Tracksuit Quotes

I…God, I don’t even know where to start. I’m here. I’m here for you, okay? No matter what. You can scream and you can yell and be as mean and self-destructive as you want. Because I know you’re going to be here for me when it’s my turn to fall apart. Let them all come, Clint. Let every last one of those tracksuit-wearing sub-verbal bullying murderous scumbags come at us. Because you and me? Together? Together, Clint, I think you and me are the person we both wish we could be. And I know that person…I know that person is worth something. I know that person can…can pretty much do anything.

The boys wore jeans, or tracksuits with big ticks on them as if their clothing had been marked by a teacher who valued, above all else, conformity.

He was wearing a blue tracksuit that had a white tick mark embroidered at the hip, as if he approved of something.

Viktor was swinging a leather duffle and wearing a black Adidas tracksuit and his favorite brown UGG slippers with a hole in the toe. "Worn and old, just like Viv," he'd say when Frankie made fun of them, and then his wife would swat him on the arm. But Frankie knew he was just joking, because Viveka was the type of woman you wished was in a magazine just so you could stare at her violet-colored eyes and shiny black hair without being called a stalker or a freak.

Most of the people around the entrance were, of course, bellhops and taxi drivers. Guests went in and out. Some were dressed in business suits, others in casual tourist attire. He did not see any commandos in tracksuits.

Ove gives the box a skeptical glance, as if it’s a highly dubious sort of box, a box that rides a scooter and wears tracksuit pants and just called Ove “my friend” before offering to sell him a watch.

Good morning, Meroe,' I said, dusting uselessly at my tracksuit pants. 'Might I interest you in today's special, pre-floured kitten?

People born in Amagasaki grow up, get married, have children, and die wearing tracksuits.

If they missed, then it was a twenty-foot plummet to the ground. But they flew across the night sky like fearless angels, their tracksuits flapping behind them like flightless wings.

I restrained the urge to slam my door. On the right stood a teenage guy with thick chestnut hair, chocolatey brown eyes, and the kind of perfectly square jaw I thought only existed on models. He wore khaki pants and a white shirt - classic preppy gear, though on him it looked incredibly hot. The man on the left had black hair with wings of pure white at the temples, and unbelievable blue eyes the color of the Caribbean. Not that I've ever seen the Caribbean, but I swear you could have cut and pasted his eyes right into an ad for the Bahamas. Meanwhile, I looked like I didn't know how to operate a washing machine. My shorts had a glob of strawberry jelly on them from breakfast, my wrinkled gray T-shirt looked like it had been slept in (which it had), and my Seattle Mariners baseball hat had a dark ring around the brim. Grandma practically winced as her gaze traveled up and down my outfit. Her taste runs toward matching velour tracksuits, so I don't usually worry about her opinion much. Still, this time I think she was right.

my mom and those weird ladies she hung out with who wore tracksuits all the time and sat around the kitchen talking about calories and exercises while eating all of the double chocolate chip cookies they’d just baked.

From the smoking section came a trio of wise men dressed as wise guys in Adidas tracksuits. They carried gifts of Goldschläger, Tic Tacs, and Skoal, and they stood there stupidly, staring at my wife writhing on the floor by the foosball table.

Now, for the first time, Robin truly appreciated the bravery it must have taken for Kevin Pirbright, who’d lived at the farm since the age of three, to break free and walk out into what must have seemed to him a strange and overwhelming world of which he didn’t know the rules, with hardly any money, no job, and only the tracksuit he was wearing.

When I first envisioned myself running, I saw myself as Jodie Foster’s Clarice Starling in the opening scenes of The Silence of the Lambs. So strong, so focused, so proud. She is utterly confident, completely single-minded about her training run across a terrifying assault course. At one point she runs past a tree with the sign HURT AGONY PAIN LOVE IT stapled to it. She doesn’t care what she looks like; she has shit to do, and she is going to get it done. And yet . . . she is wearing a phenomenally impractical outfit. She is in a heavy cotton sweatshirt and tracksuit bottoms and is drenched in sweat. The top is sticking to both her chest and back and looks painfully heavy. She is summoned by a colleague and heads inside past a roomful of people dressed in khaki, faffing around with guns, and then gets into an elevator. All in the heavy, damp cotton. That wet fabric must have gotten incredibly cold the minute she stopped running, and it bothers me whenever I think of the poor woman in that meeting. For years the scene was my running inspiration, yet now I am unable to watch the first hour of the film without worrying about whether Clarice is shivering from the horrors of Hannibal Lecter or because she caught a dreadful chill.

Isn't she doing this too? Connecting and disconnecting. Facing grief then turning from it. One minute she is caught up in minutiae. Will her feet get sore standing in heels at the church? Have they made enough food? Will the kitten get scared by dozens of strangers in the house? Should she shut him in a room upstairs? The next moment she is weeping uncontrollably, taken over by pain so profound she can barely move. Then there was the salad bowl incident; her own fury scared her. But maybe these are different ways of dealing with events for all of them. Molly and Luke are infantile echos of her, their emotions paired down, their reactions simpler but similar. For if they have difficulty taking in what has happened, then so too does she. Why is she dressing up, for instance? Why can't she wear clothes to reflect the fact that she is at her lowest end? A tracksuit, a jumper full of holes, dirty jeans? Why can't she leave her hair a mess, her face unmade up? The crazed and grieving Karen doesn't care about her appearance. Yet she must go through with this charade, polish herself and her children to perfection. She, in particular, must hold it together. Oh, she can cry, yes, that's allowed. People expect that. They will sympathize. But what about screaming, howling, and hurling plates like she did yesterday? She imagines the shocked faces as she shouts and swears and smashes everything. But she is so angry, surely others must feel the same. Maybe a plate throwing ceremony would be a more fitting ritual than church, then everyone could have a go...smashing crockery up against the back garden wall.

Mungo stood on the threshold to Mrs McConnachie’s living room. He hadn’t been invited inside yet. The settee had six of the boys from the builder’s yard crammed on to it. They were packed thigh to thigh and spilled over the arms of the small sofa. In their nylon tracksuits they looked like so many plastic bags all stuffed together; a flammable, noisy jumble of colour-blocking and sponsorship logos. There was the manic throb of techno coming from the stereo; someone had a bootlegged copy of a Carl Cox set from Rezerection. It sounded like the DJ was pressing an early warning siren over a stuttering breakbeat. It was so aggressive sounding – it moved so fast – that it made Mungo feel tense.

Nicky turned and bolted. He’d only had about a thirty foot head start and a few were closing ground on him quickly. He cursed his hundred-dollar shoes and his vanity. The shoes looked great, but were definitely not made for running, nor was the suit he was wearing. He vowed that if he made it out of there alive, he’d only wear sneakers and track suits for the rest of his days. "Of course, I’ll probably be laughed out of the mob, but I don’t care at this point.

There was something of an unwritten code about working in the office of Rudy Giuliani, as I suppose there is in most organizations. In his case, the message was that Rudy was the star at the top and the successes of the office flowed in his direction. You violated this code at your peril. Giuliani had extraordinary confidence, and as a young prosecutor I found his brash style exciting, which was part of what drew me to his office. I loved it that my boss was on magazine covers standing on the courthouse steps with his hands on his hips, as if he ruled the world. It fired me up. Prosecutors almost never saw the great man in person, so I was especially pumped when he stopped by my office early in my career, shortly after I had been assigned to an investigation that touched a prominent New York figure who dressed in shiny tracksuits and sported a Nobel-sized medallion around his neck. The state of New York was investigating Al Sharpton for alleged embezzlement from his charity, and I was assigned to see if there was a federal angle to the case. I had never even seen Rudy on my floor, and now he was at my very door. He wanted me to know he was personally following the investigation and knew I would do a good job. My heart thumped with anxiety and excitement as he gave me this pep talk standing in the doorway. He was counting on me. He turned to leave, then stopped. “Oh, and I want the fucking medal,” he said, then walked away. But we never made a federal case. The state authorities charged Sharpton, and he was acquitted after a trial. The medal stayed with its owner.

You're certainly not dressed like you're running a business." Eyes blazing, she glared. "What's wrong with how I'm dressed?" "An apron and a pink tracksuit with Juicy written across the ass are hardly serious business attire and they certainly don't scream swipe right on desi Tinder." Sam didn't know if there was such a thing as Tinder for people of South Asian descent living abroad, but if it did exist, he and Layla would definitely not have been a match. Layla gave a growl of frustration. "You may be surprised to hear that I don't live my life seeking male approval. I'm just getting over a breakup so I'm a little bit fragile. Last night, I went out with Daisy and drank too much, smoked something I thought was a cigarette, danced on a speaker, and fell onto some loser named Jimbo, whose girlfriend just happened to be an MMA fighter and didn't like to see me sprawled on top of her man. We had a minor physical altercation and I was kicked out of the bar. Then I got dumped on the street by my Uber driver because I threw up in his cab. So today, I just couldn't manage office wear. It's called self-care, and we all need it sometimes. Danny certainly wouldn't mind." "Who's Danny?" The question came out before he could stop it. "Someone who appreciates all I've got going here-" she ran a hand around her generous curves- "and isn't hung up on trivial things like clothes." She tugged off the apron and dropped it on the reception desk. "I'm not hung up on clothes, either," Sam teased. "When I'm with a woman I prefer to have no clothes at all." Her nose wrinkled. "You're disgusting." "Go home, sweetheart." Sam waved a dismissive hand. "Put your feet up. Watch some rom-coms. Eat a few tubs of ice cream. Have a good cry. Some of us have real work to do.

As she bent to look at them, her pink velour tracksuit bottoms rode down to reveal a matching thong. Alesha twanged it. Hard.

tracksuit bottoms,” said William. That day I didn’t want to speak. I was only there because I couldn’t face the silence of my little flat. I had a sudden, sneaking

It was a common theme on Sally's talk shows, victims reunited with their bullies. The victim was always well groomed in some line of psychiatry, the bully a fat chain smoker in a tracksuit. After talking about their feelings at nauseating length, they'd end up crying on each other. It never said what to do if your bully was the UK's highest earning TV personality and a serial killer.

Today, I’m sitting in the corner chair and feeling very conspicuous. First, because I’m not wearing a velour tracksuit in a choice of pastel shades, and second because I’m not a woman. You might even say, thirdly I’m over the age of twenty-five – and mentally over the age of twelve, but that would just be nasty.

Spar Grocery: Winter 2000”. I see them at nightfall, coming from grey, dilapidated flats, Shuffling in trainers and tracksuits, their crumpled lives in a carrier bag, Drawn like moths to the bright lights of the store, To top up on provisions: a carton of milk, a tin of beans, a sliced loaf and

What that picture represents is the first ever photographic record of a tracksuit manager in British football.

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Emil was aiming for 29:15 – just over six seconds faster than his existing record – but in the second half of the race he began to step up the pace. The Finns roared him on. He ran the final lap flat out and finished in a scarcely believable 29:02.6 – nearly twenty seconds faster than his world record from the previous year. Afterwards, he warmed down outside the stadium, then returned to the centre of the track to retrieve his tracksuit. The spectators spotted him, and gave him a standing ovation that still brought tears to his eyes when he recalled it more than forty years later.143

And in this case, the devil didn’t wear Prada so much as she wore a pink nylon tracksuit, polka-dotted bifocals, and answered to the name Gigi.

Chucky came home sometime around the fifth inning. “Yo,” he said as he walked by me toward his room. “Yo.” When he came back out, he was wearing a red polyester tracksuit and had a bag in his hand. “I got you a present,” he said. When I stood to take the bag from his hands I noticed that the name “Chuck” was embroidered on his jacket. I cautiously removed the contents of the bag to reveal an identical tracksuit to the one he was wearing, except it had “Charlie” embroidered on it. “Oh my god, Chucky.” I buckled over and started laughing. “Screw Helen,” he said. “We’re roomies now.” “We’re the Royal Tenenbaums!” I said, trying to catch my breath. “Thank you, Chuck. I totally thought you’d have Fatbutt embroidered on something the first chance you got.” “It crossed my mind.” Still laughing, I said, “We’re gonna be a spectacle.” “It’s fucking rad

If you’re finally going to take the D up the B, it needs to be a good and memorable experience. Chances are Cav Westman is used to having women throw every part of their bodies at him, so he’s got what it takes to make this good for you. And if it sucks, when we’re old ladies rolling around in our scooters wearing velour tracksuits, we’ll be reliving the time you got butt-fucked by a movie star. There’s virtually no downside here.

Genuine equality means not treating everyone the same, but attending to everyone's different needs. And this is the kind of society which Marx looked forward to. Human needs are not all commensurate with one another. You cannot measure them all by the same yardstick. Everyone for Marx was to have an equal right to self-realisation, and to participate actively in the shaping of social life. Barriers of inequality would thus be broken down. But the result of this would be as far as possible to allow each person to flourish as the unique individual they were. In the end, equality for Marx exists for the sake of difference. Socialism is not about everyone wearing the same kind of boiler suit. It is consumer capitalism which decks out its citizens in uniforms known as tracksuits and trainers.

No, she said. She was crying because Irene had the same tracksuit that Paulie Walnuts was wearing.

Seriously. She wears tracksuits unironically, and yet she can quote Baudelaire. Like, in French.

Hold that thought, ya tracksuit Dracula. You asked about The Avengers. Y'wanna know the best part about being an Avenger? Having Captain America around you all the time. He just– The guy just brings out the absolute best in people. You… want to be good when he’s around. You really do. Ivan, look around you real quick. Because, right now? Captain America ain’t here.

Tracksuit has to be an essential in everyone's wardrobe

He remembered he’d nothing in the fridge for his sandwiches so, outside the village grocery shop, which called itself a delicatessen, he sat the two dogs down and gave the leads to Holly, then all of eight years old. The street was empty, he’d only be a minute. He went into the shop to find another customer, a cheery lady in her early thirties, dressed in a tracksuit, refusing the Caerphilly and the Lancashire because she especially wanted Wensleydale. As she turned and went out, a terrible thought crossed Joe’s mind. With a ‘Back in two ticks’ to the shopkeeper, he was through the door — but too late. The woman, seeing the two little girls and the two huge and apparently beautifully behaved dogs sitting beside them, had gone across to chat and give the dogs a pat. Cass, his duty clear and seeing himself in charge of the situation, had pre-empted any potential harm to those in his care by nipping behind the woman and biting her quite hard in the bottom.

He stopped at the front door. Paused. Looked up. Noticed the camera pointing at him. Turned back to the door, wondering whether he looked too conspicuous with his hood up. Finally it opened, and Spencer, clad in a designer tracksuit, gold chains, and a beer in his hand, stared expectantly at him. Brian returned Spencer’s stare, wondering what to do. “Well?” Spencer said. “Huh?” “My fucking package? What, you waitin’ to suck my cock first—where the fuck is it?” “Oh, right. Yeah.

The prison diet could surely be marketed to those vain Instagrammers who shill appetite suppressants and dubious vitamins. Just eat bland dough three times a day, and trade anything left over for cigarettes – your standard-issue tracksuit will be suitably loose in no time.

Claude Dual had been coming into the store twice a week since I was little. He often wore tracksuits, I believe in an effort to suggest that he prioritized fitness, although his shape would suggest otherwise.

He’s forty-one. He’s huge in a way that used to say offensive lineman—these days he’s trending toward ogre. He’s in a 3XL tracksuit. His hair is uncombed; his skin is pale under a patchy beard. He is a fist on someone else’s arm.

Before he even knew it, Stitch’s lips were on his, tongue forcing its way in, as Stitch’s hands gripped the sides of Zak’s face, like a physical reminder of how he’d held Zak in place during the blow job. When Stitch’s body pushed on Zak’s, he actually regretted not sleeping naked. The kiss was just too good. It sent trails of heat wandering all over Zak’s skin. They made his lips tingle, and his throat ache again. He hardly even noticed when he melted into the wall behind him, gasping for breath. Stitch’s tongue was hot and teasing, never leaving Zak’s mouth, not letting him speak. Stitch pulled one of his hands away, but before Zak knew it, it was on his hip, fingers already sliding under the waistband of his tracksuit bottoms. Zak grasped his wrist, keeping it in place. He opened his eyes, looking straight into Stitch's. The display had been pretty convincing. “You’re a good kisser. Way to go, using an asset like that,” he uttered breathlessly against the soft lips. His cock was already stiffening from the close contact. “So, do I get to fuck you now?” Stitch groaned and gave Zak’s lips a quick lap. He didn’t push his hand farther down Zak’s pants, but he curled his fingers and scratched the side of Zak’s buttock. Fucking charmer. “We get to fuck, but only as long as you guarantee me you won’t be lashing out or intimidating me again. That kind of shit’s not on,” growled Zak, trying to ignore the warm shivers racing all over his body. He needed to set boundaries. “Promise.” Stitch licked the side of Zak’s face, leaving him speechless. The guy really was a dog.

GRANDMA DOTTY WANDERED into the kitchen, singing at the top of her lungs. She was wearing a tracksuit and a pair of rainbow-striped leg warmers.

Jack followed her glance and noticed a man with a beer belly. The guy had a large mustache and wore a worn-out, green tracksuit. The guy muttered something that Jack didn’t understand, but it sounded offensive. If Jack weren’t in a hurry, he probably would have given the guy a warning. Instead, he ignored him and stared Natalie straight in her dark-brown eyes. “That’s my upstairs neighbor. He’s an annoying busybody. Please, ignore him and come inside,” she whispered.

Change doesn't happen by keeping quiet or staying still. Change is the reason I became a member of the Tracksuit Economy, a way of doing my job without the trappings of corporate life in a way I choose to do it.

Cooweeee!” the shockingly familiar voice made my vagina ziplock itself and I twisted around in my seat in alarm, spotting Professor Washer sashaying through the wooden doors with two large suitcases levitating along behind him. He wore a velour purple tracksuit,

If I have learned anything in my lifelong study of crime, it is this: the most dangerous criminals in the world are often the most ridiculous. Tamerlan was one such poser. When he arrived in Dagestan, the other men his age were wearing tracksuits. Tamerlan, meanwhile, was dressed how he thought a jihadi fighter was supposed to dress, based on propaganda he had read online, including a caftan and dark eyeliner, as was first reported by the Boston Globe.