Shooting Craps Quotes

No matter how much crap you gotta plow through to stay alive as a photographer, no matter how many bad assignments, bad days, bad clients, snotty subjects, obnoxious handlers, wigged-out art directors, technical disasters, failures of the mind, body, and will, all the shouldas, couldas, and wouldas that befuddle our brains and creep into our dreams, always remember to make room to shoot what you love. It’s the only way to keep your heart beating as a photographer.

Then I said, “Matt’s got a big mouth.” “They all got big mouths, girl, learn that quick. These boys talk more than a pack of women. I lost fifty bucks on you.” I was stunned speechless again, this time it didn’t last as long. “What?” “See, Lee nailed Indy the first night they were together. Not nailed her nailed her but she was in his bed. Eddie, with Jet, it took a few days. Hank and Roxie, like, a day. Vance, like three, but Jules was a virgin and he had to interrupt the festivities once to go out and shoot someone.” I was blinking rapidly and feeling kind of faint at the amount and sensitivity of information Shirleen was imparting, not to mention what it might mean to me. “So we had a pool. Everyone threw down money on when they thought Luke would nail you. Mace won five hundred dollars.” Ho-ly crap. “So,” she went on. “Did he nail you nail you or did you two just sleep?” For some reason, I answered her unbelievably nosy question. “We just slept.” “New pool!” she shouted.

But if I have to deal with another stupid elf and their mystic crap I swear I'm going to shoot them all in their stupid inbred hick faces and burn their trailer park down.

One way to hurt Barrington is to beat the crap out of him in your lawsuit. Hurt him in the pocketbook.

I want you back, Annabelle.” This time my laughter is full of nothing but genuine humor. It’s that ‘oh my god, I can’t believe that’ kind of humor. I lean forward and put my face in my palms, still laughing. “Holy crap,” I say in-between laughs, “that’s hilarious.” I peek up at him to see his disgruntled expression and then bust up laughing again.  “I’m serious,” he grunts out, looking cute in his exasperation, damn him. Not done, I hold up a hand. “Oh, oh, wait. Just let me go get my gun so you can shoot me again. Of course I want to get back together with you, Gabriel.” Putting on a serious face, I say earnestly, “He shoots me because he loves me.

When people are kids their parents teach them all sorts of stuff, some of it true and useful, some of it absurd hogwash (example of former: don't crap your pants; example of latter: Columbus discovered America). This is why puberty happens. The purpose of puberty is to shoot an innocent and gullible child full of nasty glandular secretions that manifest in the mind as confusion, in the innards as horniness, upon the skin as pimples, and on the tongue as cocksure venomous disbelief in every piece of information, true or false, gleaned from one's parents since infancy. The net result is a few years of familial hell culminating in the child's exodus from the parental nest, sooner or later followed by a peace treaty and the emergence of the postpubescent as an autonomous, free-thinking human being who knows that Columbus only trespassed on an island inhabited by our lost and distant Indian relatives, but who also knows not to crap his pants.

We do not shoot craps with human teeth.

My spirituality is most active, not in meditation, but in the moments when: I realize God may have gotten something beautiful done through me despite the fact that I am an asshole, and when I am confronted by the mercy of the gospel so much that I cannot hate my enemies, and when I am unable to judge the sin of someone else (which, let’s be honest, I love to do) because my own crap is too much in the way, and when I have to bear witness to another human being’s suffering despite my desire to be left alone, and when I am forgiven by someone even though I don’t deserve it and my forgiver does this because he, too, is trapped by the gospel, and when traumatic things happen in the world and I have nowhere to place them or make sense of them but what I do have is a group of people who gather with me every week, people who will mourn and pray with me over the devastation of something like a school shooting, and when I end up changed by loving someone I’d never choose out of a catalog but whom God sends my way to teach me about God’s love.

Appleby was as good at shooting crap as he was at playing Ping-Pong, and he was as good at playing Ping-Pong as he was at everything else. Everything Appleby did, he did well. Appleby was a fair-haired boy from Iowa who believed in God, Motherhood, and the American Way of Life, without ever thinking about any of them, and everybody who knew him liked him. "I hate that son of a bitch," Yossarian growled.

Ella finished her burger and dug into a side of fries. Hi watched, enraptured. She couldn't help but notice. “Would you like one?” “What? Sure.” Hi smiled, made no move. After a moment, Ella nudged the bowl his way. “Careful, they're still hot.” “Oh, no problem.” Hi fumbled for a fry. “I like food that's hot.” I caught Shelton slowly shaking his head. “Oh, shoot!” Ella winced. “I forgot to stop by the office. My mother had to drop off my shin guards.” She slid her fries over to Hi. “Enjoy. They're hot, which apparently you like.” “Got that right. Hot hot hot!” Hi awkwardly shoved another fry into his mouth. “Okay, wow.” Ella gathered her things, then brushed my cheek with a kiss. “Later, Tor.” Shouldering her bag, she hurried from the cafeteria. A loud thunk drew my attention back to the table. Hi's forehead was resting on his tray. “Tell me that wasn't as bad as I think.” “Worse,” Shelton said. “So, so much worse.” Then head rose, then thunked back down. “I don't remember parts. I think I lost time.” I patted his shoulder. “That's probably for the best.” “Such.” Thunk. “A.” Thunk. “Dumbass.” Thunk. Shelton laughed nervously. “See? That's why I don't talk.” Hi's face shot up. “Tell her I have brain seizures. A serious medical condition. Or that I have an evil twin who sometimes takes my place, but can't talk for crap.” “Got it," I promised. His head dropped once more.

KAUFMAN Sir, what if a writer is attempting to create a story where nothing much happens, where people don't change, they don't have any epiphanies. They struggle and are frustrated and nothing is resolved. More a reflection of the real world — MCKEE The real world? KAUFMAN Yes, sir. MCKEE The real fucking world? First of all, you write a screenplay without Conflict or Crisis, you'll bore your audience to tears. Secondly: nothing happens in the world? Are you out of your fucking mind? People are murdered every day! There's genocide, war, corruption! Every fucking day somewhere in the world somebody sacrifices his life to save someone else! Every fucking day someone somewhere makes a conscious decision to destroy someone else! People find love! People lose it! For Christ's sake! A child watches her mother beaten to death on the steps of a church! Someone goes hungry! Somebody else betrays his best friend for a woman! If you can't find that stuff in life, then you, my friend, don't know CRAP about life! And WHY THE FUCK are you wasting my two precious hours with your movie? I don't have any use for it! I don't have any bloody use for it! KAUFMAN Okay, thanks.

I missed the war and the freedom that came with it. When you are that close to death, you feel free. Every breath you take could be your last. So you inhale and savor each breath, try not to think about your death even though signs of it are all around you. The freedom comes from knowing that if anybody gives you crap, you can eliminate them and the situation. Just shoot and get it over with.

The truth is we only have control over a finite number of things in life. The rest is a fucking crap shoot.

Go home, talk about it together. Bake Christmas cookies and crap. Then tell me what you want to happen. Know that I’m yours. My loyalty, my soul is yours no matter what you decide. Crap, you can shoot me in the back, and I’ll never want anything but to be around you hookers.” Blake stood and shook his head. “Nah, I don’t need time. I appreciate the place in Hawaii, and it would be great to go to—maybe for a vacation sometime? But I’m here. I’m not leaving you. You’re my family.

The first one who lectures me about life, liberty and all that crap,I should just shoot him.That is what he'd deserve. -The killer(comics).

It wouldn't bother me in the least if all the dogs in the world weere placed in a large sack and taken to some distant island - Greenland springs attractively to mind - where they could romp around and sniff each other's anuses to their hearts' content and would never bother or terrorize me again. The only kind of dog I would excuse from this roundup is poodles. Poodles I would shoot. To my mind, the only possible pet is a cow. Cows love you. They are harmless, they look nice, they don't need a box to crap in, they keep the grass down, and they are so trusting and stupid that you can't help but lose your heart to them. Where I live in Yorkshire, there's a herd of cows down the lane. You can stand by the wall at any hour of the day or night, and after a minute the cows will all waddle over and stand with you, much too stupid to know what to do next, but happy just to be with you. They will stand there all day, as far as I can tell, possibly till the end of time. They will listen to your problems and never ask a thing in return. They will be your friends forever. And when you get tired of the, you can kill them and eat them. Perfect.

think that day summed up everything that went wrong in Iraq, why “we love America” changed to “death to America.” The lieutenant colonel got tired of listening to that endless crap so he told us to shoot one of the speakers,

The comic on the top of the stack catches my eye. Is this the end for Commander Justice? I wish, but of course it isn’t. I flip through the first few pages before tossing the candy-colored propaganda aside. “You really shouldn’t read this crap,” I tell Carl when he finally comes back into the room. “It can’t be doing anything for your confidence.” “I need to keep up with his latest crime-fighting techniques.” “No, you don’t. You need to shoot him in the face.

You’re saying you have spidey sense? Can you also shoot webs out of your wrist to swing from building to building?” He raises an eyebrow. “No, Anna. I cannot. And I really can’t believe I’m taking crap from the girl who speaks to dead people.

I realize God may have gotten something beautiful done through me despite the fact that I am an asshole, and when I am confronted by the mercy of the gospel so much that I cannot hate my enemies, and when I am unable to judge the sin of someone else (which, let’s be honest, I love to do) because my own crap is too much in the way, and when I have to bear witness to another human being’s suffering despite my desire to be left alone, and when I am forgiven by someone even though I don’t deserve it and my forgiver does this because he, too, is trapped by the gospel, and when traumatic things happen in the world and I have nowhere to place them or make sense of them but what I do have is a group of people who gather with me every week, people who will mourn and pray with me over the devastation of something like a school shooting, and when I end up changed by loving someone I’d never choose out of a catalog but whom God sends my way to teach me about God’s love.

As much as I try not to, I can’t help but stare.  It’s kind of like stumbling across a bizarre Teen Vogue shoot, only there’s clearly something more to this cast. Everything about them is captivating, but it’s not just their looks.  It’s the way they move; they way they act; even they way they – “Paigelyn?” Crap.

With rough gentleness the big boys taught her to shoot craps and chew tobacco without losing it. The big girls giggled behind their hands most of the time and whispered among themselves a great deal, but Jean Louise considered them useful when choosing sides for a volleyball match. All in all, it was turning out to be a wonderful year.

defining the magic a good poem is like a cold beer when you need it, a good poem is a hot turkey sandwich when you’re hungry, a good poem is a gun when the mob corners you, a good poem is something that allows you to walk through the streets of death, a good poem can make death melt like hot butter, a good poem can frame agony and hang it on a wall, a good poem can let your feet touch China, a good poem can make a broken mind fly, a good poem can let you shake hands with Mozart, a good poem can let you shoot craps with the devil and win, a good poem can do almost anything, and most important a good poem knows when to stop.

But he knew what those stiff patches on the jeans and underpants looked like; he had been masturbating three and sometimes four times a day since he turned fourteen, using an old piece of towel to shoot his spunk into, and then using the backyard tap to rinse it out when his parents were gone. Sometimes he forgot, though, and that piece of toweling got pretty crusty. Only there had been a lot of that stuff, a lot, and really, who would jizz off on a brand-new pair of Adipowers, high-class kicks that cost upward of a hundred and forty dollars, even at Wally World? Dougie might have thought about taking them for himself under other circumstances, but not with that crap on them,

That looks like the last one for a bit. We’ll climb out there.”   “Is it safe?” I can’t help but ask.   “None of this is safe,” he tells me, voice cutting. “But we can’t stay here all night.”   “Why not? We’re already covered in poop.”   “Because this is a sewer and the water’s rising.” Aron looks at me like I’m stupid. “The tide’s coming in. Unless you want to drown in someone else’s shit, we have to get out of here.”   “It is?” I look down and sure enough, I guess the water (if you can call it that) is higher than it was before. I thought it was because the tunnel was just, getting deeper in this part, but it’s past my knees and soaking the hem of my tunic. “I didn’t realize.”   “How is it I’m the immortal and you’re the one that has no clue how a city works?”   I slap his arm, irritated. “Don’t you start that shit with me. You want to know how it works where I live? We go into a tiny little room, sit on a toilet, take a dump, and then jiggle a handle and the magic poo gods take it all away. Whoosh. That’s it. That’s the extent of my knowledge. Once a month I pay the water bill and that’s all I do. So if your stupid city doesn’t work the way my stupid city did, don’t blame me.”   I glare at him, waiting for his answer.   He just watches me. His mouth twitches, just a little. Finally, he says, slowly, “Magic poo gods?”   I throw my hands up in the air. “You’re impossible and I hate you. If we’re leaving, let’s just go.”   “Should we say a prayer to the magic poo gods first?” When I shoot him the bird, he snorts with amusement. “Here I thought you didn’t believe in any gods.”   “There’s just one where I come from, and he doesn’t put up with any lesser god bullshit like this place, thank you.” I stomp ahead, splashing through the horrible, sludgy water so I can get away from my equally horrible companion.   Aron’s laughter rumbles through the sewer pipe, and I ignore him, pushing forward. I’m so tired and the night has been so long. To think I just took a bath and now I’m covered in crap and mud once more. It’s like this entire world is conspiring against me. Heck, maybe it is. Maybe I’ve been cursed since I stepped through that portal. Given that I’m stuck with the infuriating Aron, I believe it. One minute I think he might be okay, and the next I want to choke him.

You mean it got out of the specimen room?" "Yes, sir." "Holy crap!" "Agreed, sir. Permission to unlock the gun case?" Paul shook his head. "You don't shoot two years' worth of work just because somebody lost an arm.

These books, which cover many of the topics discussed in this book, may be helpful further reading. GENERAL REFERENCE American Academy of Pediatrics. Caring for Your Baby and Young Child: Birth to Age Five. New York: Bantam, 2004. Druckerman, P. Bringing Up Bébé: One American Mother Discovers the Wisdom of French Parenting. New York: Penguin, 2014. Eliot, L. What’s Going On in There?: How the Brain and Mind Develop in the First Five Years of Life. New York: Bantam, 2000. Nathanson, L. The Portable Pediatrician for Parents: A Month-by-Month Guide to Your Child’s Physical and Behavioral Development from Birth to Age Five. New York: HarperCollins, 1994. DISCIPLINE Phelan, T. W. 1-2-3 Magic: Effective Discipline for Children 2–12. Naperville, IL: ParentMagic, Inc., 2010. Webster-Stratton, C. The Incredible Years: A Trouble-Shooting Guide for Parents of Children Aged 2–8. Toronto: Umbrella Press, 1992. SLEEP Ferber, R. Solve Your Child’s Sleep Problems. Rev. ed. New York: Simon & Schuster, 2006. Karp, H. The Happiest Baby on the Block: The New Way to Calm Crying and Help Your Newborn Baby Sleep Longer. Rev. ed. New York: Bantam, 2015. Weissbluth, M. Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child: A Step-by-Step Program for a Good Night’s Sleep. 4th ed. New York: Ballantine Books, 2015. POTTY TRAINING Glowacki, J. Oh Crap! Potty Training: Everything Modern Parents Need to Know to Do It Once and Do It Right. New York: Touchstone, 2015.

Damage report, sir?” Skotchdopole asked, climbing off his console into his seat. “To hell with that!” he roared, this was no accidental side-effect of arriving – it was clear they were under attack by hostile aliens. “Fire! Shoot the crap outta them!

Dwayne, can you shoot a gun?” Dwayne rolled his eyes. “Hanky-poo, Dwayne doesn’t need a gun. I have crap in my repertoire that will make you lose sleep for the rest of your life.” We all digested that nugget silently for a moment and then moved on. If Dwayne wanted us to know exactly what he was capable of, he would have volunteered it. Part of me hoped I would never have to find out, but the other half was dying to know. “Speaking

Dan sits on one of the two black beanbag chairs in front of the TV and picks up a controller. The screen clicks on, and the words “Shoot Your Face!!!” splash across it in bloody letters. I sit in the other beanbag chair. “You know, I’ve heard these games can warp your mind.” “That’s crap. I’m a well-adjusted teenager. Believe me, my parents had me tested. Now, pick up that controller and let’s do this.

I passed the dock at Fifth-fourth Street where the kids were swimming. I leaned against a pole and watched them, diving and splashing and swimming and hollering. I felt like going over there and joining them, but I had to get back with the bets. A voice behind me said: “I bet you’d like to go with them, Frankie.” I turned around. It was Silk Fennelli. “Why no, sir… I mean… that is…” He smiled, “That’s all right, kid, I understand. I know how you feel. You’d like to be with them—swimming, playing ball, or shooting craps on the corners. But you can’t. You got a responsibility—yourself. Those kids don’t think any further ahead than the next minute, but you’re different. You want to get ahead. You want to amount to something. You’re going to be big time, and you’re learning now that for everything you get you got to give up something else—something maybe that you want or would like to do. And you have to make up your mind which it’s going to be. I was like you once.

Miguel: We’ve only gone over 100x! Mika: K—gonna roc!! Billy: Glad ur babysitting, dumbass. U know how 2 shoot, right? Mika: Screw u! Kevin: Cut the crap—stay focused treat us like animals we’ll show them animals Mika: Hear that! Miguel: Payback a bitch!

Anyone who comes to visit the set of The Office always says the same thing when they leave: “Holy crap, that was scary!” This is because we shoot at the end of a dead-end street on an industrial block of Panorama City, in the San Fernando Valley, which sounds great—who doesn’t love panoramas? But don’t be fooled! The name is a trick. At one point Panorama City was part of Van Nuys, but Van Nuys did whatever the opposite of secede is to it. Expelled it? I’ll put it this way. Van Nuys took one look at Panorama City and was like, “Uh, get your own name. We don’t want to have anything to do with you.

Huh,” groaned Father Gabe. “I sympathize with you, Tommy. Relationships can be a crap shoot. You think you’re going to roll a seven and up pops snake eyes.

¡Carajoǃ” Paco says, throwing down his lunch. “They think they can buy a U-shaped shell, stuff it, and call it a taco, but those cafeteria workers wouldn’t know taco meat from a piece of shit. That’s what this tastes like, Alex.” “You’re makin’ me sick, man,” I tell him. I stare uncomfortably at the food I brought from home. Thanks to Paco everything looks like mierda now. Disgusted, I shove what’s left of my lunch into my brown paper bag. “Want some of it?” Paco says with a grin as he holds out the shitty taco to me. “Bring that one inch closer to me and you’ll be sorry,” I threaten. “I’m shakin’ in my pants.” Paco wiggles the offending taco, goading me. He should seriously know better. “If any of that gets on me--” “What’cha gonna do, kick my ass?” Paco sings sarcastically, still shaking the taco. Maybe I should punch him in the face, knocking him out so I won’t have to deal with him right now. As I have that thought, I feel something drop on my pants. I look down even though I know what I’ll see. Yes, a big blob of wet, gloppy stuff passing as taco meat lands right on the crotch of my faded jeans. “Fuck,” Paco says, his face quickly turning from amusement to shock. “Want me to clean it off for you?” “If your fingers come anywhere close to my dick, I’m gonna personally shoot you in the huevos,” I growl through clenched teeth. I flick the mystery meat off my crotch. A big, greasy stain lingers. I turn back to Paco. “You got ten minutes to get me a new pair of pants.” “How the hell am I s’posed to do that?” “Be creative.” “Take mine.” Paco stands and brings his fingers to the waistband of his jeans, unbuttoning right in the middle of the courtyard. “Maybe I wasn’t specific enough,” I tell him, wondering how I’m going to act like the cool guy in chem class when it looks like I’ve peed in my pants. “I meant, get me a new pair of pants that will fit me, pendejo. You’re so short you could audition to be one of Santa Claus’s elves.” “I’m toleratin’ your insults because we’re like brothers.” “Nine minutes and thirty seconds.” It doesn’t take Paco more than that to start running toward the school parking lot. I seriously don’t give a crap how I get the pants; just that I get ‘em before my next class. A wet crotch is not the way to show Brittany I’m a stud.

After shooting her a dark look I continued my inventory of the rest of the table, on the other side of Chase were two guys I had seen at the party, but didn’t know their names, and across from them was a pair of gray eyes smiling at me. I dropped my face to look down at my salad and counted to five before slowly lifting only my eyes to find him engaged in a conversation with Chase. Raising my head a little to get a better look, I took in his short buzzed hair, warm smile and single dimple on his right cheek as his laughter boomed across the table. His build was slightly bigger than Chase’s, and the way his shirt stretched across his chest and shoulders, I’d bet he was perfectly muscled. Dear God, and I’d thought Chase was the most attractive guy I’d ever seen. This guy was … just wow. “See something you like?” Bree leaned into my side, looking down my line of sight. “What? No.” “Uh huh, that’s why you’re biting the crap out of your lip. He’s looking at you again.” My head shot up, causing the mystery guy to smirk as his eyes met mine. I felt my cheeks start to burn and forced my head back down and towards Bree. “How do we know he’s not looking at you?” “Ha! I knew you were staring at him.” She grinned and took a massive bite of her burger. “Wow,

At best, hiring is a 50/50 crap shoot. Hiring great folks is critical to building the team, and it’s not easy. Many folks put on a great interview, but the excellence ends there. Others get solid references and you wonder if you hired the same person. And, in other cases, you get a start from somebody you never expected. My best interview question is, “What would your worst reference say about you?” It’s hard to give the answer to that question, “I work too hard,” with a straight face. I have also found that having key candidates take an assessment test gives you more data. Lastly, back-channel references are the best. It’s hard for candidates to game them.

You scared the crap out of me,” I shove his bare chest with a growl. “Was that you at the front door?” “Ya think?” He fires back with a raise of his eyebrows, taking hold of my arm again, as he practically drags me back toward the front entry. “Did it occur to you to say something?” I shoot back with a scowl. “I thought you were some kind of psychopath.” My frown deepens, as I consider whether he might in fact be a psychopath.

Being afraid, worrying, not having all the answers—it’s all a crap shoot. The only thing you have control over is how you react to a situation. You can let it control you, or you can control the situation. That’s it. Once you learn how to accept that, then

The air stirs, priming with energy. If he were Zeus and capable of shooting bolts of lightning from his thunderbolt, I’d be… pregnant? Crap. No! I can’t finish that thought because now all I’m thinking about is his thunderbolt and the lightning that shoots out of it.

The Wolf. The single most productive engineer you’ll meet. You’ve heard of the 10x engineer, but I am here to tell you about the Wolf. They are engineers, and they consistently exhibit the following characteristics: They appear to exist outside of the well-defined process that we’ve defined to get things done, but they appear to suffer no consequences for not following these rules. Everyone knows they’re the Wolf, but no one ever calls them the Wolf. They have a manager, but no one really knows who it is. They have a lot of meetings, but none of them are scheduled. Inviting them to your meeting is a crap shoot. They understand how “the system” works, they understand how to use “the system” to their advantage, and they understand why “the system” exists, but they think “the system” is a bit of a joke. You can ask a Wolf to become a manager, but they’ll resist it. If you happen to convince them to do it, they will do a fine job, but they won’t stay in that role long. In fact, they’ll likely quit managing when you least expect it. Lastly, and most importantly, the Wolf generates disproportionate value for the company with their unparalleled ability to identify and rapidly work on projects essential to the future of the company.

The next time we heard the navigation lady’s voice, she told me to merge onto I-95 North. “Continue on I-95 for eighty miles,” she said. “Omigod,” Lula said. “Eighty miles. Do you know how far eighty miles is? It’s freaking far. It’s forever. Just shoot me. Get it over with. Make this misery end. I can’t feel my legs anymore. I’m numb from the waist down. I wasn’t meant to sit. I’m one of those women who’s gotta go. I’m a mover. Let me out of this car and I’ll walk the rest of the way. Oh crap. I can’t do that. My extremities are dead. I’m a cripple.” “Look on the bright side,” I said. “When we get back to Trenton you can get a handicap sticker for your car.” “I always wanted one of those,” Lula said. “You get good parking spaces. A handicap sticker is worth gold.

The truth is we only have control over a finite number of things in life. The rest is a fucking crap shoot. ​— ​Kandi Steiner

He’s so honest you could shoot craps with him over the phone,

Just wanted to congratulate you on the job you did in Siberia and reporting your findings to the scientists in San Diego. Said you're so honest, I could shoot craps with you over the phone." — President Lyndon B. Johnson

What did I want? I wanted a life with you! And I get instead Radio City, the lights going up, “honey I love you,” dancing all night, crap shooting, cellophane magic, chrome and black marble.

Keo jumped back, shouting, “Holy crap! Shoot it! Shoot it!

Dealing with other people was often a crap shoot. Ultimately, you had to do what you had to do—what your conscience could live with.

It's one of those things that feels awesome at the time but feels so stupid when you talk about it later, like when you're jerking off to porn and five seconds after you come, you can't believe what the hell crap it was that just made you shoot your load. But he was there and my knees were touching my shoulders and it was all great. This Story Is Full of Scorpions: Seriously, Dude, Don't Read It, a sequel to Mike Dies At The End

The three of you were pretty cute last night, with all that touchy-feely crap." "Yeah, that lasted for about two minutes before you dragged Evan back over to the bar." "Dude, we were hunting Turkey. [drinking bourbon] it was important." Chris grins. "That boy can drink, I'll give him that." "That's big of you. From the way you were hanging off each other by the end of the night, I was thinking I might get Jeff all to myself." Chris shoots him a look. "Is that what you want? If you had your way? Just Jeff?" Dan Isn't really ready to answer that question, not even from Chris. "Wow, you'd switch teams just for me? You'd steal Evan away just so I could take his boyfriend? That's sweet man, really." Dan knows that Chris recognizes the deflection, but he lets Dan get away with it. "That's the kind if friend I am, Dan. Maybe you should take a lesson - the next time I need a wingman in a straight bar, it wouldn't kill you to step up." "Yeah, okay, I'll keep that on mind.

All the crap that’s going on out there is what happens when you have imperfect information. Mars and the Belt wouldn’t have been going after each other in the first place if they’d known what we know now. Earth and Mars wouldn’t be shooting each other if everyone knew the fight was being engineered. The problem isn’t that people know too much, it’s that they don’t know enough.

It was a crap shoot, adopting a baby made from someone else's genes, and it worried her sick. "It's a crap shoot giving birth to a baby made from your own genes," Marshall reminded her. She fretted and paced and dreamed and hoped.