Simpsons Wedding Quotes

A circle has no end, no beginning, and can hold within itself all the love and devotion shared between mates. Let the rings you exchange now guide you in your life together and show you the way to everlasting love.

... The Sirens of Titan …. … ‘That’s a funny name for a book,’ I said with a gulp. ‘Are those women going to get arrested?’ Mr Peterson didn’t know what the hell I was talking about. ‘They’re not wearing many clothes,’ I pointed out. ‘What’s your point?’ he asked. ‘So I thought maybe the sirens might be for them.’ Mr Peterson frowned. ‘ I think the police are allowed to arrest you for wearing too few clothes,’ I explained. Comprehension dawned on Mr Peterson’s face. ‘No, kid. Not sirens as in police sirens. Sirens as in Homer.’ I frowned. ‘Simpson?’ ‘The Odyssey!’ I looked at him blankly. At some point in the last thirty seconds, we’d stopped speaking the same language. Mr Peterson sighed and rubbed his wrinkled forehead. ‘The Odyssey’s a very old Greek story by a very old Greek man called Homer. And in The Odyssey there are these very beautiful women called sirens …… ‘oh’, I said. ‘So the women are the sirens? And that’s why they’re not wearing very many clothes?” ‘Right. Except in Kurt Vonnegut’s book the Sirens don’t live in the Mediterranean. They live on Titan, which is one of Saturn’s moons.’ ‘Yes, I know that,’ I said. (I didn’t want Mr Peterson to think I was an idiot). ‘It’s the second largest moon in the solar system, after Ganymede, Jupiter’s largest moon. It’s actually larger than Mercury, though not nearly so dense.’ Mr Peter frowned again and shook his head. ‘I guess these days school puts a big emphasis on sciences instead of the arts, huh?’ ‘No, not really. School puts a big emphasis on exam questions. Do sirens breathe methane?

We got back on the road, heading west. I remember my thoughts as we ventured into the Simpson Desert. There’s nothing out here. The landscape was flat and lifeless. Except for the occasional jump-up--a small mesa that rose twenty or thirty feet above the desert floor-it just looked like dirt, sticks, and dead trees. The Simpson Desert is one of the hottest places on earth. But Steve brought the desert to life, pointing out lizards, echidnas, and all kinds of wildlife. He made it into a fantastic journey. In the middle of this vast landscape were the two of us, the only people for miles. Steve had become adept at eluding the film crew from time to time so we could be alone. There was a local cattle station about an hour-and-a-half drive from where we were filming, a small homestead in the middle of nowhere. The owners invited the whole crew over for a home-cooked meal. Steve and I stayed in the bush, and Bob and Lyn headed to one of their favorite camping spots. After having dinner, the crew couldn’t locate us. They searched in the desert for a while before deciding to sleep in the car. What was an uncomfortable night for them turned out to be a brilliant night for us! Steve made it romantic without being traditional. His idea of a beautiful evening was building a roaring campfire, watching a spectacular sunset, and cooking a curry dinner for me in a camp oven. Then we headed out spotlighting, looking for wildlife for hours on end. It was fantastic, like the ultimate Easter egg hunt. I never knew what we’d find. When Steve did discover something that night--the tracks of a huge goanna, or a tiny gecko hiding under a bush--he reveled in his discovery. His excitement was contagious, and I couldn’t help but become excited too. The best times in my life were out in the bush with Steve.

From The Titanic Test: I pulled him back down to me, this time for a slow-burn kiss, the kind designed to set your hair on fire and take all the oxygen out of your lungs. I didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want to think. Didn’t want to hear any high school crap. We were on the deck of one of the most famous ships in the world. He was a guy in a tuxedo. I was a girl in a glamorous gown. We’d danced the night away. It was our movie moment.

I reckon you’ll be on the arm of that fine Yankee doctor. My, you two made a handsome couple dancing at the wedding. You and he have probably been sparkin’ ever since, haven’t you?” she asked with a cackle of laughter. Sarah felt herself flushing and shook her head. “No, Mrs. Detwiler, we’re not courting. We just danced one dance together….” “Not from any lack of ‘want to’ on his part, I’ll warrant. It was plain as the nose on my face. Now, don’t you let one of your Spinsters’ Club friends snatch up that fine man first,” she admonished, shaking a gnarled finger at Sarah. “You be like your sister—Milly knew a good thing when she saw it and she didn’t dillydally and let some other woman get close to that handsome Englishman a’ hers!” Sarah marveled inwardly, thinking how disapproving the older woman had been of Milly when she’d founded the Spinsters’ Club, and how Nicholas had won her over. “Yes, ma’am, and perhaps when the right man comes along, I’ll—” “You might not recognize it when it happens. I didn’t, when my George first started coming to call. You think again about that Dr. Walker, miss. I know what I’m talking about.” “Yes ma’am,” Sarah said obediently. It never did any good to argue with Mrs. Detwiler.

From The Titanic Test: 'I pulled him back down to me, this time for a slow-burn kiss, the kind designed to set your hair on fire and take all the oxygen out of your lungs. I didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want to think. Didn’t want to hear any high school crap. We were on the deck of one of the most famous ships in the world. He was a guy in a tuxedo. I was a girl in a glamorous gown. We’d danced the night away. It was our movie moment.

Pregnant. I ran upstairs screaming. We'd found each other. Eric thought something was wrong because I was crying. I couldn't talk, just handed him the pregnancy test. What I'd known for that minute, he now knew, and I watched the excitement and relief wash over him. We called everybody. My sweet mother almost tried to turn around on the highway to get to me sooner. Everybody wanted to come over, and we welcomed them. I'm sorry I didn't call you, but I would have if I'd had your number.

It was one giant learning curve, figuring out how to be married and how to create content for a kind of show that had never been done before, something they were calling a “reality show.” The Osbournes had premiered the previous year and had become the highest-rated show on MTV. As much as The Osbournes showed the “real” life of a celebrity family, they would have been the first to say it was kind of a circus. My dad pitched Newlyweds to MTV right after the wedding. This would be two celebrities, who viewers were used to seeing air-brushed to perfection, eating cereal and passing gas. Dad’s theory was that this would get me and my music on MTV—who never played my videos unless it was on TRL—while also undoing the damage of how I’d been marketed by the label. “If girls knew you, they’d like you,” he said. “Columbia’s been pushing them all away with this sexy-Barbie stuff. This show would be about your heart.

In October, Dad’s mother, my Nanny, got very sick. She had been fighting breast cancer, and now it had gone into her lymph nodes. She had been a nurse, and she knew her hour was near. She wanted to go on her terms, and a wonderful hospice team came to her home. Nick came with me to see her one last time, and he was my rock. My father couldn’t bear to go into her room, but Nick came in with me. She was beautiful, so sick but still radiating the grace she brought to the demands of being a pastor’s wife. I realized that everything that was good in my life, I had because of her. Nanny had paid to press my first album. She was the reason I had a career at all and the reason I met Nick. I smoothed her hair back as I told her I was there. She squeezed my hand. “Nick is here, too, Nanny,” I whispered. “I want you to know we’re back together. I’m gonna marry him, Nanny. Just like you wanted.” She squeezed my hand again. “We’re going to have a beautiful wedding,” I said, “and you’ll always be with me. You’ll be right there.” She had asked to have my version of “His Eye Is on the Sparrow,” the last song off my second album, on repeat as she passed. As she took her last breath, surrounded by love and her family, my voice filled the room, saying, “His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.” It’s a celebration of faith and gratitude that no matter how insignificant we may feel, God is looking out for us. At her funeral at First Baptist Church of Leander, Nick was a pallbearer and helped to carry her home. I will always be grateful to him for that. She was reunited in heaven with my late grandfather, to whom she had been married for forty-one years. I wanted that forever love for Nick and me, too.

But you’re a better singer, baby,” he said. “Then why won’t God let me have that success?” I asked. “I don’t understand what He wants from me.” At the mention of God, my dad slipped into preacher mode. “He is allowing you to go through this struggle so that He can build a strong foundation in you,” he said quietly. “So that when it comes time for you to have that success, you will appreciate it. And know how much work it takes. ‘If you remain in me and my words remain in you—’ ” “Ask whatever you wish, and it will be given to you,” I said, finishing John 15:7 for him. You can take the girl out of youth group, but you can’t take youth group out of the girl. “That’s a beautiful promise, isn’t it?” he said. “Yes,” I sighed. The verse did minister to me, though I also knew my dad didn’t really think fulfillment resided solely in sticking to scripture. Otherwise we’d still be in Richardson, and I wouldn’t have to be working so hard to prove my worth. I started to hear voices when I was alone at night, waiting for the sleeping pill to kick in. Half asleep, I would examine myself for flaws in the mirror, and a mental chorus would weigh in. They were intrusive and so mean that I was really convinced Satan was behind them. “You’re never going to be good enough, Jessica. Look who your competition is.” “Could your zits be any bigger?” “What happened to your hair? It used to be so much thicker and longer.” “Do more sit-ups, fat ass.” These thoughts derailed me just as I had to work harder to sell the album. It should have been no different than back when I stood next to the stage at a small Texas rodeo, selling my very first album. Back then, I knew if I just kept at it, people would respond. But now I was running on fumes, then beating myself up for that, too. I was fully aware that I was being unreasonable with myself—I would even beat myself up over beating myself up—but like a lot of times in my life, just because I could name the problem didn’t mean I was ready to do anything to fix it. Looking back, I see how my anxiety amplified the very real pressures on me, but I didn’t have that perspective then.

Name … Cookie Haque – well, kind of.1 Parents … Abed and Rozie. Sisters … Nahid and Roubi. Age … Nine, although I feel I am more mature than this. Pets … Really want one. Star Sign … Don’t believe in all that. I mean, how could somebody’s whole personality be determined by random stars or what month they’re born in? Makes no sense. E.g. I’m supposed to be a Scorpio but their traits include being jealous, negative, secretive and resentful. I am NONE of those! Best friend … Keziah, Keziah, always and forever Keziah. BFF. Hobbies … I love drawing and doodling. My current favourite doodle is a hedgehog. I like drawing it with different hairstyles. I love long words and chatting too, if you count that as a hobby! I used to collect sachets of stuff, anything really … salt, pepper, shampoo, all sorts – but I’ve given up on that now. I’ve collected so many different types of things: coins, stamps, acorns. No idea why I collected acorns. Random! Favourite Teacher … Ms Krantz Favourite Subject … Science. How can anybody not love science? I like it because it explains EVERYTHING. It’s thanks to science that human beings can build buildings that don’t fall down, design cars and planes that don’t crash and make medicines to help us get better. Without progress in science we’d all still be cavemen running around in rabbit skins with sticks! No houses, no TVs, no iPads! We owe science A LOT. Favourite Food … I love all food except for pork. We don’t eat pork in my family cos we’re Muslim. My favourite sandwich is coronation chicken and my favourite food at the moment is a roast dinner but it changes all the time. I just love food! Favourite Colour … Favourite colour for what? Just because I like wearing green clothes doesn’t mean I want to paint my house green! What a dumb question! More Stuff About Me … I do a good Bart Simpson impression. CHAPTER 1 Animal Lover

We’d been told by Nicole’s friend Ron Hardy that the intercom controlling the lock on the front gate was broken. If Nicole had wanted to let a visitor in, she’d had to go down and open the gate manually. If this was true, it was easy to conceive how Nicole and Ron were both at the front gate when Simpson moved in for the kill. He could have attacked Nicole from behind, hitting her on the head, making a quick cut to her neck, and slamming her into the staircase wall. She would have been knocked unconscious long enough for him to deal with Ron before going back to dispatch her with the coup de grâce.

For several weeks now, the team had been pulling together a montage, a sort of visual history of this crime. Over the images, we’d decided that we would play the 911 tapes. Although I’d seen bits and pieces of this opus as it was coming together, I didn’t feel the full power of it until this morning, when Jonathan hit the “play” button. You heard “Emergency 911,” then the static confusion on the caller’s end. The thumps of blows landing on flesh. Then, the more frantic pleas of the 1993 call. “He’s O. J. Simpson. I think you know his record. He’s fucking going nuts.” All the while, on the large screen, we showed the photo of Nicole taken after the beating of 1989. She was lifting her hair to reveal the full extent of the damage to her face. Her eyes were downcast, as if in shame. Then, the photo of her smeared with mud. Cut to the Bundy trail, the knit cap, a close-up of Ron’s shirt. Behind those images, O. J. Simpson’s voice rose to a peak of rage. Suddenly, the audio stopped, and all that was left was a picture of Nicole’s body curled in a pool of blood. We held on that image for thirty seconds in complete silence. There was sobbing throughout the courtroom. But all I could think was, It’s over.

By the end, we had over 150 entries pointing to guilt. It was too much for a summation, so we boiled it down to eight key pieces of evidence—each of which had an irrefutable connection to O. J. Simpson: The knit cap. Ron Goldman’s shirt. The shoe prints up the Bundy walk. The droplets of blood leading from Bundy. The blood in the Bronco. The Rockingham blood trail. The Rockingham glove. The socks found at the foot of Simpson’s bed. We’d originally included the Bundy glove as well, but it had less significant blood, hair, and fibers. Ultimately, we left it out. It didn’t add to proof of guilt.