Santa Sack Quotes

Yes,' he said. 'That's it. They'd kick him and beat him with a switch. Then if the youngster was really bad, they'd put him in a sack and take him back to Spain.' 'Saint Nicholas would kick you?' 'Well, not anymore,' Oscar said. 'Now he just pretends to kick you.' He considered this to be progressive, but in a way I think it's almost more preverse than the original punishment.'I'm going to hurt you but not really.' How many times have we fallen for that line? The fake slap invariably makes contact, adding the elements of shock and betrayal to what had previously been plain old-fashioned fear. What kind of a Santa spends his time pretending to kick people before stuffing them into a canvas sack? Then, of course, you've got the six to eight former slaves who could potentially go off at any moment. This, I think, is the greatest difference between us and the Dutch. While a certain segment of our population might be perfectly happy with the arrangement, if you told the average white American that six to eight nameless black men would be sneaking into his house in the middle of the night, he would barricade the doors and arm himself with whatever he could get his hands on. 'Six to eight, did you say?

She knew that people, being like they are, sooner or later are going to draw back a ways from somebody who seems to be giving a little more than ordinary, from Santa Clauses and missionaries and men donating funds to worthy causes, and begin to wonder: What's in it for them? Grin out of the side of their mouths when the young lawyer, say, brings a sack of pecans to the kids in his district schools- just before nominations for state senate, the sly devil- and say to one another, He's nobody's fool.

Why is Santa’s sack so big?” “Because he only comes once a year.

One thing that the elves are good at is levitating objects. Being able to float things off the ground is a very helpful skill to have for loading heavy sacks of gifts on to the sleigh every Christmas Eve. But it’s not so helpful when they’re using it to dangle an eleven-year-old girl off the classroom ceiling.

The good news was that we’d found Santa. The bad news was that he was floating in a giant tube of clear fluid, seemingly unconscious. The worse news was that he was completely naked, except for a festive red hat; his clothes and his magic sack were piled neatly in a darkened corner.

Jesus shook his head slowly from side to side, then thrust his left hand deep into Santa’s sack. Out came something resembling raw steak, slippery and pulsating, throbbing crimson fluid in every direction. Yanking up my shirt, he rapidly pressed his other hand against my right side. He closed his eyes, and I watched as the healthy liver in his hand became corrugated and cirrhotic. I then found myself, sealed once more within my prison of flesh, disgorging bile and ethanol from every orifice.

As the music of the Pied Piper called the rats to their doom, so the beat of sexual satisfaction called us to its hallowed doors.

Then he got out, whistling tunelessly under his breath and pulling a sheaf of mail and a small sack of groceries from the passenger seat as he did so. A long, narrow pain d’epi stuck up from the sack like a flagpole; while he considered himself a gourmet chef, the art of bread baking was a skill that had always eluded him. Besides, there was a place in Santa Fe that made the best French bread he’d tasted this side of the Rive Gauche.

We should probably be able to learn something from the repetition of history, repetitio est mater studiorum, but despite the fact that history stubbornly repeats itself, we are bad learners, and History, brazen and stubborn, does not desist, it goes right on repeating and repeating itself, I will repeat myself until I faint, it says, I will repeat myself to spite you, it says, until you finally come to your senses, it says, yet we do not come to our senses, we just grow our hair, hide and lie and feign innocence. Besides, for some of us, those of us who like Santa Claus lug sacks on our backs, sacks brimming with the sins of our ancestors, History has no need to return, History is in our marrow, and here, in our bones, it drills rheumatically and no medicine can cure that. History is in our blood and in our blood it flows quietly and destructively, while on the outside there's nothing, on the outside all is calm and ordinary, until one day, History, our History, the History in our blood, in our bones, goes mad and starts eroding the miserable, crumbling ramparts of our immunity, which we have been cautiously raising for decades.

.​Explanation 2.​A Message from the Principal 3.​Poetry 4.​Doctor Pickle 5.​A Story with a Disappointing Ending 6.​Pet Day 7.​A Bad Word 8.​Santa Claus 9.​Something Different about Mrs. Jewls 10.​Mr. Gorf 11.​Voices 12.​Nose 13.​The New Teacher 14.​A Light Bulb, a Pencil Sharpener, a Coffeepot, and a Sack of Potatoes 15.​An Elephant in Wayside School 16.​Mr. Poop 17.​Why the Children Decided They Had to Get Rid of Mrs. Drazil 18.​The Blue Notebook 19.​Time Out 20.​Elevators 21.​Open Wide 22.​Jane Smith 23.​Ears 24.​Glum and Blah 25.​Guilty 26.​Never Laugh at a Shoelace 27.​Way-High-Up Ball 28.​Flowers for a Very Special Person 29.​Stupid 30.​The Little Stranger

Pah! You don’t have the intelligence to appreciate the subtle nuances of this moment. You don’t even realise that with that sack over your shoulder, you look like a mutated, evil Santa!