Scat Quotes

Guilt reminds me of a stray cat. You chase it away and yet, it comes back when you least expect it. If you let yourself feel pity for it and feed the thing, it parks its ugly, puny, lonely-for-attention butt on your doormat and won't go away. Scat kitty cat, scat. I don't need you sitting around here like that.

While you saying, 'Scat, scat,' someone else is 'round the corner sayin, 'Here, kitty-kitty.

Scat Man Doo and his trusty Shit Stick had gone where no man had ever gone before. And none should ever go again.

Jimmy Lee Baylis was a wise man, and knew better than to talk back to the man who signed his paycheck.

My mom says, "Do you know what the AIDS memorial quilt is all about?" Jump to how much I hate my brother at this moment. I bought this fabric because I thought it would make a nice panel for Shane," Mom says. "We just ran into some problems with what to sew on it." Give me amnesia. Flash. Give me new parents. Flash. Your mother didn't want to step on any toes," Dad says. He twists a drumstick off and starts scraping the meat onto a plate. "With gay stuff you have to be so careful since everything means something in secret code. I mean, we didn't want to give people the wrong idea." My Mom leans over to scoop yams onto my plate, and says, "Your father wanted a black border, but black on a field of blue would mean Shane was excited by leather sex, you know, bondage and discipline, sado and masochism." She says, "Really, those panels are to help the people left behind." Strangers are going to see us and see Shane's name," my dad says. "We didn't want them thinking things." The dishes all start their slow clockwise march around the table. The stuffing. The olives. The cranberry sauce. "I wanted pink triangles but all the panels have pink triangles," my mom says. "It's the Nazi symbol for homosexuals." She says,"Your father suggested black triangles, but that would mean Shane was a lesbian. It looks like female pubic hair. The black triangle does." My father says, "Then I wanted a green border, but it turns out that would mean Shane was a male prostitute." My mom says, "We almost chose a red border, but that would mean fisting. Brown would mean either scat or rimming, we couldn't figure which." Yellow," my father says, "means watersports." A lighter shade of blue," Mom says, "would mean just regular oral sex." Regular white," my father says, "would mean anal. White could also mean Shane was excited by men wearing underwear." He says, "I can't remember which." My mother passes me the quilted chicken with the rolls still warm inside. We're supposed to sit and eat with Shane dead all over the table in front of us. Finally we just gave up," my mom says, "and I made a nice tablecloth out of the material." Between the yams and the stuffing, Dad looks down at his plate and says, "Do you know about rimming?" I know it isn't table talk. And fisting?" my mom asks. I say, I know. I don't mention Manus and his vocational porno magazines. We sit there, all of us around a blue shroud with the turkey more like a big dead baked animal than ever, the stuffing chock full of organs you can still recognize, the heart and gizzard and liver, the gravy thick with cooked fat and blood. The flower centerpiece could be a casket spray. Would you pass the butter, please?" my mother says. To my father she says, "Do you know what felching is?

Tom Dancer’s gift of a whitebark pine cone You never know What opportunity Is going to travel to you, Or through you. Once a friend gave me A small pine cone- One of a few He found in the scat Of a grizzly In Utah maybe, Or Wyoming. I took it home And did what I supposed He was sure I would do- I ate it, Thinking How it had traveled Through that rough And holy body. It was crisp and sweet. It was almost a prayer Without words. My gratitude, Tom Dancer, For this gift of the world I adore so much And want to belong to. And thank you too, great bear

Jubal waved the man back. “Private,” he said firmly. “Family matter. Go have a drink.” “Whose family?” “A death in yours, if you insist. Scat!

Die in winter woods," roared Tarin, as if it were his most fervent wish. He was losing it again. Since being caught, he had seen a boy with no balls or toes, a finger had been in his ass twice, he'd been cooked, made to wear clothes, walked on winter-lake stuff, wasted his gift, was going to have his tooth pulled out and—scat—and he was being laughed at.

The first thing that the boy called Smoke told Nick Waters was: “Your biology book’s in my locker. The combination is 5-3-5.” And the second thing he said was: “I didn’t do that fire, man. I’m innocent.

He was a hip cat a hep cat a cool cat a bad mad rad cat Oobie-do John the Sax Man Scat Man the long sleek cat man!!

Skaz is a rather appealing Russian word (suggesting "jazz" and "scat", as in "scat-singing", to the English ear) used to designate a type of first-person narration that has the characteristics of the spoken rather than the written word.

After it had all been explained to me, my first thought was for poor old Mohammed. He had to go to the mountains, but not Anna. She neither went to the mountains nor did she fetch the mountain to her she merely said "Scat." And they scatted. Mind you, although I knew by then that the mountains were not really there, and that I could move about freely and unhampered, there are occasions not many, I'm glad to say when I get the distinct feeling that I've been brought up pretty sharpish-like by a clunk on the head. It certainly feels as if I have walked into a mountain, even though I can't see it. Perhaps one day I shall be able to walk about freely, without ducking occasionally. As for my problem about the heres and the theres, the explanation went like this : "Where are you?" she had said. "Here, of course," I replied. "Where's me then?" "There!" "Where do you know about me?" "Inside myself someplace." "Then you know my middle in your middle." "Yes, I suppose so." "Then you know Mister God in my middle in your middle, and everything you know,every person you know, you know in your middle. Every person and everything that you know has got Mister God in his middle, and so you have got his Mister God in your middle too. It's easy.

The staying and doing it, in spite of everything. In spite of the bears and the rattlesnakes and the scat of the mountain lions I never saw; the blisters and scabs and scrapes and lacerations. The exhaustion and the deprivation; the cold and the heat; the monotony and the pain; the thirst and the hunger; the glory and the ghosts that haunted me as I hiked eleven hundred miles from the Mojave Desert to the state of Washington by myself. And finally, once I’d actually gone and done it, walked all those miles for all those days, there was the realization that what I’d thought was the beginning had not really been the beginning at all. That in truth my hike on the Pacific Crest Trail hadn’t begun when I made the snap decision to do it. It had begun before I even imagined it, precisely four years, seven months, and three days before, when I’d stood in a little room at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota, and learned that my mother was going to die.

Try, if you can, not to talk as if colors emanated from a single physical phenomenon. Keep in mind the effects of all the various surfaces, volumes, light-sources, films, expanses, degrees of solidity, solubility, temperature, elasticity, on color. Think of an object's capacity to emit, reflect, absorb, transmit, or scatted light; think of "the operation of light on a feather." Ask yourself, what is the color of a puddle? Is your blue sofa still blue when you stumble past it on your way to the kitchen for water in the middle of the night; is it still blue if you don't get up, and no one enters the room to see it? Fifteen says after we are born, we begin to discriminate against colors. For the rest of our lives, barring blunted or blinded sight, we find ourselves face-to-face with all these phenomena at once, and we call the whole shimmering mess "color." You might even say that it is the business of the eye to make colored forms out of what is essentially shimmering. This is how we "get around" in the world. Some might also call it the source of our suffering.

After Hiroshima, the musicians understood as early as anyone that Truman's bomb changed everything and only scat and bebop could say how.

Black cat, Get off my mat. You bad-luck feline, scat! Don’t come my way, stay where you’re at! Oh, drat.

We Don't Need to Leave Yet, Do We? Or, Yes We Do One kind of person when catching a train always wants to allow an hour to cover the ten-block trip to the terminus, And the other kind looks at them as if they were verminous, And the second kind says that five minutes is plenty and will even leave one minute over for buying the tickets, And the first kind looks at them as if they had cerebral rickets. One kind when theater-bound sups lightly at six and hastens off to the play, And indeed I know one such person who is so such that it frequently arrives in time for the last act of the matinee, And the other kind sits down at eight to a meal that is positively sumptuous, Observing cynically that an eight-thirty curtain never rises till eight-forty, an observation which is less cynical than bumptious. And what the first kind, sitting uncomfortably in the waiting room while the train is made up in the yards, can never understand, Is the injustice of the second kind's reaching their scat just as the train moves out, just as they had planned, And what the second kind cannot understand as they stumble over the first kind's heel just as the footlights flash on at last Is that the first kind doesn't feel the least bit foolish at having entered the theater before the cast. Oh, the first kind always wants to start now and the second kind always wants to tarry, Which wouldn't make any difference, except that each other is what they always marry.

So for a while, they sat peacefully in the swamp, listening to Mrs. Starch hum while the little panther slurped happily and the emerald leaves overhead shimmered and shook in the sunlight.

The wind smelled like the moon. I went up there so many times in the weeks that followed that I no longer remember which night it was that God finally answered my prayer. I do not think it was right at the beginning, when I was still saying my prayers in words. I think it came later, when I had graduated to inchoate sounds. Up on that fire escape, I learned to pray the way a wolf howls. I learned to pray the way that Ella Fitzgerald sang scat.

Carolee bought me a mirror for my purse and Owen and Peter gave me a lizard in a jar with a bow. From Davey I got a big sheet of cardboard on which he’d taped animal scat and Xeroxes of animal tracks to match, with carefully printed labels.

Yes,” said Cooley. “That is the question, as the Bard might say.” “The Bard?” “What’s so funny?” said Cooley. “Nothing, sir,” I said. “I just didn’t know people still used that term.” “Well, I’m a people, Burke. Am I not?” “Of course.” “If you prick me, do I not bleed, you scat-gobbling, mother-rimming prick?” Occasionally Dean Cooley reverted to a vocabulary more suited to his marine years, but some maintained it was only when he felt threatened, or stretched for time. “Yes, sir,” I said.

When I’m old and dying, wheezing my guts out, my organs failing, I want to walk out the front door of some old farmhouse on my own land, maybe forty, fifty hectares of it. I want to find a cool place in the woods under some old oak tree and settle down there and die as the sun comes up. I want a death rattle, a final breath, a body intact that can then be torn apart by scavengers, riddled with worms, my limbs dragged off to feed some family of little foxes, my guts teeming with maggots, until I am nothing but a gooey collection of juices that feeds the fungi and the oak seedlings and the wild grasses. I want my bleached bones scatted across my own land, broken and sucked clean of marrow, half buried in snow and finally, finally, covered over in loam and ground to dust by the passage of time, until I am broken into fragments, the pieces of my body returned to where they came. I could give back something to this world instead of taking, taking, taking. That’s the death I want.

No other trace; the wind, razor-sharp, had of course filed away even what scant tracks the hardpan might once have held. No man-scat, no cast-off trash, never a sign of where those things might have been buried. Nothing. Only these cold campfires along the ancient highway moving southeast and the relentless range-finder in his own head.

When Celia cums, 'tis earthquake hour The bed vibrates like kettledrums It is a grand display of power when Celia cums. An up exhales a greasy stench for which you curse the careless wench; so things which must not be exprest, when plumpt into the reeking chest, send up an excremental smell to taint the parts from whence they fell the petticoats and gown perfume which waft a stink around every room thus finishing his grand survey disgusted Strephon stole away repeating his amorous fits Oh! Celia, Celia, Celia shits!

When describing both the act of defecating and the substance of fecal matter itself, biologists prefer to use the scientific term "poop." It's both a noun and a verb. A popular field of biology called scatology is the study of scat, which is not to be confused with mere poop. Although technically they're the same, we call it "scat" if we are studying it to learn something about the health and diet of an animal. When the animal has pooped on us or has ruined something with his pooping, we tend to use the term "shit," as in, "Oh, man, he just shit down the back of my neck." So if it's on the ground, it's poop. If it's under your microscope, it's scat. If it's running down your neck, it's shit.

My sweet naughty girl I got your hot letter tonight and have been trying to picture you frigging your cunt in the closet. How do you do it? Do you stand against the wall with your hand tickling up under your clothes or do you squat down on the hole with your skirts up and your hand hard at work in through the slit of your drawers? Does it give you the horn now to shit? I wonder how you can do it. Do you come in the act of shitting or do you frig yourself off first and then shit? It must be a fearfully lecherous thing to see a girl with her clothes up frigging furiously at her cunt, to see her pretty white drawers pulled open behind and her bum sticking out and a fat brown thing stuck half-way out of her hole. You say you will shit your drawers, dear, and let me fuck you then. I would like to hear you shit them, dear, first and then fuck you. Some night when we are somewhere in the dark and talking dirty and you feel your shite ready to fall put your arms round my neck in shame and shit it down softly. The sound will madden me and when I pull up your dress.

I hate all modern art, because it’s mad at God,” he likes to say. Most Catholics have never recovered from that painting of the Virgin Mary with elephant dung all over it. They are under the assumption there are entire museums in New York dedicated to anti-Catholic shit paintings, where all varieties of zoo scat are flung at pictures of the innocent Virgin.

It looks hard," said Michael. "Not squishy like poop.

After the first gunshot, they dove to the ground and pressed themselves flat. Then came two other shots, followed shortly by more. Nick was sure he heard one of the bullets zing off a nearby tree.

For years, the people of Congo spoke of giant chimpanzees that ate lions, fished, and howled at the moon. In fact, the animal was called “lion killer” by the native people. Of course, traditional scientists attributed the rumors to a highly imaginative indigenous group whose bedtime stories had gotten a little out of hand. Besides, the descriptions seemed to more closely match a gorilla than a chimp. It was said that it lived in nests on the ground, rather than in the trees; that it was not aggressive toward humans; that it walked on two feet for longer distances than is typical for a chimp; and that it grew to as large as six and half feet tall. All in all, it was too incredible to be real, at least for the Western world. Still, in 1996, when word of the giant chimps got out, researchers descended on Congo. Although scat, hair, and other evidence was found, it wasn’t until 2005 that the chimps were actually seen by a Westerner. Primatologist Shelly Williams was in the Congo, searching for the creatures, when a group of four of them emerged from the trees, charging at her. They were at least five feet tall, with wide flat faces, a pronounced brow, and gray fur. Yet when they noticed Williams’s face, they stopped their charge and walked away. This lack of aggression toward humans was repeated in other encounters, including those of Cleve Hicks of the University of Amsterdam, who spent eighteen months observing the creatures following the Williamses’ encounter. He, too, found that they had no fear of humans, but rather seemed to recognize humans as a cousin of sorts.

The staying and doing it, in spite of everything. In spite of the bears and the rattlesnakes and the scat of the mountain lions I never saw; the blisters and scabs and scrapes and lacerations. The exhaustion and the deprivation; the cold and the heat; the monotony and the pain; the thirst and the hunger; the glory and the ghosts that haunted me as I hiked eleven hundred miles from the Mojave Desert to the state of Washington by myself.

What about you, Snipes?" Dunbar asked. "You think there to be mountain lions up here or is it just folks' imaginings?" Snipes pondered the question a few moments before speaking. They's many a man of science would claim there aint because you got no irredeemable evidence like panther scat or fur or tooth or tail. In other words, some part of the animal in questions. Or better yet having the actual critter itself, the whole think kit and caboodle head to tail, which all your men of science argue is the best proof of all a thing exists, whether it be a panther, or a bird, or even a dinosaur." To put it another way, if you was to stub your toe and tell the man of science what happened he'd not believe a word of it less he could see how it'd stoved up or was bleeding. But your philosophers and theologians and such say there’s things in the world that’s every bit as real even though you can’t see them.” Like what?” Dunbar asked. Well,” Snipes said. “They’s love, that’s one. And courage. You can’t see neither of them, but they’re real. And air, of course. That’s one of your most important examples. You wouldn’t be alive a minute if there wasn’t air, but nobody’s ever seen a single speck of it.” … “All I’m saying is there is a lot more to this old world than meets the eye.” … “And darkness. You can’t see it no more than you can see air, but when its all around you sure enough know it.” (Serena, 65-66)

Miss Bridget, you are in error regarding one detail.” He advanced into the room and left the door open behind him. “Their Graces are not your guardians, I am. As your legal custodian, I am ordering you to scat.” The girl blinked at him, her eyes brown instead of green, but otherwise much like Maggie’s. “Scat, my lord?” “Begone, shoo, be off with you. Your sister and I need privacy.” Bridget’s lips curved up in a smile that presaged heart-stopping beauty, and then—Ben was hard put not to smile right back—she winked at him and flounced out of the room. “I

That August, the day of the lunar eclipse—their daughters three and a half and two—Cam piled everyone in the truck to get the best view from the top of Hopewell Hill. “Maybe they won’t remember,” he said. “I just like to show them things.” This was what you did. You took your children out in the darkness to watch the moon disappear. You dissected coyote scat with them. You led your two-year-old down to the garden to press a handful of radish seeds into the soil and handed her the spatula to lick when you made chocolate pudding and turned the pages of Richard Scarry’s What Do People Do All Day?, pointing out the animal characters and naming their jobs. You gathered autumn leaves, pressed them with an iron in between two sheets of wax paper, and taped them on the window, where you’d set an avocado seed in a glass of water to watch it sprout; and carried your three-year-old outside in your arms at night—her and her sister—to let them catch snowflakes. Who knew what they’d remember, and what they’d make of it, but the hope was there that if nothing else, what they would hold on to from these times was the knowledge of being deeply loved.

Whole NNE cults and stelliform subcults Lenz reports as existing around belief systems about the metaphysics of the Concavity and annular fusion and B.S.-1950s-B-cartridge-type-radiation-affected fauna and overfertilization and verdant forests with periodic oasises of purportaged desert and whatever east of the former Montpelier VT area of where the annulated Shawshine River feeds the Charles and tints it the exact same tint of blue as the blue on boxes of Hefty SteelSaks and the ideas of ravacious herds of feral domesticated housepets and oversized insects not only taking over the abandoned homes of relocated Americans but actually setting up house and keeping them in model repair and impressive equity, allegedly, and the idea of infants the size of prehistoric beasts roaming the overfertilized east Concavity quadrants, leaving enormous scat-piles and keening for the abortive parents who’d left or lost them in the general geopolitical shuffle of mass migration and really fast packing, or, as some of your more Limbaugh-era-type cultists sharingly believe, originating from abortions hastily disposed of in barrels in ditches that got breached and mixed ghastly contents with other barrels that reanimated the abortive feti and brought them to a kind of repelsive oversized B-cartridge life thundering around due north of where yrstruly and Green strolled through the urban grid.

The ghosts of women once girls Somewhere a little girl is reading aloud in the middle of a dirt road. she smiles at the sound of her own voice escaping the spine of the book. she feeds her hunger to know herself. She has not yet been taught to dim, she sits with the stars beneath her feet, a constellation of things to come. as if a swallowed moon, she glimmers. Her head wrap rolls out in a gutter, bare feet scat the earth, the ghosts of women once girls make bridge of the dust dancing behind her, she decorates the ground in dimples she stomps suffering out the spirit hooves drumming the earth in circles she holds gladness in her mouth like a secret teased out of a giggle joy like her sadness overflows she is not the opinions of others she is of visions and imagination somewhere a little girl is reading aloud in the middle of a dirt road. she smiles at the sound of her own voice escaping the spine of the book. She is a room full of listening, lending herself to her own words somewhere a deep remembering of what was, she survives all.

experience, and to our consequent estrangement from the earthly world around us. So the ancient Hebrews, on the one hand, and the ancient Greeks on the other, are variously taken to task for providing the mental context that would foster civilization’s mistreatment of nonhuman nature. Each of these two ancient cultures seems to have sown the seeds of our contemporary estrangement—one seeming to establish the spiritual or religious ascendancy of humankind over nature, the other effecting a more philosophical or rational dissociation of the human intellect from the organic world. Long before the historical amalgamation of Hebraic religion and Hellenistic philosophy in the Christian New Testament, these two bodies of belief already shared—or seem to have shared—a similar intellectual distance from the nonhuman environment. In every other respect these two traditions, each one originating out of its own specific antecedents, and in its own terrain and time, were vastly different. In every other respect, that is, but one: they were both, from the start, profoundly informed by writing. Indeed, they both made use of the strange and potent technology which we have come to call “the alphabet.” — WRITING, LIKE HUMAN LANGUAGE, IS ENGENDERED NOT ONLY within the human community but between the human community and the animate landscape, born of the interplay and contact between the human and the more-than-human world. The earthly terrain in which we find ourselves, and upon which we depend for all our nourishment, is shot through with suggestive scrawls and traces, from the sinuous calligraphy of rivers winding across the land, inscribing arroyos and canyons into the parched earth of the desert, to the black slash burned by lightning into the trunk of an old elm. The swooping flight of birds is a kind of cursive script written on the wind; it is this script that was studied by the ancient “augurs,” who could read therein the course of the future. Leaf-miner insects make strange hieroglyphic tabloids of the leaves they consume. Wolves urinate on specific stumps and stones to mark off their territory. And today you read these printed words as tribal hunters once read the tracks of deer, moose, and bear printed in the soil of the forest floor. Archaeological evidence suggests that for more than a million years the subsistence of humankind has depended upon the acuity of such hunters, upon their ability to read the traces—a bit of scat here, a broken twig there—of these animal Others. These letters I print across the page, the scratches and scrawls you now focus upon, trailing off across the white surface, are hardly different from the footprints of prey left in the snow. We read these traces with organs honed over millennia by our tribal ancestors, moving instinctively from one track to the next, picking up the trail afresh whenever it leaves off, hunting the meaning, which would be the meeting with the Other.2

Do you know how we tell the difference between black bear and grizzly bear scat back in Wyoming? Black bear droppings have berries and the Grizzly bear droppings contain little bells and smell like pepper.

And it shall come to pass, that when t John 19. 37.— u 2 Par. 35. 22. Ver. 11. Adadremmon. A place near Mageddon, where the good king Josias was slain, and much lamented by his people. any man shall prophesy any more, his father and his mother that brought him into the world, shall say to him: Thou shalt not live: because thou hast spoken a lie in the name of the Lord. And his father, and his mother, his parents, shall thrust him through, when he shall pro phesy. 4 And it shall come to pass in that day, that the prophets shall be confounded, every one by his own vision, when he shall prophesy, neither shall they be clad with a garment of sackcloth, to deceive: 5 But he shall say: I am no prophet, I am a husbandman: for Adam is my ex ample from my youth. 6 And they shall say to him: What are these wounds in the midst of thy hands? And he shall say: With these I was wounded in the house of them that loved me. 7 Awake, 0 sword, against my shepherd, and against the man that cleaveth tu me, saith the Lord of hosts: w strike the shepherd, and the sheep shall be scat tered: and I will turn my hand to the little ones. 8 And there shall be in all the earth, saith the Lord, two parts in it shall be scattered, and shall perish: but the third part shall be left therein. 9 And I will bring the third part through the fire, and will refine them as silver is refined: and I will try them as gold is tried. They shall call on my name, and I will hear them. I will say: Thou art my people: and they shall say: The Lord is my God.

Indian Bar’s reputation as a notorious bear enclave can be accounted for by the acres of blueberries surrounding the camp. While they draw the bears, the berries also assure backcountry campers that bears will look upon them as nuisances in the berrypatch rather than two hundred pounds of meat on the hoof. That is, if you arrive during berry season. Which I did not. A ranger had issued me a wilderness permit to pitch my tent among the bears outside the designated camp, but by the time I’d bushwhacked to the top of a ridge above the Ohanapecosh River, I’d begun to question the wisdom of my decision. Every tentsize clearing under every tree bore the wilderness equivalent of a coat on a theater seat: bear scat big as cowpies and puddingly fresh.

BOOKS/AUTHORS ON THE BACKS OF LIBRARY CARDS #1 Miguel Fernandez Incident at Hawk’s Hill by Allan W. Eckert/ No, David! by David Shannon #2 Akimi Hughes One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish by Dr. Seuss/Nine Stories by J. D. Salinger #3 Andrew Peckleman Six Days of the Condor by James Grady/ Eight Cousins by Louisa May Alcott #4 Bridgette Wadge Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing by Judy Blume/ Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone by J. K. Rowling #5 Sierra Russell The Egypt Game by Zilpha Keatley Snyder/ The Westing Game by Ellen Raskin #6 Yasmeen Smith-Snyder Around the World in Eighty Days by Jules Verne/The Yak Who Yelled Yuck by Carol Pugliano-Martin #7 Sean Keegan Olivia by Ian Falconer/Unreal! by Paul Jennings #8 Haley Daley Turtle in Paradise by Jennifer L. Holm/ A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle #9 Rose Vermette All-of-a-Kind Family by Sydney Taylor/ Scat by Carl Hiaasen #10 Kayla Corson Anna to the Infinite Power by Mildred Ames/Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein #11 UNKNOWN/CHARLES CHILTINGTON #12 Kyle Keeley I Love You, Stinky Face by Lisa McCourt/ The Napping House by Audrey

Poop is an absolute gold mine,’ she told me. Scat samples enable her team to monitor not just the orcas’ oestrogen levels, but also their stress and pregnancy hormones.

floor.

Perplexed, Dr. Dressler pulled out the file of Duane Scrod Jr. It showed that the boy had been held back two years in elementary school and later was expelled from a public middle school for fighting with his P.E. teacher. During that scuffle, the teacher lost three teeth and the tip of his right pinkie finger,

motivation may be no more complex than that of an angry child flinging scat because he was left with regularity in a dirty diaper.

SCAT!” Stink swatted the sandwich out of Judy’s hand. He flipped it over. Stink jumped up and pointed. “Oogley-boogley, ugh, ugh, ugh! Judy stared at something brown and squishy on the bottom of her sandwich. “What IS that?” “It’s scat! As in doo-doo! Dung! Manure! POOP!” He showed her his sandwich, smeared with brown goo. Judy and Stink hopped up and leaped as far away as they could, falling off their giant teacup and screaming “AGHHHHH!

Bats have powerful associations with death and ghosts. A hoodoo charm to stop ghostly harassment displays African magical roots: Should you feel that ghost’s unwanted presence, toss one single black cat hair, obtained without harming the cat, over your left shoulder saying, “Skit, scat! Become a bat!

I do not like scat porn! I refuse to comment on vomit porn. Nevermind, I have a vomit fetish; put this on goodreads.

In a restaurant, I can’t sit with my back to the door. Not sure if I’m OCD, but I excel at organizational skills. Slightly claustrophobic, not crazy about heights. Love martinis but one is enough. Tend to be opinionated at times but good at reigning it in. Love long-legged women, clueless about cars, love trucks. I read several dozen books a year, cook every night, and am uncomfortable if music isn’t playing. Don’t like scat singing or modulation, jazz is my preferred music, and my favorite colors are black and dark blue. Have no problem eating on my own in a restaurant, have to have a dog, and hate clowns and circuses. I’d never heard a Pink Floyd album until 2015, Penderecki’s “Polish Requiem” can make me cry, love trains, and am a confirmed sushi snob. I’ve never wanted to be anyone else, but if I had to choose I’d be Michael Caine.

A Holiday Inn restaurant with unshrouded windows! We sat by one, looking out at the tumbling tiny Virgin River while the Muzak doggedly chewed and swallowed Scatterbrain: “STILL it’s CHAR ming CHAT ter SCAT ter BRAIN.” During the meal Katharine talked about Barry: “We were at dinner once, in Los Angeles, and a girl came over to the table, one of his patients that he hadn’t seen for

Nostril-Damus is a seer, predicting organizational outcomes through the detection of BS, much like an ancient hunter sniffing scat, and interpreting the ‘droppings’ of management.

Within one day of training, Alli was showing exceptional skill at identification. She quickly learned to recognize 300 individual samples in an exercise that asked the dogs to distinguish individual bears by their scat, ignoring the 20 or so samples that weren't correct and signaling to the one that was. Though identifications can be verified with genetics, DNA testing was much more expensive at the time Smith began work with Alli than rescuing a dog and taking a day to teach it what to do. The training is simple: Give the dog a sample of scat to smell. Then, continue to move it farther away until it is hidden or mixed in with other samples. When the dog Identifies it correctly, throw a ball as a reward, Repeat.

As I teased, I smelled the faintest waft of shit coming up from underneath her. It smelled like fertile heaven: peat moss, soil, sod, loam. It smelled good because it was her. She had a perfume, and this was her base note.

Let’s eat first, Nicky.

a person such as Duane Scrod Jr. got accepted into the Truman School was solved when Dr. Dressler came across a letter from the previous headmaster reflecting a large cash donation from Duane’s wealthy grandmother, who was also paying his tuition. Dr. Dressler concluded that it would be bad for the Truman School and its future endowments if young Duane became seriously ill from devouring Mrs. Starch’s pencil. He put away the file and somewhat

effort to conceal an odd crimson mark

Starch had barely waited

to Mrs. Starch, who had begun to pace. She was scanning the class, selecting a victim.

originator of all tings. “According to legend, in dat time der were many wild animals on Dalvalo—lions, tigers, elephants, and sharks as big as dis boat. Deez were very dangerous creatures, and human people are what dey had for breakfast, lunch, and suppa. Well, da first chief of Dalvalo, named Huakelle, come up wif a plan to distribute some of dis danger elsewhere in da universe. So he took fiery lava dat squirt off da volcano, and he trows it in all directions and creates Europe, Asia, Africa, Australia, and America. Some of da small drops of hot lava got caught and was scatted by da wind, and dis what made da rest of da islands of Vanuatu and all Melanesia. “Da chief den ordered giant canoes to be built. Not only was der too many dangerous animals on Dalvalo, der was too many people, so he sent a bunch of animals and people off in da giant canoe to da new land. Most a da canoes went to Africa, but some got caught up in storms and wrecked on da reef. People was tossed into da sea, and when dey finally got to land again, dey noticed dat da salt wattah had bleached dem white. Dat is how you got here.

More often than not, the wolves showed themselves in other ways—a track etched in the mud, a few scats here and there, the well-chewed, moss-covered bones of a Sitka blacktailed deer, and, most frequently and possibly most grand of all, a late-evening chorus of howls heard from the deck of our boat at a lonely anchorage. The sound echoed softly off the high granite walls of some slope or side hill, somewhere where the wolves hunted in the vast sea of verdant rain forest.

Scat. Feces. That’s a big fat no.” “Oh my God, people do that?” “Yes.

When a child has a cold with a bad cough, tell him to scat that cat out of him.

scat to rock steady

When I’m old and dying, wheezing my guts out, my organs failing, I want to walk out the front door of some old farmhouse on my own land, maybe forty, fifty hectares of it. I want to find a cool place in the woods under some old oak tree and settle down there and die as the sun comes up. I want a death rattle, a final breath, a body intact that can then be torn apart by scavengers, riddled with worms, my limbs dragged off to feed some family of little foxes, my guts teeming with maggots, until I am nothing but a gooey collection of juices that feeds the fungi and the oak seedlings and the wild grasses. I want my bleached bones scatted across my own land, broken and sucked clean of marrow, half buried in snow and finally, finally, covered over in loam and ground to dust by the passage of time, until I am broken into fragments, the pieces of my body returned to where they came. I could give back something to this world instead of taking, taking, taking. That’s the death I want. The death that means the most to me. That is the good death, the best death, and that is the death I wish not only for myself, but for you, too. Our lives are finite. Our bodies imperfect. We shouldn’t spend it feeding somebody else’s cause.

But I do believe there are people in our midst who wish to make a graveyard of the world, and their motivation may be no more complex than that of an angry child flinging scat because he was left with regularity in a dirty diaper.

The wind from the east over his shoulder carried the tang of drying murram grass and the scents of bitter pungent shrubs, of red earth and brown earth of old scat and stones heating in the midafternoon sun.

I could articulate the meanings of 'scat,' 'rimming,' and golden showers all before my eighth birthday, though I was loath to do so. To publicly accuse gays of filthy behaviors would leave a girl open to challenge -- "How do you know?" -- and thus put her in the unenviable position of having to explain that it's in a book called The Joys of Gay Sex ... which no she had not read ... but her grandfather told her about it ... during church ... from the pulpit.

That’s another reason for its fluctuating reputation: the Pepper that blew minds out in 1967 was mono, but later generations heard it in the diffuse, watered-down stereo mix, missing details like Paul’s scatting at the end of the “Pepper” reprise. The mono version was the one the Beatles, Martin, and Emerick spent three weeks mixing. The stereo mix was a quickie afterthought, with none of the Beatles involved or even present

Years earlier, Carley had foreseen investing in such public outreach: "It will have to be a continual bombardment of information striking at the root of the myths. In other words, we must tear down most of what the public "knows" about red wolves and replace it with current information. Although pig tails have been found in wolf scats, remnants of stick houses have been conspicuously absent. To date, we have not identified any scrap reminiscent of a little red cape.

flap opened on one of the tents, and a gangly figure crawled out. It was Mrs. Starch. She rose slowly, brushing herself off, her eyes blazing at the sight of Nick and Marta.

Bernard Beanstoop III, otherwise known as Bernie the Bean, who was only the most famous and most expensive criminal defense lawyer in Tampa.

You’re the hero of your own story. The hero doesn’t die, can’t die, because then the story ends. But I’ve had a long time to sit with death, now. I have stared death in the face. I don’t like it much. I want to choose how this all ends. I don’t just want it taken from me. When I’m old and dying, wheezing my guts out, my organs failing, I want to walk out the front door of some old farmhouse on my own land, maybe forty, fifty hectares of it. I want to find a cool place in the woods under some old oak tree and settle down there and die as the sun comes up. I want a death rattle, a final breath, a body intact that can then be torn apart by scavengers, riddled with worms, my limbs dragged off to feed some family of little foxes, my guts teeming with maggots, until I am nothing but a gooey collection of juices that feeds the fungi and the oak seedlings and the wild grasses. I want my bleached bones scatted across my own land, broken and sucked clean of marrow, half buried in snow and finally, finally, covered over in loam and ground to dust by the passage of time, until I am broken into fragments, the pieces of my body returned to where they came. I could give back something to this world instead of taking, taking, taking. That’s the death I want.

Unfolding according to the contemplative logic of their lyrical orbits, Astral Weeks’s songs unhooked themselves from pop’s dependence on verse/chorus structure, coasting on idling rhythms, raging and subsiding with the ebb and flow of Morrison’s soulful scat. The soundworld – a loose-limbed acoustic tapestry of guitar, double bass, flute, vibraphone and dampened percussion – was unmistakably attributable to the calibre of the musicians convened for the session: Richard Davis, whose formidable bass talents had shadowed Eric Dolphy on the mercurial Blue Note classic Out to Lunch; guitarist Jay Berliner had previous form with Charles Mingus; Connie Kay was drummer with The Modern Jazz Quartet; percussionist/vibesman Warren Smith’s sessionography included Miles Davis, Aretha Franklin, Nat King Cole, Sam Rivers and American folk mystics Pearls Before Swine. Morrison reputedly barely exchanged a word with the personnel, retreating to a sealed sound booth to record his parts and leaving it to their seasoned expertise to fill out the space. It is a music quite literally snatched out of the air.

I suffer from existential crisis way too frequently to actually complete anything that I've started, therefore, I create multitudinous halfassed masterpieces scatted across the spacetime continuum.

Roger Peters told me once that wolves in the Superior National Forest defecate sometimes on beer cans. Like any scent mark, these scats give off both visual and olfactory signals. We should see more here than what the wolf might be telling us about our littering habits. The animals may be marking things they consider dangerous to other wolves, especially pups, for wolves also mark traps and poisoned baits by defecating on them. If Peters is correct in thinking that the olfactory information in a scat is intended for other pack members, the idea makes even better sense.

dollars!

want Mrs. Starch to come back!

ass.

and a surly young burglar (handcuffed to his chair) who’d been bitten by a police dog in a very sensitive area of his body.

When describing both the act of defecating and the substance of fecal matter itself, biologists prefer to use the scientific term “poop.” It’s both a noun and a verb. A popular field of biology called scatology is the study of scat, which is not to be confused with mere poop. Although technically they’re the same, we call it “scat” if we are studying it to learn something about the health and diet of an animal. When the animal has pooped on us or has ruined something with his pooping, we tend to use the term “shit,” as in, “Oh, man, he just shit down the back of my neck.” So if it’s on the ground, it’s poop. If it’s under your microscope, it’s scat. If it’s running down your neck, it’s shit.

AAG: We hate all the same things. OM: Such as? AAG: Board games, truffle oil, magic realism, Harry Potter, politics, toddlers, the elderly, people who get excited about mac and cheese, scatting—