Traffic Cone Quotes

If you have a statue in the city centre you could go past it every day on your way to school and never even notice it, right. But as soon as someone puts a traffic cone on its head, you've made your own sculpture.

Petey, when I undress you with my eyes, I get blinded by that fluorescent orange crab-trap you call your bush and immediately dress you again. And where the hell does anyone get hair that color anyway? What exactly did your mom screw to have you, huh? Carrots? Or pumpkins? Maybe a traffic cone? Is your dad a traffic cone, Petey?

Nico’s hair was combed straight up, stiff with mousse, the tips dyed the color of traffic cones.

That night my mother had what she considered a wonderful dream. She dreamed of the country of India, where she had never been. There were orange traffic cones and beautiful lapis lazuli insects with mandibles of gold. A young girl was being led through the streets. She was taken to a pyre where she was wound in a sheet and placed up on a platform built from sticks. The bright fire that consumed her brought my mother into that deep, light, dreamlike bliss. The girl was being burned alive, but, first, there had been her body, clean and whole.

The flames rose bright on everyone's screens, flickering lipstick red and traffic-cone orange and Lord knows what else, depending on how your television's colour was.

In a real road-construction situation, I would never get out of my car when traffic is backed up, walk over to the foreman of the crew, and ask if I can help make the road so that it all moves more quickly. Yet I found myself doing just that with God in my past when He was trying to repair me. Construction sites have caution cones and broken pavement and heavy equipment I'm not qualified to operate. I must have looked just as out of place trying to make repairs on myself all those years. When I put my trust in Him and have patience in Him as the foreman of my life--the One who is repairing a broken relationship with my mom, building me a stronger and healthier body and assembling healthier friendships and a marriage with a solid foundation--I live a life with much fewer obstructions on my ultimate commute to becoming fearless. And I trust that God has made the plans to finish the good work He has already begun. He will continue constructing the life He knows I'm meant to lead as I travel freely in my journey of "becoming.

Where's Malfour?" the fire Elemental asks, looking around the street. "Oh, don't worry. He'll be back in ..." There's only a hint of a scream before Malfour comes crashing out of the sky. He lands right inside the cones that I’d set up, and right on top of his would-be bank-robbing accomplice. A huge plume of concrete, dust, and debris flies twenty-feet into the air, hitting a nearby traffic light and sending it into a nearby building. Malfour's created a pretty large crater, and both of the metas are out cold. "...no time flat,” I finish. There’s no response from the hole, and certainly not a laugh. “Dammit! I thought I had that timed out perfectly! 'He'll be back in no time flat.' Get it? He's huge, and he landed on you. Now you’re squished flat ... like a pancake? Man, that would have been so perfect. Ugh. That's really going to bother me all night, guys. Thanks a lot," I say into the pit.

Every object and environment that already exists has to feel like it isn’t enough. There can be no heaviness of the feeling of the too-muchness of the world: not the heavy feeling of the too-muchness of asphalt, or of amphitheaters, soda bottles, modular furniture, or orange traffic cones. Instead, you must be able to look out over the landscape of what is and to say, as if you mean it, there is not enough here.

I began to feel the whiteness in the room. If a neutral background color, say white, turned traffic-cone orange everywhere you went, you'd become chronically stressed and your mind would curdle like a slug in salt. That's how I felt. Only I had to pretend that I wasn't seeing traffic-cone orange everywhere.

Something vast suddenly crossed my field of vision. By the time I had reacted and adjusted the magnification, it had passed out of sight into the works shed. I had a brief memory of bright, almost gaudy metal and a shimmering, flowing robe. ‘What the hell was that?’ I hissed. Midas looked at me, lowering his scope, actual fear on his face. Fischig also looked disturbed. ‘A giant, a horned giant in jewelled metal,’ Midas said. ‘He came striding out of the modular hab to the left and went straight into the shed. God-Emperor, but it was huge!’ Fischig agreed with a nod. ‘A monster,’ he said. The cones above roared again, and a rain of withering ash fluttered down across the settlement. We shrank back into the thorn-trees. Guard activity seemed to increase. ‘Rosethorn,’ my vox piped. ‘Now is not a good time,’ I hissed. It was Maxilla. He sent one final word and cut off. ‘Sanctum.’ ‘Sanctum’ was a Glossia codeword that I had given Maxilla before we had left the Essene. I wanted him in close orbit, providing us with extraction cover and overhead sensor advantages, but knew that he would have to melt away the moment any other traffic entered the system. ‘Sanctum’ meant that he had detected a ship or ships emerging from the immaterium into realspace, and was withdrawing to a concealment orbit behind the local star. Which meant that all of us on the planet were on our own. Midas caught my sleeve and pointed down at the settlement. The giant had reappeared and stood in plain view at the mouth of the shed. He was well over two metres tall, wrapped in a cloak that seemed to be made of smoke and silk, and his ornately decorated armour and horned helmet were a shocking mixture of chased gold, acidic yellow, glossy purple, and the red of fresh, oxygenated blood. In his ancient armour, the monster looked like he had stood immobile in that spot for a thousand years. Just a glance at him inspired terror and revulsion, involuntary feelings of dread that I could barely repress. A Space Marine, from the corrupted and damned Adeptus Astartes. A Chaos Marine.

largest producers of orange traffic cones in the United States.

How long’s the ride?” I asked. Berleand looked at his wristwatch. “About thirty seconds.” He may have overestimated. I had, in fact, seen the building before—the “bold and stark” sandstone fortress sitting across the river. The mansard roofs were gray slate, as were the cone-capped towers scattered through the sprawl. We could have easily walked. I squinted as we approached. “You recognize it?” Berleand said. No wonder it had grabbed my eye before. Two armed guards moved to the side as our squad car pulled through the imposing archway. The portal looked like a mouth swallowing us whole. On the other side was a large courtyard. We were surrounded now on all sides by the imposing edifice. Fortress, yeah, that did fit. You felt a bit like a prisoner of war in the eighteenth century. “Well?” I did recognize it, mostly from books by Georges Simenon and because, well, I just knew it because in law-enforcement circles it was legendary. I had entered the courtyard of 36 quai des Orfèvres—the renowned French police headquarters. Think Scotland Yard. Think Quantico. “Soooo,” I said, stretching the word out, gazing through the window, “whatever this is, it’s big.” Berleand turned both palms up. “We don’t process traffic violations here.” Count

He couldn’t deny it. How the hell else could his body just open up for that massive fu&king thing like it did? He was getting impaled by a godda*ned traffic cone for fu&k’s sake.

Traffic slowed as they entered Fort Washakie with everyone rubbernecking the spirited powwow taking place in an empty field just off the main road. Most of the audience gathered round was non-native. But everyone there was stomping and clapping and surrendering themselves to the rhythmic spell of the drums, much like the performers themselves, and the dust of the earth which coalesced with their smoky breath to envelope them together in a billowing cone of palpitation. And Joshua sat there at the stop sign a little too long because he couldn’t bring himself to look away. But no one inside the VW or in the other cars cared, or even noticed, because they were doing the same.

As always, a dozen or so people were gathered about the base of the Duke of Wellington statue. As always, the mounted Duke wore a traffic cone on his head, placed there by—well, someone—despite its daily removal by the police.

stealing traffic cones.

their belts – or at least Leo thought they were weapons. Then the Boreads switched them on, and Leo realized they were flashlights with orange cones, like the ones traffic controller guys use on a runway. Cal and Zethes turned and swooped towards the hotel’s tower. Leo turned to his friends. ‘I love these guys. Follow them?’ Jason and Piper didn’t look eager. ‘I guess,’ Jason decided. ‘We’re here now. But I wonder why Boreas hasn’t been kind to visitors.’ ‘Pfft, he just hasn’t met us.’ Leo whistled. ‘Festus, after those flashlights!’ As they got closer, Leo worried they’d crash into the tower. The Boreads made right for the green gabled peak and didn’t slow down. Then a section of the slanted roof slid open, revealing an entrance easily wide enough for Festus. The top and bottom were lined with icicles like jagged teeth. ‘This cannot be good,’ Jason muttered, but Leo spurred the dragon downward, and they swooped in after the Boreads. They landed in what must have been the penthouse suite, but the place had been hit by a flash freeze. The entry hall had vaulted ceilings forty feet high, huge draped windows and lush oriental carpets. A staircase at the back of the room led up to another equally massive hall, and more corridors branched off to the left and right. But the ice made the room’s beauty a little frightening.

Our family’s collective nonpanic at my father’s condition might have been shocking and even disturbing to many. The Silver Eagle, true patriot, lies at death’s door and his wife and offspring will get to it when they get to it. There’s a history here, one carefully covered and silenced. There’s a facade, curated over years, smoothed out by endless practice pretending everything is all right. As children, my brother and I learned that it was best to just avoid our father. If avoidance wasn’t possible, one could hope that he was in one of his shining moods. His everything-is-dandy-let’s-go-get-an-ice-cream-cone-and-toss-the-ball-around moods. Though these moods were shiny and glistening at first glance, it took very little to tarnish them: a drip of melted ice cream on the upholstery in the backseat, an easy grounder missed, unexpected traffic from a funeral procession