Sergeant Friday Quotes

I said nothing on my side. Robinson Crusoe—God knows how—had got into my muddled old head. If Sergeant Cuff had found himself, at that moment, transported to a desert island, without a man Friday to keep him company, or a ship to take him off—he would have found himself exactly where I wished him to be! (nota bene:—I am an average good Christian, when you don’t push my Christianity too far. And all the rest of you—which is a great comfort—are, in this respect, much the same as I am.)

Maybe you held up the book defensively and they struck it first?’ said Sergeant Crowley. ‘No, Friday wouldn’t do that,’ said Melanie. ‘She’d be more likely to stick her head in front to protect the book.

Were you arresting Mr Fontana?’ asked Melanie. ‘No, why should I arrest him?’ asked Sergeant Crowley. ‘Oh, no reason,’ said Melanie. ‘But he did try to force me to do a star jump this morning, so I assume he’s capable of anything.

If a soldier wants to drive from Fort Bragg to Myrtle Beach over the weekend (135 miles), before doing so, he must complete some ten pages of paperwork that includes getting his car inspected by his NCO, declaring a travel route and safe-driving plan, and taking a driving safety quiz (the same one he took last weekend and the weekend before that). If he wants to drive farther than 150 miles, he also needs a mileage pass, signed by his company commander. Sometimes the Friday-afternoon paperwork takes longer than the drive. Every junior enlisted soldier in the Devil Brigade must also submit a plan of what he intends to do each weekend and every holiday, and his sergeant must perform a risk assessment against that plan. I am not making this up.

The clothes make the man, or so the saying goes. But all you have to do is look at a row of fedoras to know what a bunch of baloney that is. Gather together a group of men of every gradation—from the powerhouse to the putz—have them toss their fedoras in a pile, and you’ll spend a lifetime trying to figure out whose was whose. Because it’s the man who makes the fedora, not versa vice. I mean, wouldn’t you rather wear the hat worn by Frank Sinatra than the one worn by Sergeant Joe Friday? I should hope so. In

There are two ways to approach the role of new stepdad: You can go the friendly route—soft-pedal, build some trust. Don’t worry, I’m not trying to replace your dad. Or you can seize the opportunity to lead that totalitarian regime you’ve always dreamed of. I am your parent! You will respect me! Clyde opted for the latter. He immediately instated something he called Heavy Chore Day—aka, Saturday. Like Sunday Mass, attendance was mandatory but HCD lasted much longer. The whole family was up and working by 0800 and the workday lasted eight hours. Duties were segregated between men’s work (in the yard) and women’s work (in the house). If there were any holdover friends from a Friday night sleepover, they were welcome to stay, “but if you’re here, you need to contribute.” Our friends quickly learned to request early pickup times. Clyde’s vibe was all drill sergeant. “Police the lawn for anything that ain’t grass or dog shit. Shovel the dog shit. After you mow, edge the perimeter.” Half the jobs didn’t even make sense: “Move this pile of rocks to the other end of the yard. Dig a hole over here, cart the dirt in the wheelbarrow over there and make a dirt hill.