Tailgate Quotes

See you later, tailgater.

Helloooo." Miss Ohio rolled her eyes. "I'm from the Buckeye State. We are serious about our tailgating parties. I can turn anything into a grill.

I thought I was having an existential crisis, but it was nothing. Please don't tailgate: body in trunk.

Sweet baby Jesus… I can’t imagine life without football. No tailgates, BBQs, or hot dog stands. Life would be unbearable.

Weary looked at him and shook his head and put the tailgate up and drove down the gravel towards the bivouac, carrying two drunks, who both fatuously imagined, that once in a dream somewhere, sometime, someplace, they had managed for a moment to touch another human soul and understand it.

Nick ran smack into me. "Ooof!" he hollered, grabbing me around the waist to keep me from falling down the rest of the staircase. That's when I realized Mom thought Nick and I were going on a date together. Quickly Nick let me go.He looked huge, frowning down at me from the step above. "Why are you stopping in the middle of the stairs?" "Why are you tailgating me?" He put his hand behind me, at butt level, without touching me. "What is that?" he demanded. I bent a little and slapped my butt, "Something the heir to a meat fortune should know all about. USDA grade-A prime,baby." I straightened. "Just kidding. Really, it's my butt." He put his hands on his hips, and from below I noticed his strong superhero chin again.He grumbled, "Why do you have 'boy toy' written across your butt?" "Oh!" I put my hand over the words, realizing that I probably should have been embarrassed about this sooner. "These are my brother's jeans. He wrote it to annoy me. Or to get me a date.

Flight is many things. Something clean and swift, like a bird skimming across the sky. Or something filthy and crawling; a series of crablike movements through figurative and literal slime, a process of creeping ahead, jumping sideways, running backward. It is sleeping in fields and river bottoms. It is bellying for miles along an irrigation ditch. It is back roads, spur railroad lines, the tailgate of a wildcat truck, a stolen car and a dead couple in lovers' lane. It is food pilfered from freight cars, garments taken from clotheslines; robbery and murder, sweat and blood. The complex made simple by the alchemy of necessity

Tailgate: Ooh! Ooh! What about Orion Pax? What happened to him? Chromedome: Orion Pax? Tailgate: He was GREAT! I really liked him. "I trust him, Roller. End of conversation." I'M gonna start saying stuff like that.

Rule One: Make friends with death Tailgating in the Antarctic is no joke. We are trying to do nothing less ambitious than reverse the course of history. We want Team Krill to defeat Team Whale. Look, if you want to tailgate in comfort, don't get on the boat. You can buy some quail eggs or snails or whatever you people eat and you can watch the Food Chain Games on your flat TV. Stay in Los Angeles. Hug your wife on your plush banquette. Cheer for the Antarctic minke whales, like every other asshole. No, wait a second, here comes the real Rule One: if you are a supporter of Team Whale, you can go fuck yourself, my fine sir. This list is for the fans of Team Krill.

across the truck’s tailgate were painted the words “Barrett Electric Co. ‘We’ll fix your shorts.

tailgating is a local tradition that both predates Lambeau Field and dovetails seamlessly with another beloved Green Bay pastime: drinking. Even Prohibition couldn’t slow the town’s taps. “There were speakeasies all over,” says the historian. “I was told once that one of the reasons the mob never moved in here was because it was so wide open. They couldn’t get a foothold. It was just generally accepted that Green Bay wasn’t going to obey the Eighteenth Amendment.

But I was still anxious. Trevor Trevor Trevor. I might have felt better if he were dead, I thought, since behind every memory of him was the possibility of reconciling, and thus more heartbreak and indignity. I felt weak. My nerves were frayed and fragile, like tattered silk. Sleep had not yet solved my crankiness, my impatience, my memory. It seemed like everything was now somehow linked to getting back what I'd lost. I could picture my selfhood, my past, my psyche like a dump truck filled with trash. Sleep was the hydraulic piston that lifted the bed of the truck up, ready to dump everything out somewhere, but Trevor was stuck in the tailgate, blocking the flow of garbage. I was afraid things would be like that forever.

But this latter knowledge was based more on his reading of The Sun Also Rises in high school than in his real-life venturings into the district, which had mostly been lonely and footsore. He had admired the ancient delicacy of the buildings and the way the street lamps made soft explosions of light green in the trees at night, and the way each long, bright café awning would prove to reveal a sea of intelligently walking faces as he passed; but the white wine gave him a headache and the talking faces all seemed, on closer inspection, to belong either to intimidating men with beards or to women whose eyes could sum him up and dismiss him in less than a second. The place had filled him with a sense of wisdom hovering just out of reach, of unspeakable grace prepared and waiting just around the corner, but he’d walked himself weak down its endless blue streets and all the people who knew how to live had kept their tantalizing secret to themselves, and time after time he had ended up drunk and puking over the tailgate of the truck that bore him jolting back into the army. Je suis, he practiced to himself

Last month, on a very windy day, I was returning from a lecture I had given to a group in Fort Washington. I was beginning to feel unwell. I was feeling increasing spasms in my legs and back and became anxious as I anticipated a difficult ride back to my office. Making matters worse, I knew I had to travel two of the most treacherous high-speed roads near Philadelphia – the four-lane Schuylkill Expressway and the six-lane Blue Route. You’ve been in my van, so you know how it’s been outfitted with everything I need to drive. But you probably don’t realize that I often drive more slowly than other people. That’s because I have difficulty with body control. I’m especially careful on windy days when the van can be buffeted by sudden gusts. And if I’m having problems with spasms or high blood pressure, I stay way over in the right hand lane and drive well below the speed limit. When I’m driving slowly, people behind me tend to get impatient. They speed up to my car, blow their horns, drive by, stare at me angrily, and show me how long their fingers can get. (I don't understand why some people are so proud of the length of their fingers, but there are many things I don't understand.) Those angry drivers add stress to what already is a stressful experience of driving. On this particular day, I was driving by myself. At first, I drove slowly along back roads. Whenever someone approached, I pulled over and let them pass. But as I neared the Blue Route, I became more frightened. I knew I would be hearing a lot of horns and seeing a lot of those long fingers. And then I did something I had never done in the twenty-four years that I have been driving my van. I decided to put on my flashers. I drove the Blue Route and the Schuylkyll Expressway at 35 miles per hour. Now…Guess what happened? Nothing! No horns and no fingers. But why? When I put on my flashers, I was saying to the other drivers, “I have a problem here – I am vulnerable and doing the best I can.” And everyone understood. Several times, in my rearview mirror I saw drivers who wanted to pass. They couldn’t get around me because of the stream of passing traffic. But instead of honking or tailgating, they waited for the other cars to pass, knowing the driver in front of them was in some way weak. Sam, there is something about vulnerability that elicits compassion. It is in our hard wiring. I see it every day when people help me by holding doors, pouring cream in my coffee, or assist me when I put on my coat. Sometimes I feel sad because from my wheelchair perspective, I see the best in people. But those who appear strong and invulnerably typically are not exposed to the kindness I see daily. Sometimes situations call for us to act strong and brave even when we don't feel that way. But those are a few and far between. More often, there is a better pay-off if you don't pretend you feel strong when you feel weak, or pretend that you are brave when you’re scared. I really believe the world might be a safer place if everyone who felt vulnerable wore flashers that said, “I have a problem and I’m doing the best I can. Please be patient!

Number six: Zach never tailgates, ever, no matter how slowly the car in front of him is going. Because the driver in front of you could be anyone--an organ donor, a war hero, a man who's just lost his best friend, a kid with a new license doing her best, said Cornelia. Not tailgating acknowledges the mystery and humanity of strangers. It's one of those small habits that speaks volumes.

Smoke a bowl and you can do this for hours,” one of the guys says. “Just kidding. No drugs in the major leagues.” As we cut the clay, there are no bowls to smoke—though according to one sod farm worker, weed goes well with anything turf-related: “You can’t be a grass man and not be a grass man,” he says—but there is an easy intimacy among the crew, a kind of in-this-together camaraderie, and for a few minutes I feel like one of them, too.

open tailgate. “But for something like this, you got that right. We’re going to need a tent because you got all kinds of people looking down at us from buildings and the bridge.” I glance up at the long string of headlights moving above us, crossing the river in both directions. I watch aircraft lit up like small planets, clustered around Logan Airport, and I think of Dorothy again. Marino digs in a box of evidence-marking cones in bright primary

I saw a group of women standing by a station wagon. There were seven of them, pushing cartons and shopping bags over the open tailgate into the rear of the car. Celery stalks and boxes of Gleem stuck out of the bags. I took the camera from my lap, raised it to my eye, leaned out the window a bit, and trained it on the ladies as if I were shooting. One of them saw me and immediately nudged her companion but without taking her eyes off the camera. They waved. One by one the others reacted. They all smiled and waved. They seemed supremely happy. Maybe they sensed that they were waving at themselves, waving in the hope that someday if evidence is demanded of their passage through time, demanded by their own doubts, a moment might be recalled when they stood in a dazzling plaza in the sun and were registered on the transparent plastic ribbon; and thirty years away, on that day when proof is needed, it could be hoped that their film is being projected on a screen somewhere, and there they stand, verified, in chemical reincarnation, waving at their own old age, smiling their reassurance to the decades, a race of eternal pilgrims in a marketplace in the dusty sunlight, seven arms extended in a fabulous salute to the forgetfulness of being. What better proof (if proof is ever needed) that they have truly been alive? Their happiness, I think, was made of this, the anticipation of incontestable evidence, and had nothing to do with the present moment, which would pass with all the others into whatever is the opposite of eternity. I pretended to keep shooting, gathering their wasted light, letting their smiles enter the lens and wander the camera-body seeking the magic spool, the gelatin which captures the image, the film which threads through the waiting gate. Sullivan came out of the supermarket and I lowered the camera. I could not help feeling that what I was discovering here was power of a sort.

The Fable of the Comet and the Moon I have betrothed the O so inconstant moon, with a band of six of Saturn's seven rings, leaving the gas giant's last ring unpilfered as a cosmic lagniappe. The astrological charts cautioned me against such a star-crossed marriage, but I, being a headstrong comet hung with an enormous tail, and impetuous Luna, being a headlong stellar slut (satellites known to be as submissive as Asians for the right price), well, we both threw caution to the solar winds. Our wedding proceeded on cycle, with Luna luminescent and draped in silvery white (the craters of her complexion conveniently masked behind a veil of clouds). It was downhill from day one, Luna losing a sliver of herself every night and bit by bit revealing to me her dark side. Luna and I went our separate elliptical ways after a domestic disturbance where I called her a professional tailgater. and she called me a dirty snowball.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Probably Olivia. She shimmied it out and looked at the screen. Beau. Could this night get any worse? She’d seen him today from a distance and had managed to steer Travis a different direction. She shut off the ringer and pocketed the phone. “Not gonna answer?” “Nope.” The fireworks picked up overhead, colorful blooms with thunderous booms and pops. The sounds ricocheted off the mountains. She’d never been so glad to see the finale. “Was it Meyers?” She sighed. What business was it of his? It was her phone, her life. “He has no business calling you.” For pity’s sake. “Just a phone call, Travis.” “You’re a married woman.” “Barely.” “Can’t be barely married—you either are or you’re not—and I have a certificate that says we are.” The fireworks fizzled to nothing but darkness and silence. “It’s over.” Relieved, Shay sat up and inched toward the tailgate, but not before Travis’s quiet response reached her ears. “Not by a long shot.

Lou had brought the grill from ice-cold to scorching-hot faster than a firestorm; the brats were preboiled in beer and onions and burst with the perfect combination of juicy and smoky, complete with a crunchy outside topped with just a smear of Dijon. Paired with ice-cold Spotted Cows, his new favorite Wisconsin beer, Al got it. He got why people came hours early. It wasn't about good seats or convenient parking. It was a friendly little party with forty thousand of your closest friends.

I didn’t answer right away; I was too busy savoring the moment. The delicious night air, the music of mama cows in a distant pasture, the trillions of stars overhead, the feeling of his fingers entwined in mine. The night couldn’t have gone any more perfectly. I’m not sure anything, even going home with him, could possibly make it any better. I started to open my mouth, but Marlboro Man beat me to it. Standing up and lifting me off the tailgate of his pickup, he carried me, Rhett Butler-style, toward the passenger door. Setting me down and opening my door, he said, “On second thought…I think I’d better take you home.” I smiled, convinced he must have read my mind. Whether he had or not, the fact was that instantly and noticeably the whole vibe between us had changed. Before I’d dumped my Chicago apartment and told him my plans to stay, the passion between us had sometimes felt urgent, rushed, almost as if some imaginary force was compelling us to get it all out right here, right now, because before too long we wouldn’t have the chance. There’d been a quiet desperation in our romance up until that point, feelings of excitement and lust mixed with an uncomfortable hint of doom and dread. But now that my move had all but been eliminated from the equation, the doom and dread had been replaced with a beautiful sense of comfort. In the blink of an eye, Marlboro Man and I, while madly and insanely in love, were no longer in any hurry. “Yeah,” I said, nodding my head. “I agree.” Man, did I ever have a way with words.

When the attendant at Britz Rentals of Australia whipped around in our prepaid-in-full honeymoon car, my eyes grew wide and I knew we were in trouble. It was an SUV, yes, and a Toyota Land Cruiser at that--just as Marlboro Man had ordered. It was white and clean and very shiny. And painted in huge bright orange and royal blue lettering across the hood, the roof, all four doors, and the tailgate of the vehicle, were scrawled the enormous words: BRITZ RENTALS OF AUSTRALIA. I could see Marlboro Man’s jaw muscles flex as he beheld his worst nightmare playing out in front of his eyes. He could hardly even bear to gaze upon such an attention-grabbing abomination, let alone conceive of driving it all over an entire continent. Unfortunately, our last-minute attempts to trade to another vehicle proved to be futile; even if Britz hadn’t been completely booked that week, it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Every single car in their fleet was smeared with the exact same orange and blue promotional graffiti. Having no other transportational alternative, we set off on our drive, a black cloud of conspicuousness and, in Marlboro Man’s case, dread following us everywhere we went. Being an attention-seeking middle child, I didn’t really mind it much. But for Marlboro Man, this was more than his makeup was programmed to handle. As far as he was concerned, we were the Griswolds, and the Land Cruiser was our Family Truckster. It was a pox on what might have been the perfect honeymoon. Except for my inner ear disturbance. And the vomiting. And the slightly marsupial undertone to the hamburgers.

Marlboro Man paused, his eyes piercing through to my marrow. We’d started out watching the sunset over the ranch, sitting on the tailgate of his pickup, legs dangling playfully over the edge. By the time the sun had gone down, we were lying down, legs overlapping, as the sky turned blacker and blacker. And making out wildly. Making out, oh, so very wildly. I didn’t want to wait for him to bring it up again--the dreaded subject of Chicago. I’d avoided it like the plague for the past several days, not wanting to face the reality of my impending move, of walking away from my new love so soon after we’d found each other. But now the subject wasn’t so scary; it was safe. I’d made the decision, at least for now, to stay--I just had to tell Marlboro Man. And finally, in between kisses, the words bubbled suddenly and boldly to the surface; I could no longer contain them. But before I had a chance to say them, Marlboro Man opened his mouth and began to speak. “Oh no,” he said, a pained expression on his face. “Don’t tell me--you’re leaving tomorrow.” He ran his fingers through my hair and touched his forehead to mine. I smiled, giggling inside at the secret I was seconds away from spilling. A herd of cows mooed in the distance. Serenading us. “Um…no,” I said, finding it hard to believe what I was about to tell him. “I’m not…I’m…I’m not going.” He paused, then pulled his face away from mine, allowing just enough distance between us for him to pull focus. “What?” he asked, is strong fingers still grasping my hair. A tentative smile appeared on his face. I breathed in a deep dose of night air, trying to calm my schoolgirl nervousness. “I, umm…” I began. “I decided to stick around here a little while.” There. I’d said it. This was all officially real. Without a moment of hesitation, Marlboro Man wrapped his ample arms around my waist. Then, in what seemed to be less than a second, he hoisted me from my horizontal position on the bed of his pickup until we were both standing in front of each other. Scooping me off my feet, he raised me up to his height so his icy blue eyes were level with mine. “Wait…are you serious?” he asked, taking my face in his hands. Squaring it in front of his. Looking me in the eye. “You’re not going?” “Nope,” I answered. “Whoa,” he said, smiling and moving in for a long, impassioned kiss on the back of his Ford F250. “I can’t believe it,” he continued, squeezing me tightly.

Mark swings his own door open and meets us by the tailgate. "Why don't we ask Emma who she's coming with? I mean, it's her choice, right?" The look Galen gives me is clear: Take care of this, or I will. Or maybe it's more like, It would be my pleasure to take care of this. Either way, I don't want Mark taken care of. Standing between them, the testosterone-to-air ratio is almost suffocating. If I pick Galen, the chances of Mark ever calling me again are as good as Galen eating a whole cheesecake by himself. If I choose Mark, the changes of Galen not wielding his built-in brass knuckles are as good as Rayna giving someone a compliment. My desire to salvage this date with Mark is almost as strong as my desire to salvage his face from certain disfigurement. But salvaging the date as opposed to his face would be selfish in the long run. I sigh in defeat. "I'm sorry, Mark." Mark lets out a gust of air. "Ouch." Scratching the back of his neck, he chuckles. "I guess I should be more superstitious, huh?" He's right. I screwed this up. I should have salvaged the date, his pride. And I should have broken Galen's Royal nose with my own Syrena fist. I turn to His Highness. "Galen, could you give me a minute please? You'll have the next hour to talk to me since you're taking me straight home." Without a word, Galen nods and walks away. I can't quite meet Mark's eyes when I say, "I'm so sorry. I don't know what his deal is. He never acts like this." Except that time he beat Toraf like a stepchild on the beach when he kissed me. But only because Toraf betrayed Rayna. Right? Mark smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Can't say I blame him. I can already tell you're worth it. I just never had the guts to ask you out. Chloe threatened my life. You know that chick could hit like a man, right? She said you were too good for me. I think she was right." "Wh...what? Chloe knew you liked me?" "Yeah. She never told you? Course not. She thought I was a player." I not, still too stunned that my best friend also acted as my bodyguard without me knowing. "She did think you were a player. And she couldn't definitely hit like a man." "That's what my friend Jax says anyway." Then a little lower, "Geez, Galen's watching me like a hawk right now. He has serial-killer eyes, you know that?" I giggle. "What do you think he'd do if I kissed you good-bye on the cheek?" he whispers conspiratorially. "Don't worry, I'll protect you." He has no idea how serious I am. As he leans in, I brace myself. At the slightest spark of electricity, I'm prepared to turn around with my fists up. But the lightning doesn't strike. Galen is behaving for now. As Mark pulls away from his barely there peck, he sighs. "Do me a favor," he whispers. "Mmm?" "Keep my number. Give me a call if he screws up again." I smile. "I will, I promise. I had a good time tonight." Did the date and Mark's face get salvaged? Do I have a chance to redeem myself with him? He chuckles. "Yeah, glad we got to drive here from Middle Point together. next time, we'll make it a real adventure and take the bus. See you at school, Emma." "Bye.

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One indicator was the sudden emergence of an aggressive submarine tactic called Crazy Ivan, where a Soviet submarine skipper, suspecting he was being tailgated, would make an unexpected hard turn to port or starboard, and in doing so, force the American follower to slam on the brakes. Apart from the fun of spiking a Sturgeon-class skipper's blood pressure, there was a concrete objective to the ploy. This maneuver forced the American submarine commander to reveal his own presence by the unavoidable scream of reverse-drive engine turbines as the trailing U.S. submarine desperately tried to avoid a collision by ordering all back full. That noise signal showed up just fine on Soviet sonar.

I drove to the bar Theodosha had called from and parked on the street. The bar was a gray, dismal place, ensconced like a broken matchbox under a dying oak tree, its only indication of gaiety a neon beer sign that flickered in one window. She was at a table in back, the glow of the jukebox lighting her face and the deep blackness of her hair. She tipped a collins glass to her mouth, her eyes locked on mine. “Let me take you home,” I said. “No, thanks,” she replied. “Getting swacked?” “Merchie and I had another fight. He says he can’t take my pretensions anymore. I love the word ‘pretensions.’” “That doesn’t mean you have to get drunk,” I said. “You’re right. I can get drunk for any reason I choose,” she replied, and took another hit from the glass. Then she added incongruously, “You once asked Merchie what he was doing in Afghanistan. The answer is he wasn’t in Afghanistan. He was in one of those other God-forsaken Stone Age countries to the north, helping build American airbases to protect American oil interests. Merchie says they’re going to make a fortune. All for the red, white, and blue.” “Who is they?” But her eyes were empty now, her concentration and anger temporarily spent. I glanced at the surroundings, the dour men sitting at the bar, a black woman sleeping with her head on a table, a parolee putting moves on a twenty-year-old junkie and mother of two children who was waiting for her connection. These were the people we cycled in and out of the system for decades, without beneficial influence or purpose of any kind that was detectable. “Let’s clear up one thing. Your old man came looking for trouble at the club today. I didn’t start it,” I said. “Go to a meeting, Dave. You’re a drag,” she said. “Give your guff to Merchie,” I said, and got up to leave. “I would. Except he’s probably banging his newest flop in the hay. And the saddest thing is I can’t blame him.” “I think I’m going to ease on out of this. Take care of yourself, kiddo,” I said. “Fuck that ‘kiddo’ stuff. I loved you and you were too stupid to know it.” I walked back outside into a misting rain and the clean smell of the night. I walked past a house where people were fighting behind the shades. I heard doors slamming, the sound of either a car backfiring or gunshots on another street, a siren wailing in the distance. On the corner I saw an expensive automobile pull to the curb and a black kid emerge from the darkness, wearing a skintight bandanna on his head. The driver of the car, a white man, exchanged money for something in the black kid’s hand. Welcome to the twenty-first century, I thought. I opened my truck door, then noticed the sag on the frame and glanced at the right rear tire. It was totally flat, the steel rim buried deep in the folds of collapsed rubber. I dropped the tailgate, pulled the jack and lug wrench out of the toolbox that was arc-welded to the bed of the truck, and fitted the jack under the frame. Just as I had pumped the flat tire clear of the puddle it rested in, I heard footsteps crunch on the gravel behind me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a short, thick billy club whip through the air. Just before it exploded across the side of my head, my eyes seemed to close like a camera lens on a haystack that smelled of damp-rot and unwashed hair and old shoes. I was sure as I slipped into unconsciousness that I was inside an ephemeral dream from which I would soon awake.

You sure do like to tailgate people…. Right, because it’s real important you show up to the nothing you have to do on time.

The use of leverage can promote efficiency by enabling risk to be held and managed more efficiently. But the use of leverage provides opportunities for tailgaters and gamblers with other people’s money, and creates many opportunities to fall victim to the winner’s curse.

answers) 8.There is no crosswalk and you see a pedestrian crossing your lane ahead. You should: Stop and let him/her finish crossing the street. 9.It is illegal to listen to: Listening to music through headphones that cover both ears. 10.Always stop before you cross railroad tracks when: You don't have room on the other side to completely cross the tracks. 11.When you tailgate other drivers (drive close to their rear bumper): You can frustrate the other drivers and make them angry. 12.Should you always drive slower than other traffic? No, you can block traffic when you drive too slowly. 13.You see a signal person at a road construction site ahead. You should obey his or her instructions: At all times. 14.If you plan to pass another vehicle, you should: Not assume the other driver will make space for you to return to your lane  

Who Needs A Holiday? Homecoming: We tailgate all football season--it’s almost a religion--but nothing compares to homecoming. Darling, you better watch that mild-mannered man of yours. You never know what’s going to happen when he gets together with his old college buddies.

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Qwilleran drove with clenched jaw, enduring the stares and glares of motorists who passed him, their fretful horn-honking and hostile tailgating.

Not nice” could mean a lot of things. Did Daman eat small children by the light of the full moon or tailgate the elderly?

I tap the link, and it opens up a bright, cheery, robin's-egg blue web page. P&P Bake, it's called. It's clearly one of those WordPress blogs converted into a website, but that doesn't make it any less captivating--- the pictures on the posts are so vivid, I can practically taste them through the screen. I scroll down, glancing at the dessert names, lingering on the pictures. The most recent is Tailgate Trash Twinkies, which are apparently a homemade cake roll infused with PBR; I scroll down and see A-Plus Angel Cake, and Butter Luck Next Time Butter Cookies, and then--- And then, on Halloween, there's an entry for Monster Cake. My breath stops before it can leave my chest, my entire body stiffening on the couch like a corpse. There's no mistaking it. I may have a bad habit of eating Pepper's baked goods so fast, it threatens the time-space continuum, but the bright colors and gooey mess of that cake are so distinct in my mind and in my taste buds, I could see it in another life and immediately identify it. Yet my brain still refuses to process it, and I'm still scrolling as if I'll blink and it will disappear, a vivid, sleep-deprived teenage hallucination. But the further I scroll the worse it gets. The So Sorry Blondies. The Pop Quiz Cake Pops she and Pooja were eating the other day. A few things I've never heard of before, with irreverent, silly names, some of which must be Paige's, but others that are so distinctly Pepper it stings to read.

I was told once that one of the reasons the mob never moved in here was because it was so wide open. They couldn’t get a foothold. It was just generally accepted that Green Bay wasn’t going to obey the Eighteenth Amendment.

went back to my old platoon, sir,’ Jack replied. ‘I told him that was where you would be,’ Gregor said, before glancing at Aletta as she clung to Jack’s arm. ‘The sergeant will be glad to have you back, you can jump in the truck and...’ ‘Sorry, sir, my place is here,’ Jack said, cutting the officer short. Gregor opened his mouth to speak, before stepping back as Aletta hit Jack on the arm. ‘You stupid man,’ she said, her voice angry. ‘I’ll let you say goodbye,’ Gregor said, before hurrying towards the cab. Jack turned to Aletta, her face furious as she stamped her foot on the ground. ‘You want to get killed, is this it?’ Jack offered her a tired smile, before turning as a familiar voice carried along the lane, his eyes spotting Fred as he led the rest of the platoon along the track. ‘I have to stay here for them,’ he said. ‘And what about me?’ Aletta asked. ‘I’ll write to you, if you like,’ Jack said, feeling awkward. Aletta’s face softened slightly. ‘I will right to you everyday,’ she said, her voice firm. ‘If you do not reply to me I will come and find you and tell your friends what an awful man you are.’ Jack smiled, before turning as the tailgate of the lorry was slammed shut. ‘It’s time you went,’ Jack said. Aletta turned as Gregor climbed into the cab, before throwing herself towards Jack and hugging him tight. ‘Don’t die, you stupid man.’ Jack nodded, before pushing her towards the vehicle, the major helping her up, before the truck pulled away. Jack waved goodbye, his eyes watching as the lorry vanished into the storm, before making his way back to his section.

Chiefs Kingdom Anthem October 3, 2024 at 11:04 AM (Verse 1) We’re gearing up on game day, Kansas City Chiefs, ready to fight. With Mahomes and Kelce, we’re on a roll, The crowd’s on fire, the lights are bright. (Chorus) Arrowhead’s rocking, what a sight, Three-peat to the Super Bowl, feels so right. Kansas City Chiefs, let’s go, let’s go, In Chiefs Kingdom, we steal the show. (Verse 2) From the tailgates to the final play, Red and gold, we’re here to stay. With every touchdown, the crowd goes wild, In this heartland, we’re running miles. (Chorus) Arrowhead’s rocking, what a sight, Three-peat to the Super Bowl, feels so right. Kansas City Chiefs, let’s go, let’s go, In Chiefs Kingdom, we steal the show. (Bridge) Through the highs and the lows, we stand tall, With our team, we’ve got it all. From the first snap to the final score, In Chiefs Kingdom, we roar for more. (Chorus) Arrowhead’s rocking, what a sight, Three-peat to the Super Bowl, feels so right. Kansas City Chiefs, let’s go, let’s go, In Chiefs Kingdom, we steal the show. (Outro) Kansas City, we’re proud and strong, In Chiefs Kingdom, we all belong. With Mahomes and Kelce, leading the way, We’re the Chiefs, and we’re here to stay.

Boot Scootin’ Friday Night”: Verse 1: Got my boots on, ready for a wild ride, Trucks lined up, tailgates open wide, Country music blaring, feel that beat, Bonfire’s roaring, heat on our feet, Cherish these moments, hold ‘em tight, We’re boot scootin’ on a Friday night. Chorus: Underneath the stars, we’re feeling free, Dancing in the moonlight, just you and me, Guitars wailing through the night, Everything feels so right, We’re living for these moments, In this small-town paradise. Verse 2: Friends all around, smiles on every face, Cold drinks in hand, we’re setting the pace, Guitars rocking, hearts pounding along, This is where we all belong, Memories made, they’ll never fade, In this place where dreams are laid. Chorus: Underneath the stars, we’re feeling free, Dancing in the moonlight, just you and me, Guitars wailing through the night, Everything feels so right, We’re living for these moments, In this small-town paradise. Bridge: As the fire burns low, we hold each other close, Whispering secrets only the night knows, These are the times we’ll remember, Forever and ever, In our hearts, this night will stay, Never fading away. Chorus: Underneath the stars, we’re feeling free, Dancing in the moonlight, just you and me, Guitars wailing through the night, Everything feels so right, We’re living for these moments, In this small-town paradise. Outro: Got my boots on, ready for a wild ride, Trucks lined up, tailgates open wide, Country music blaring, feel that beat, Cold beers in hand, we’re feeling neat, We’re boot scootin’ on a Friday night, We’re gonna be kickin’ it up, Be kickin’ it up all night long.

Sweet Heat Mahogany Chicken Wings 6 SERVINGS The flavor palate of Southeast Asia — sweet, sour, salty, and hot — is captured in this one-pot chicken wing orgy. The streamlined method takes about half an hour and results in the gooiest, most pungent, sticky-fingered chicken wings you can imagine. They’re the perfect food for tailgating, afternoons watching ballgames, or just hanging out. Ingredients 1 tablespoon canola oil 2 garlic cloves, minced 1 dried hot chile pepper 1 tablespoon freshly grated gingerroot 1 cup root beer, any type, purchased or homemade 1⁄3 cup soy sauce 2 pounds chicken wings, sectioned, third joint discarded 1 tablespoon dark sesame oil Instructions Heat the oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add the garlic, chile pepper, and ginger, and sauté until fragrant, about 30 seconds. Add the root beer and soy sauce. Bring to a boil, add the wings, cover, and let simmer for 5 minutes. Uncover the skillet and cook at a slow simmer until the liquid reduces enough to glaze the wings, about 20 minutes. Toss gently every few minutes near the end of cooking to prevent scorching, and stir in the sesame oil. Serve hot.

He jumped in the bed and I closed the tailgate twice because, of course, the first time it didn’t line up. Vic rolled down the driver’s-side window of my truck. “You’re going to be all right up here playing cowboy with the Indians?

Is that where you’re going to sleep?” Muddy indicated Chancho’s saddle. “Sure. Good a spot as any to be blessed with my presence. Maybe I’ll even use a rock as a pillow and have visions of angels climbing back and forth on a ladder from heaven.” “Catholics are crazy.” Nena lowered the tailgate to the chuck wagon. “Besides, don’t angels have wings? Why would they need a ladder?” Chancho scratched his chin. “You know, that’s a good question. I’ll have to ask Jacob when I see him.

2014 Continuation of Andy’s message   On a different note, this is how I remember Baron Pierre’s 1967 ‘G’ A-go-go soiree. Like you, I had no idea where the busload of young bucks and sassy striplings had come from. All I knew was that I was tempted to bed a number of them.☺ Hence, I asked Dubois to watch you during and after your go-go performance. Yet somehow, your professor neglected to tell me that he had presented you to a mystery admirer, who tailgated us all the way to London and Daltonbury Hall after your encounter. He would have abducted you to god only knows where if I hadn’t told him to back off.

The Beast   Her flesh shook wildly with his zeal His mounting thrusts and grouses  Her dangling breasts, the scene surreal Hanging low in bestial crouches   She didn’t enjoy this rough and tumble, The discomfort on her knees The ignominious avowal That indulged his boorish needs.   It must be humiliation, The yearning need to dominate, Or perhaps subjugation Relentless craving to tailgate   Coitus more ferarum Such cheeky form complied, Should I pretend delirium To assuage his fragile pride?   “Is this what you like?” he groans, Panting his impending crest As she patiently marks his moans A rousing book might be best.     His hard appendage, badge of jock The emblem of his gender He struts and prances like a cock The self-confident contender   To take a woman from behind Subjugate her femininity In favor of a selfish grind The bestial superiority   Other problems are created By this brutish currier Air with thrusting is injected Magnifying discomfiture   In erogenous responses Tis anatomy prevails In a woman’s breaths and arches That would exorcise travails   Don’t you realize that, fool, A woman’s body is a canvas So come with brush and paint and oil To flaunt your vibrant feathers.   Two bodies tangled in emotion Excite my inner essence As you ride into oblivion Rejoin my acquiescence.   Sex is relished done in tandem, Essence of anatomy Locus charm of lotus blossom As you make a play for me.

In China, the transition has been to abrupt that many traffic patterns come directly from pedestrian life - people drive the way they walk. They like to move in packs, and they tailgate whenever possible. They rarely use turn signals. Instead they rely on automobile body language: if a car edges to the left, you can guess that he's about to make a turn. And they are brilliant at improvising. They convert sidewalks into passing lanes, and they'll approach a roundabout in reverse direction if it seems faster. If they miss an exit on a highway, they simply pull onto the shoulder, shift into reverse, and get it right the second time. They curb-sneak in traffic jams, the same way Chinese people do in ticket lines. Tollbooths can be hazardous, because a history of long queues has conditioned people into quickly evaluation options and making snap decisions. When approaching a toll, drivers like to switch lanes at the last possible instant: it's common to see an accident right in front of a booth. Drivers rarely check their rearview mirrors. Windshield wipers are considered a distraction, and so are headlights.

Nevertheless, Chinese drivers haven't grasped the subtleties of headlight use. Most people keep their lights off until it's pitch-dark, and then they flip on the brights. Almost nobody uses headlights in rain, fog, snow, or twilight conditions - in fact, this is one of the few acts guaranteed to annoy a Chinese driver. They don't mind if you tailgate, or pass on the right, or drive on the the sidewalk. You can back down a highway entrance ramp without anybody batting an eyelash. But if you switch on your lights during a rainstorm, approaching drivers will invariably flash their brights in annoyance.

County Stadium, while it was one of the older parks in the game, had an atmosphere in the summertime unmatched by at least the majority of other parks. The tailgating and the loyalty of the fans made it a great atmosphere for the players to perform in.

Well, the fans of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, were always tremendously supportive. There were so many days when I arrived to County Stadium, and there would already be 10 to 15,000 people in the parking lot, five hours before game time. I think it’s pretty obvious they invented tailgating.

Outside, the guys took care of loading the groceries into the back of Shane's pickup. Emilie watched as four very attractive men stretched over the lowered tailgate to place the bags in the truck bed. A girl could get used to this.

When they broke for lunch—eating bologna sandwiches and pork rinds on the tailgate of Red’s truck, parked in the shade of an enormous oak tree—Red shook his head and said, “I’m drawing a blank so far.” “Me, too,” Billy Don said. “Wait a sec,” Red said. “You don’t even know what I’m talking about.” “I guess that’s why I’m drawing a blank,” Billy Don said.

Small Town Nights Verse 1: Woke up early, sun’s shining bright, Got my boots on, ready for the light, We’re gonna have a good time, Laugh and sing, feel so fine, Friends all around, Making memories in this small town. Chorus: Bonfire’s cracklin’, stories being told, Hearts are warm, even when nights get cold, Cherish these moments, hold 'em tight, Under the stars, everything feels right. Verse 2: Trucks lined up, tailgates down, Country music playing, love that sound, Dancing in the moonlight, Everything’s just right, With you by my side, In this sweet, simple life. Chorus: Bonfire’s cracklin’, stories being told, Hearts are warm, even when nights get cold, Cherish these moments, hold 'em tight, Under the stars, everything feels right. Bridge: As the embers glow, and the night winds down, We know these days are the best around, Hold on to this feeling, never let it go, In this small town, where love always grows. Chorus: Bonfire’s cracklin’, stories being told, Hearts are warm, even when nights get cold, Cherish these moments, hold 'em tight, Under the stars, everything feels right. Outro: Woke up early, sun’s shining bright, Got my boots on, ready for the light, We’re gonna have a good time, In this small town, where everything’s fine.

Alright, come on you lot,' Harry said, motioning to the canvas covered flap at the rear of the vehicle. He removed the pin that held the tailgate in place and the section scrambled awkwardly into the back of the lorry. 'I can't get up corporal,' David gasped, his leg half in the vehicle and his body hanging over the side. The men already inside began to laugh and jeer. 'For fucks sake, do I have to do bloody everything for you?' Harry asked, grabbing the young man by the leg and tipping him into the vehicle.

People to watch out for: aggressive lappers, determined thrashers, oblivious backstrokers, stealthy sub-mariners, middle aged men who insist on speeding up the moment they sense they are about to be overtaken by a woman, tailgaters, lane nazi's, arm flailers, ankle yankers, pickup artists - we're not that kind of a pool - the peeper, a highly regarded children's TV host in his life above ground, who is best known below ground for his swift lane change.

Let’s go, I’ll walk you down and get you cleaned up.” “You will?” He slanted me a look before picking up his trekking poles and backpack, slipping the straps on, then maneuvering the two sticks through crisscrossing cords on his back, leaving his arms free. Finally aiming his body back up the trail toward me, he held out his hand. I hesitated but set my forearm into his open palm, and I watched as some emotion I didn’t initially recognize slid over his face. “I meant your backpack, angel. I’ll take it for you. The trail’s not wide enough for both of us to go down at the same time,” he said, his voice sounding oddly hoarse. Maybe if I hadn’t been in so much pain, and been so damn cranky, I would’ve been embarrassed. But I wasn’t, so I nodded, shrugged, and gingerly tried to take my backpack off. Luckily, I just started to shimmy a strap off when I felt the weight leave my shoulders as he tugged it away. “Are you sure?” “Positive” was all he replied with. “Come on. We’ve got half an hour to get back to the trailhead.” My whole body slumped. “Half an hour?” I’d thought I had… ten minutes max. My landlord pressed his lips together and nodded. Was he trying not to laugh? I wasn’t sure because he turned around and started heading down the path ahead of me. But I was pretty sure I saw his shoulders shaking a little. “Let me know when you want water” was one of the only two things he said on the way down. The other being, “Are you humming what I think you’re humming?” And me replying with “Yes.” “Big Girls Don’t Cry.” I had no shame. I tripped twice, and he turned around both times, but I gave him a tight smile and acted like nothing had happened. Like he predicted, thirty minutes later, when I was basically wheezing and he was acting like this was a stroll down a paved path, I spotted the parking lot and almost cried. We’d made it. I’d made it. And my hands hurt even worse from how dry the cuts were, and my elbows felt the same way, and I was sure my knees would too, but their joints were so bad, they didn’t have room to wonder about any other pain. But just as I started heading toward my car, Rhodes slipped his fingers around my biceps and steered me toward his work truck. He didn’t say another word as he unlocked it and dropped the tailgate, shooting me a look over his shoulder as he patted it briefly before heading around to the passenger door. I went straight for the tailgate and eyed it, trying to figure out how to sit on it without using my hands to boost myself up. That was how he found me: staring at it and trying to decide if I went face-first and shimmied up on my stomach, I could wiggle around and sit up on my butt eventually. “I’m trying to figure out how to—okay.” He scooped me up, one arm under the backs of my knees, the other around my lower back, and planted me on the truck. In a sitting position. Like it was no big deal. I smiled at him. “Thanks.” I would’ve figured it out, but it was the thought that counted.

Not to mention, assuming an owner of a business is a guy is just not my mom’s MO. Long before she dreamed up the idea for Big League Burger and helped build it up to the veritable empire it is today, she was almost too progressive a feminist for a place like Nashville, where she jokingly but not-quite-jokingly would clamp her hands over our ears anytime a line in a country song said something about girls with painted-on jeans or sitting on tailgates, saying it would make us 'the complicit kind of cowgirl.

Why are you stopping in the middle of the stairs?” “Why are you tailgating me?” He put his hand behind me, at butt level, without touching me. “What is that?” he demanded. I bent a little and slapped my butt. “Something the heir to a meat fortune should know all about. USDA grade-A prime, baby.” I straightened. “Just kidding. Really, it’s my butt.” He put his hands on his hips, and from below I noticed his strong superhero chin again. He grumbled, “Why do you have ‘boy toy’ written across your butt?” “Oh!” I put my hand over the words, realizing I probably should have been embarrassed about this sooner. “These are my little brother’s jeans. He wrote it to annoy me. Or to get me a date.

Retro X Power medical doctor you may have a terrible time having a child or had side consequences that may be lethal to you. Take a look at it out nowadays and with the aid of this time next 12 months humans may be noticing a distinction, your self belief will acquire a exquisite increase and your self-esteem might be restored. To make this tougher, stand on one leg for 10 reps and the opposite leg for 10 more reps. Moreover, it leaves no facet effect and causes no harm to the person. It became as if a brilliant bowl parking zone erupted and tailgaters have been as some

He’d spread out several quilts and a couple of pillows. A cooler was in the far corner. I crawled to the middle and sat down. Beau stood at the tailgate, watching me. The shadows from the moonlight shaded his eyes, so I couldn’t be sure what he was thinking. “Are you coming?” I asked, almost scared of his answer. “Yeah, I got a little sidetracked by the view,” he replied. A shiver of anticipation ran through me as he crawled onto the truck bed. Kneeling in front of me, he reached out to take my right foot and lay it against his jean-clad thigh. Fascinated, I watched him as he undid my sandal and placed it beside the cooler. He placed my foot back down on the blanket then reached for my left foot, and with the same slow careful attention, he removed my other sandal. Once both my feet were bare, he lifted his gaze to meet mine. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “I like your pink toenails,” he replied, glancing back down at my feet. My silly heart thumped wildly in my chest, and I let out a nervous laugh. “It’s cotton candy. The color is, I mean.” I couldn’t even form coherent sentences. “I like cotton candy. Those toes of yours just may be sweeter, though.” As he moved to sit down beside me, his warm hand squeezed my foot closest to him. Neither of us spoke as we stared out over the still water. I’d never been so nervous in my life. Beau shifted beside me and then lay back on the pillows behind us. I turned slightly to peer down at him. Did he want me to lie down too? Tucking one arm behind his head and stretching the other out beside him, Beau grinned up at me as if he could read my mind. “Come here,” he said. I quickly scooted over and curled up next to him, resting my head on his chest. There was a peace in his arms I’d never experienced with Sawyer. It was as if I’d come home after years of searching.

Not tailgating acknowledges the mystery and humanity of strangers. It's one of those small habits that speaks volumes.

The larger station wagons—embellished with wood paneling, because what says “aerodynamics” like trees—used to have a jump seat next to the tailgate that could be folded up or down as needed. The seat faced backward and had no safety restraints or head support. To sit in the way-way back was to position oneself inches away from the potential of being showered with broken glass and punctured with jagged steel. Also? Just imagine how it must have creeped out other motorists to see a row full of doomed kids staring at them.

grab the iPad and exit the room, and Archie and Harriet tailgate me down the hall, a swishing appendage of fury.

Bowl viewing parties and tailgate meals. Others, including Arvada Church of Christ in Arvada, Colo., have canceled Sunday evening services for the big

The No-Tailgating Principle The speed with which you talk should be directly proportional to how certain you are about the next sentence coming out of your mouth. The more certain you are, the more briskly you can choose to speak. But if you’re prone to saying the first thing that pops into your head, a slower pace with strategic pausing is a sure way to prevent your mouth from tailgating your brain. And as with automobiles, when the lead car stops short from uncertainty of where to go next, it’s likely that the tailgater trailing behind will crash into the one in front. The verbal equivalent of a crash is filler: like, um, you know, etc. And et cetera, for that matter.

Though you can buy powerful alcohol that might also be a substitute for gasoline—or maybe your PBRs.” “Hey, what you hating on my PBRs for? They’re a national treasure and a beloved drink for all college kids, broke-ass marines, and tailgaters

Because I’m fuckin’ me!” I lose my shit and yell at him. “I’m not the guy who takes a girl travelin’ around the world. I ain’t the guy who’ll take ‘em to a fuckin’ barn dance. Despite what she thinks, I’m not what she needs. I’m too far gone.” My fist slams into the tailgate of my truck and makes a dent.