of water beneath a wintry, cloud-ridden sky: Chapter forty-seven. Page three. Start with the second passage thereon. Solembum’s gaze sharpened, and his ears returned to their previous position. What? he said with obvious irritation. Why are you gaping at me like that? “What did you just say?” I said that I do not know anything else. And that-- “No, no, the other thing, about the chapter and page.” Do not toy with me. I said no such thing. “You did.” Solembum studied him for several seconds. Then, with thoughts that were overly calm, he said, Tell me exactly what you heard, Dragon Rider. So, Eragon repeated the words as closely as he could. When he finished, the werecat was silent for a while. I have no memory of that, he said. “What do you think it means?” It means that we should look and see what’s on page three of chapter forty-seven.

If you aren't in love, Willow Vaughn, then my name isn't Miriam Brigham." Willow started out of her daydreaming and glanced up from the laundry tub. Miriam stood before her with her fists planted on her hips. "Now, Miriam, I-" "No sense denying it, young lady. You've got that dreamy dazed glow about you. Rider Sinclair isn't much better, the way he hangs around you,like a bee drawn to honey. He's always holding your hand or throwing his arm around you when he thinks I'm not looking." "Well,even if I were in love, it wouldn't change anything. I still don't want another man to look after, and I don't need one looking out for me either. I can take care of myself!" "Course, you can!" Miriam agreed, picking the last sheet out of the rinse water and wringing it out. "Most women can. Look at me, I run a boarding house and support myself just fine. But let me tell you something. That lonely bed of mine is mighty cold on winter nights, even here in the territory." Willow blushed and concentrated on her hands where they rested on the edge of the tub. "Willow," Miriam continued, "you've been managing your pa just fine since he got home. A husband isn't any more difficult to manage than a father, unless, of course, you're married to a no-good lout." Willow dried her hands on the wide white apron around her middle. "But, Miriam, if I don't marry, then I don't have to bother finagling a man to my way of doing things. Staying single makes a hell of a lot more sense!" "Watch the cursing, young lady." Miriam slung the sheet over the line and returned to help Willow with the wash tub. They each grapped a handle and carried it a few feet before setting it down to rest their arms a moment. "Willow, use your noggin, will you? Part of the fun of being a woman is wrapping some big, handsome hunk of a man around your little finger. You do have to use your good sense, though, and realize when you're wrong and he's right. Of course"-Miriam chuckled-"that won't be too often. "And you have to be careful not to hurt a man's feelings overly much. Men are funny creatures. They seldom let their emotions show because they think it isn't manly. But you can tell when they're upset.They start pouting like a little boy.I've always thought that was rather curious.

he was smart, funny, a good rider, and he had pizza at least three times a week.

She looked down, kicking a little clump of grass with her slipper. "I suppose you will look at me differently now." "How so?" "Now that you know I am not who you thought I was. Who I thought I was." "Oh, are you not human after all?" He teased, "Are you actually a woodland water Sprite or famed West Country pixie?" "No." He took a step nearer. "You are still Lady Amelia's pride and joy. Still headstrong, still a bruising rider and righter of wrongs, still the bravest and most foolish woman that I know, still determined to lead ever dance, and still and incorrigible flirt. Is that not true?" She hesitated, torn between offense and amusement. "Yes, I...I suppose it is." "Then you are still exactly the woman I thought." "Very funny.

Here I am!” Captain East was cantering his mount toward them. He rode beautifully, confidently. Molly’s family spent their summers in the country, and she used to say that the way a man rides a horse could give you a pretty good idea how he would do something else. Jane eyed Mr. Nobley on his mount, noted that he was a smooth, gentle rider. The surprise of thinking this while wearing a bonnet made Jane choke. Her breath snarled in her throat, and she laughed. Mr. Nobley’s eyes widened. “What’s funny? You often have some secret laugh, Miss Erstwhile.” “The way you have some secret displeasure?” “No, not displeasure,” he said, and she realized he was right. Sadness, or heartbreak, or grief that there was nothing to give him hope, perhaps. She was pretty sure now that he was Henry Jenkins, poor sop. Captain East reined in beside Jane. “Miss Heartwright had a headache and went inside. So sorry to neglect you, Miss Erstwhile. You must tell me what I missed.” “I’ve discovered that Miss Erstwhile is an artist,” Mr. Nobley said. “Is that so?” “It’s been years since I picked up a paintbrush.” She glared at Mr. Nobley, and zing, there was his smile again, brief, urgent. When his lips relaxed she wanted it to come back. “That is a shame,” said Captain East. That evening when Jane retired from the drawing room, she found a large package on her side table wrapped in brown paper. She ripped open the paper and out tumbled neat little tubes of oil paints and three paintbrushes. She saw now that an easel waited by the window with two small canvases. She felt very Jane Eyre as she smelled the paints and ticked her palm with the largest brush. Who was her benefactor? It could be Captain East. Maybe he still liked her best, even after his tete-a-tete with Miss Heartwright. It could happen. Even so, she found herself hoping it was Mr. Nobley. Instinct urged her to stomp on the hope. She ignored it. She was firmly in Austenland now, she reminded herself, where hoping was allowed. Did Austen herself feel this way? Was she hopeful? Jane wondered if the unmarried writer had lived inside Austenland with close to Jane’s own sensibility--amused, horrified, but in very real danger of being swept away. Ten days to go.

Madlon’s voice broke into his musings. “It’s kind of funny, but I just happened to notice that all the trail horses are males—” Her husband’s laughter cut off the rest of the question, but Ward had gotten the gist of it. “Shame on you, Pug, for checking out other guys’ equipment!” Madlon blushed at her husband’s teasing. “I noticed, that’s all. It stuck out.” Her husband whooped again. Ward fought a grin. “You’re right, our trail horses are geldings. We’ve found the rides go better with single sex horses, especially as we often have novice riders. Mares are great. They’re actually harder workers—” “Of course they are. That applies to females of all species,” Madlon said. “True. But when a mare goes into heat she sometimes gets a little tetchy and even gelded horses get distracted—” And just like that, an image of Tess and her huge dark eyes, saucy ponytail, and exquisite curves popped into his mind. He had no doubt she would do her best to clock—or geld—him if he were foolish enough to ask if she was in heat.

It let out a slow sigh, as though relieved that the human didn't bite.

Gothel had told her that cutting her hair would kill her. The Goodwife said that was nonsense; it would only affect her powers, if anything at all. And come to think of it, Rapunzel did lose the occasional hair when it caught on something, or when she was combing it out. The dead hairs turned a dull brown, and it used to panic her when she was little. Did it take a day off her life? A month? A year? She thoughtfully wrapped a lock of hair around her fingers. Biting her lip, she brought the shears up.... "Rapunzel? What are you doing? No!" Flynn had quietly come in (and had paused at the door, preparing to say something theatrical) but immediately dropped all playing. He ran over and grabbed her hands, holding them away from her. "What... oh," Rapunzel said, confused and taking a moment to figure out what he was doing. "You thought I was going to hurt myself. You didn't hear what the Goodwife said? Cutting my hair won't kill me." "Oh. No, I did not hear that," Flynn said, collapsing against the edge of the workbench. But he didn't let go of her right hand. "Maybe when the group learns something important like that, you could let me in on it? You know, keep me in the loop?" "Sorry," she said, a little chagrined. "I guess this looked really bad, didn't it?" "You have no idea, Rapunzel, I... I think I died a little when I saw that." He opened his mouth, trying to say something else. Was he going to go into full funny Flynn Rider mode? Or was he actually going to say something serious? Rapunzel could hardly breathe, waiting to see. And then he kissed her. It wasn't like the night before, when there was a pause and a feeling of expectation. He took her face in his hands and pressed his lips to hers. With desperation, maybe as if she really had almost died. Rapunzel shivered-- and for the slightest moment panicked that it was her magic activating. But it wasn't... When he stopped, she reached up and touched his lips gently. She didn't want the moment to end. "I don't want to lose you," he whispered. "But if I have to... I'd rather it be to your happy ending than to..." "Brigands and mercenaries, or a hair-related death, I know. You do care, Flynn Rider!

I happen to know a rider whose powers can make big things very small.' A devious smile plays across her lips. 'And smaller things... much, much bigger.' I roll my eyes. Mira's always been more vocal about her men than I have been... about all two of them. 'I mean, how much bigger?

Gabs, can we talk a second?” He clears his throat. Nothing good ever follows that statement. I brace myself for what’s sure to be an awkward conversation. “I just want to apologize for our… misunderstanding freshman year.” I’m silent for a moment, but the rush of anger that spikes my pulse has me responding before I think better of it. “You’d call it a misunderstanding, huh?” I roll my eyes. “Funny, I didn’t think I misunderstood anything, but if you want to mansplain it to me now, go for it.” Why make this easy for him? It’s always been difficult for me to make friends, but for some reason, Rider slipped through my defenses. I was assigned to tutor him in English. I remember meeting him in the library, and the shy smile he gave me. He was embarrassed to need help. It was the most endearing thing I’d ever seen, and I swear when he leveled me with those big gray eyes, the ground fell out beneath me. I’m a practical girl, but foster care made me cynical, and ending up with my aunt did nothing to help my outlook on life. But Rider was funny and sweet, not to mention ridiculously good-looking, and I went over faster than a felled log in a forest. This was before he was the golden boy of the football team. When he was just this guy Rider from some speck-of-dust small Texas town like me. Even though he rode the bench, I went to all of his games, and we’d grab pizza afterward and talk until late in the night. Although he didn’t outright say it, I knew he had a rough home life. He mentioned that his father was an ass. I wanted to wrap my arms around him and make it better. And I thought I meant something to him. That what we had was special. Until he became the starting quarterback.

The pose of a horse in a statue tells you how the rider died. If both front legs are in the air, the rider died in battle. If one leg is in the air, the rider died of wounds sustained in battle and if both front legs are on the ground, the rider died of natural causes. Did You Know?

I'm just excited to see some people who aren't riders,' Ridoc says, holding open the door so we can pass through the tunnel. 'It's getting kind of incestuous around here.

Hollywood was called Tinseltown for a reason and I was caught up in its glitter. My friend Ken seemed to know everyone and once took me to the NBC Studios in Burbank, where he introduced me to Steve Allen. “Steverino,” as he was known by friends, must have thought that I wanted to get into show business and promised that if I applied myself, I would go places. I hadn’t really given show business much thought, but it sounded good to me. However, I’m glad that I didn’t count on his promise of becoming a star, because that was the end of it. I never saw Steve Allen again, other than on television, and I guess that’s just the way it was in Hollywood. Later Steve Allen starred in NBC’s The Tonight Show, which in more recent times has been hosted by Jack Paar, Johnny Carson, Jay Leno and now by Jimmy Fallon. Steve Allen had a rider in his contract that whenever he was introduced as a guest, the introduction would include: “And now our next guest is world-renowned recording artist, actor, producer, playwright, best-selling author, composer of thousands of songs, Emmy winning comic genius and entertainer – Steve Allen.” He was a funny guy and he would crack me up, but more than that, he would frequently crack himself up. Steve was loved or hated by people. It was said that he was enormously talented, and if you didn’t believe that, just ask him. Jack Paar, who followed Steve on The Tonight Show, once said, “Steve Allen has claimed to have written over 1,000 songs; name one???” The truth is that he did write a huge number of songs, including the 1963 Grammy award-winning composition, The Gravy Waltz. He wrote about 50 books, one of which is Steve Allen’s Private Joke File, published in 2000, just prior to his death in that same year. He also has two stars on the “Hollywood Walk of Fame,” one for radio and one for TV. Say what you want…. He cracked up at least two people with his humor, himself and me!

I read everything, both serious and funny. Dickens, Thackeray, Rider Haggard, PG Wodehouse, Chinua Achebe, and the endless wailing of Virginia Woolf, thin terrible books where nothing happened.

Ulysses Club (Australia) a social club for riders over 40, whose membership is dedicated to “growing old disgracefully”, or

Cipo had come up with the idea of running a two-lap time trial around the tiny ring road that ran around the outside of our hotel. The rules were quite simple: each of the four neo-pros would do the TT stripped down to his waist, and could only leave the start gate after downing a carafe of wine. The course was two laps of the circuit (to allow us the opportunity to chuck freezing water on the riders after the first lap), and just to make sure the riders were properly motivated Cipo would be following behind each rider in his own car. The sight of the first rider coming around the bend on the first lap on Bäckstedt’s enormous bike, with Mario Cipollini’s Bentley behind him, horn blaring and lights flashing, while Dario Andriotto leant out of the window yelling, ‘Vai, vai, vai, Porco Dio!’ like the most rabid directeur sportif you’ve ever seen, was side-splittingly funny.

A school bus is many things. A school bus is a substitute for a limousine. More class. A school bus is a classroom with a substitute teacher. A school bus is the students' version of a teachers' lounge. A school bus is the principal's desk. A school bus is the nurse's cot. A school bus is an office with all the phones ringing. A school bus is a command center. A school bus is a pillow fort that rolls. A school bus is a tank reshaped- hot dogs and baloney are the same meat. A school bus is a science lab- hot dogs and baloney are the same meat. A school bus is a safe zone. A school bus is a war zone. A school bus is a concert hall. A school bus is a food court. A school bus is a court of law, all judges, all jury. A school bus is a magic show full of disappearing acts. Saw someone in half. Pick a card, any card. Pass it on to the person next to you. He like you. She like you. K-i-s-s-i . . . s-s-i-p-p-i is only funny on a school bus. A school bus is a stage. A school bus is a stage play. A school bus is a spelling bee. A speaking bee. A get your hand out of my face bee. A your breath smell like sour turnips bee. A you don't even know what a turnip bee is. A maybe not, but I know what a turn up is and your breath smell all the way turnt up bee. A school bus is a bumblebee, buzzing around with a bunch of stingers on the inside of it. Windows for wings that flutter up and down like the windows inside Chinese restaurants and post offices in neighborhoods where school bus is a book of stamps. Passing mail through windows. Notes in the form of candy wrappers telling the street something sweet came by. Notes in the form of sneaky middle fingers. Notes in the form of fingers pointing at the world zooming by. A school bus is a paintbrush painting the world a blurry brushstroke. A school bus is also wet paint. Good for adding an extra coat, but it will dirty you if you lean against it, if you get too comfortable. A school bus is a reclining chair. In the kitchen. Nothing cool about it but makes perfect sense. A school bus is a dirty fridge. A school bus is cheese. A school bus is a ketchup packet with a tiny hole in it. Left on the seat. A plastic fork-knife-spoon. A paper tube around a straw. That straw will puncture the lid on things, make the world drink something with some fizz and fight. Something delightful and uncomfortable. Something that will stain. And cause gas. A school bus is a fast food joint with extra value and no food. Order taken. Take a number. Send a text to the person sitting next to you. There is so much trouble to get into. Have you ever thought about opening the back door? My mother not home till five thirty. I can't. I got dance practice at four. A school bus is a talent show. I got dance practice right now. On this bus. A school bus is a microphone. A beat machine. A recording booth. A school bus is a horn section. A rhythm section. An orchestra pit. A balcony to shot paper ball three-pointers from. A school bus is a basketball court. A football stadium. A soccer field. Sometimes a boxing ring. A school bus is a movie set. Actors, directors, producers, script. Scenes. Settings. Motivations. Action! Cut. Your fake tears look real. These are real tears. But I thought we were making a comedy. A school bus is a misunderstanding. A school bus is a masterpiece that everyone pretends to understand. A school bus is the mountain range behind Mona Lisa. The Sphinx's nose. An unknown wonder of the world. An unknown wonder to Canton Post, who heard bus riders talk about their journeys to and from school. But to Canton, a school bus is also a cannonball. A thing that almost destroyed him. Almost made him motherless.

She reminded Juliet of the parrot the shopkeeper owned. Both the woman and bird belonged in cages, preferably the same cage, so the bird could poop on all that velvet and lace.

Juliet wondered if the woman even knew what a Rider was. She made loud noises and loved jewelry. Other than that, Juliet couldn't think of a way to describe her.

You wouldn’t like horses. They smell funny. They have bad attitudes. They’re lazy. They don’t bite their riders’ arms off or flame people they don’t like. Like I said, they’re lazy. Anyone with ambition tries to flame their enemies from time to time. Besides, they eat grass. Grass! It’s incredibly gross.

Even though the cut was about twenty minutes longer than the ultimately released movie, Pulp Fiction was an even better movie than Reservoir Dogs. The structure was not only more audacious; the movie was funny as hell and had some extremely intense suspense sequences. Afterward, when Quentin asked me what I thought, remembering the Reservoir Dogs screening, I demurred and bit my tongue. I didn’t want to make a casual comment that might inadvertently influence this great movie. Even though a scene or two might have been tightened I just told him how much I loved it, which was true. As I was walking to my car I looked over and was surprised to find Dennis Hopper walking beside me. Usually I try to give celebrities their space and not bother them in public, but Hopper’s Easy Rider had made a huge impact on me at a very young age and it was hard to contain myself. I decided to keep it simple and just said, “I really loved Quentin’s film.” Hopper stopped in his tracks and suddenly it was like I was standing beside Francis Ford Coppola’s character the “photojournalist,” right out of his Apocalypse Now. Just him and me. “Yeah, man. Quentin really did it, man. I mean really. He really did it.” We both stood there in silent contemplation for a long moment, then wished each other good night and that was that.

Funny how perspective can shift everything.