Wack Quotes

If there's not drama and negativity in my life, all my songs will be really wack and boring or something.

Life has a funny way of turning you into the one thing you don't want to be.

Crack is wack!

So who the hell, exactly, are these guys, the boys and girls in the trenches? You might get the impression from the specifics of my less than stellar career that all line cooks are wacked-out moral degenerates, dope fiends, refugees, a thuggish assortment of drunks, sneak thieves, sluts and psychopaths. You wouldn't be too far off base. The business, as respected three-star chef Scott Bryan explains it, attracts 'fringe elements', people for whom something in their lives has gone terribly wrong. Maybe they didn't make it through high school, maybe they're running away from something-be it an ex-wife, a rotten family history, trouble with the law, a squalid Third World backwater with no opportunity for advancement. Or maybe, like me, they just like it here.

Hi. I’m Dru Anderson. My father went way-out wack after my mom died and now he travels around hunting things that go bump in the night, killing things you can only find in fairytales and ghost stories. I help him out when I can, but most of the time I’m deadweight, even though I can tell you where anything inhuman in this town is likely to hang out. I’m skipping school because I won’t be here in another three months. None of it goddamn well matters.

I don’t know,” I said, exasperated. “What else do you have in your wacked-out world? Heat sensors? Mine fields? Dirigibles? Booby traps? Machine guns? Shrink rays? What?” “Aside from dirigibles, which are rather expensive and rare outside of trade routes, most of what you just said made no sense whatsoever,” he said, as delighted as a child hearing a foreign language for the first time. “But it all sounds very dangerous. And fun. Especially the part about the boobies.

There's a fine line between piety and wack-ass obsession, and people have been landing on the wrong side for thousands of years.

Dessy, don't grow up to be a writer. Because when you live too much in your own head, you neglect the people you love and become an insulated wack job.

You might get the impression from the specifics of my less than stellar career that all line cooks are wacked-out moral degenerates, dope fiends, refugees, a thuggish assortment of drunks, sneak thieves, sluts and psychopaths. You wouldn't be too far off base.

People are like lice - they get under your skin and bury themselves there. You scratch and scratch until the blood comes out, but you can’t permanently get deloused. Everywhere I go, people are making a mess of their lives. Everyone has his private tragedy. It’s in the blood now - misfortune, ennui, grief, suicide. The atmosphere is saturated with disaster, frustration, futility. Scratch and scratch - until there is no skin left. However, the effect upon me is exhilarating. Instead of being discouraged or depressed, I enjoy it. I am crying for more and more disasters, for bigger calamaties, for grader failures. I want the whole world to be out of wack, I want everyone to scratch himself to death.

Barry, let me give you a history lesson, Ladybird Hope-style. When the Vietnamese got kids hooked on drugs and we had to fight a war to stop it, did we give in? No! We said, “Crack is wack!” and we made sure everybody could have guns instead of drugs. Back before the British were our friends, and they had a mean king who made us pay too much tax instead of just having hot princes who go to nightclubs, they wanted to keep us from bringing freedom to the people of Mexico and making it a state, and George Washington had to chop down that cherry tree and write the “Star-Spangled Banner,” and that’s the reason we fought World War II, and why we keep fighting, because those freedom-hating people out there want to take away our right to be rich and good-lookin’ and have gated communities and designer sweatpants like the ones from my Ladybird Hope Don’t Sweat it line, and they want us all to learn to speak Muslim and let the lawyers stop us from teaching about Adam and Eve and that will be the day that every child gets left behind.

When thinking is overrated And friends are easy to make, Check if it's too complicated Knowing yourself somehow... Inner peace's not hard to take, Never lost or underestimated. Get out of social media... NOW!

Never trust anyone who doesn't smoke pot or listen to Dylan. Never trust anyone who doesn't like the beach. And NEVER ever, EVER, EVER trust anyone who says they don't like dogs!

Wackadoodle. Not to be confused with a wack job. One is fun and fancy-free, the other is nasty and malicious.

I was going be to flying around like some wacked-out Chinese martial arts movie hero by endgame, which was 200% okay with me.

the perhaps rather prosaic truth that law is an imperfect yet indispensable vehicle by which both to conserve and transform society

That it’s wack that I even have to deal with corny, creep motherfuckers at all while we're both single and attracted to each other. That shit is dumb, Jay,

Sometimes what you depend on is other people being even more wacked than you are.

eat whatever you meet along the way. If you come late don't eat but wack yours with hers.

She's such a lovely woman, he'd tell me time and time again. I'd nod, because my mom is such a lovely woman. And charming and smart. Can't argue with any of that. She's also a fucking wack job.

The world is really a big straight line. Sometimes the world is actually a punchline. There are things that happen and you'll say, 'I can't believe that. Can you believe that?' And for that reason you don't have to tilt your head because the world at that time is coming at you at a forty-five degree angle, so they're out of wack. But most of the world appears to be straight and level, so you've got to tilt your head forty-five degrees and your vision becomes: how can I take that reality and just distort it enough to suit my purposes? To show them the craziness is there but it's just well-disguised.

see Joziah?” Denyce said. “He all that.” Nia popped a bubble with her gum. “I heard he’s strapped.” “What?” Rachel said. “That’s wack.” Sometimes it seemed to Ruth that Rachel and her friends spoke a different language. “He ain’t got no gun,” Denyce said. “He just like to tell people he do.” A gun? Ruth didn’t realize she’d spoken out loud until the girls all stared at her. “Oh, look,” Nia said. “We shocked your baby sister.” If Mama knew Rachel

He also administered the school's corporal punishment known as The Wacks - which I was told, involved being hit with a big gym shoe made heftier by a kitchen weight wedged in the toe. The gym shoes name was Charlie. It is surely one of the world's greatest sadnesess that billions of shoes go about their benevolent businesses in aid of mankind, day after day, protecting feet providing warmth and support, unselfishly getting ducked in puddles, smeared in dog shit and yet remained unnamed. Whereas this nasty cunt of a show got lavished with affection like a pet.

Are you kidding me?” he blurted out loud as Howard Stern’s voice piped into his skull. “Eric the Actor is d—” Selena’s brows tightened like she was considering waking up and he closed his piehole. But he couldn’t believe another wack packer had been lost. It just seemed cruel in light of everything he was going through.

When our security is under siege, so – inevitably – is our liberty. A world in which our every movement is observed erodes the very freedom this snooping is often calculated to protect. Naturally, we need to ensure that the social costs of the means employed to enhance security do not outweigh the benefits.

Your left! Your left! Your left-right-left! Your left! Your left! Your left-right-left! Yeah, yeah, yeah. I left. I left. I left-left-left that wack school and that even more wack ROTC drill team because it was Friday, which to me, and basically every other person on Earth, meant it was time to party. Okay, maybe not everybody on Earth. I’m sure there was a monk somewhere on a mountain who might’ve been thinking of something else. But I wasn’t no monk. Thank God. So for me and my friends, Friday was just another word for party. Monday, Tuesday, Hump Day (because who can resist the word “hump”?), Thursday, and Party.

Introduction This book is devoted to the blessed Father, Son, Holy Spirit. Daily working together as unified Godhead for our best interest. Would be incomplete without Jesus direct love bestowed upon me, through a perpetual act of faith in God. Fully trusting Jesus to lead me into a carefully laid-out plan. Dedicating this book to my children: Faith is 6, Christian 11, Christina 12 years old. Izzabella, my niece, is also featured in the story, Sally Saved Three Times. These Children are the inspiration for the characters in the stories. Added some personal experiences acquired during my childhood. Appreciate the support of my Mom, Dad, brother, Jacob, for being here for me the last five years. They helped me through hard circumstances when I needed them the most. Thank You! My second family is at the Erie Wesleyan Methodist Church on the corner of 29th and Liberty. They covered my life with prayer; great friends from the Lord; Supporting me on my journey towards my heavenly home. I am also thankful for Mike Lawrence who encouraged me to keep writing. Thanks, brother! This spectacular close friend of mine wrote the Forward of this book. He is God-given for moral support and prayer. Friends forever from Erie, Pennsylvania! There are scripture references, along with Bible lessons featured in each story. These short stories are ideal for devotions or bedtime stories. Suitable for parents and grandparents to read to children, grandchildren. Forward It is rare today to find Christians who are in love with doing the Lord's service. Many would sit to the side and let others bush-wack the path, but Bryan has always been the one who delights in making the way clear for others. His determination, commitment to producing these writings was encouraging to watch come to fruition. Take time now see for yourself how God is directing these works to provide something sincere, pure, innocent for families to enjoy. A pleasant respite from a sin-sick world. So, please, feel free to find a quiet place today and enjoy them alone or with your family. This body of work calls upon us to take time to be holy. I believe with all my heart that this is the authors intent, the Lord's plan, my hearts prayer that they bless you as much as they have blessed me. May God bless the time and energies sacrificed by the author in its production. Sincerely in Christ, Michael Lawrence. When writing with Shirley Dye on messenger about editing the book, she commented that this book would be a blessing to many people. That is my solemn humble prayer. Short Story Content 1. Mr. B.G. (My Testimony) 2. Trevor Wins Three Times 3. Winning The Man ON Rock-Hill 4. Sally Saved Three Times 5. Jonathan and Family Find God 6. Upright and Prideful Key Text, (Matthew 18:3), “And (Jesus) said, Verily I say unto you, Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.

Hey, baby girl. Daddy needs your chocolate ass to get better. Me and you got some unfinished business, young lady. Plus, daddy needs some more of those scrubs. They are working for my hair and my face, Nae. I never told anybody this before, but I need you, baby.” Wait a minute… I think I know that voice, or do I? Damn it, my brain is starting to hurt. “She smilin’ a lil’ bit, bro. Keep talkin’.” “Baby, you need to get better so we can figure out what hoe ass nigga did this to you. I promise they are gon’ die. You mine, shorty. I don’t care about that wack ass nigga you got. You can believe that shit, T-Rose.” Is this the guy from California my dad was talking about? He knows me. He sounds good as hell and he likes my scrubs. I hope he looks as good as he sounds. T-Rose? Someone called me that before. Damn it! No one can hear me. Why can’t nobody hear me? “We have to go now, Trenae. Get better.” Finally,

Among the first written codes is that of Hammurabi, king and creator of the Babylonian empire. It appeared in about 1760 bc, and is one of the earliest instances of a ruler proclaiming a systematic corpus of law to his people so that they are able to know their rights and duties.

My butt is wack and busted!

She might be a hundred and four and say some pretty wack things, but my old Jiko is totally dependable.

Your job, your home, your relationships, your very life - and your death - all, and more, are managed, controlled and directed by the law.

Things were moving fast, fast. I couldn’t get my hopes up. What were my hopes? Whatever they were, I couldn’t let them get up.

I imagined the subsequent step of dissociating from one’s self meant re-associating into another, and felt the confused fear of being neither quite myself nor someone else, but stuck somewhere in the middle, in the absented space between.

Your ass wasn’t thinking about a baby with me, Marcus. We were too horny to use a condom, your pull-out game is wack, and we got caught up — that’s it.

She didn’t know that, what Wack did to her would still bother her after all these years.

In fear of Wack being true to his word she tried to stop crying, but she couldn’t. She was both physically and emotionally hurt.

Call my cynical...but I've come to believe that most people who follow a total wack job aren't always true believers. They just like to follow. They like the perks. Makes them feel strong. Kind of weakens your faith in fruitcake fanatics.

Principles describe rights; policies describe goals. But rights are trumps. They have a ‘threshold weight’ against community goals. They should not be squashed by a competing community goal.

Concerta was wack—Ritalin-ish; amateur hour.

Dallas’ ass hadn’t climbed through that tight ass window, and he certainly didn’t fall head first in her bushes. When he leaned in to tell her something in his wack ass southern accent, I kicked the table; making some of his coffee spill from the mug.

She not turned on by you. That mean something you doing ain't right. Dry pussy mean wack-ass nigga, and you ain't that.

Your rhymes are wack, you can't keep up with me Hold up, ain't you Nathaniel B?

And no, we don't make wack tracks And all the suckers get pushed back when I'm kickin' real facts I represent, set up shit like a tent, boy You're paranoid 'cause you're a son like Elroy And you'd be happy as hell to get a record deal Maybe your soul you'd sell to have mass appeal

One view is that privacy consists of ‘limited accessibility’ – a cluster of three related but independent components: secrecy: information known about an individual; anonymity: attention paid to an individual; and solitude: physical access to an individual.

Westin’s ubiquitous and influential idea conceives of privacy as a claim: the ‘claim of individuals, groups, or institutions to determine for themselves when, how, and to what extent information about them is communicated to others’.

In addition to its significance in liberal democratic theory, privacy stakes out a sphere for creativity, psychological wellbeing, our ability to love, forge social relationships, promote trust, intimacy, and friendship.

At the most general level, the idea of privacy embraces the desire to be left alone, free to be ourselves – uninhibited and unconstrained by the prying of others. This extends beyond snooping and unsolicited publicity to intrusions upon the ‘space’ we need to make intimate, personal decisions without the intrusion of the state.

The manner in which information is collected, stored, exchanged, and used has changed forever – and with it, the character of the threats to individual privacy. But while the electronic revolution touches almost every part of our lives, it is not, of course, technology itself that is the villain, but the uses to which it is put.

The concept of privacy has become too vague and unwieldy a concept to perform useful analytical work. This ambiguity has actually undermined the importance of this value and encumbered its effective protection.

There was one idea that might have turned out pretty interesting. Hunter S. Thompson had written a book called Songs of the Doomed, and in the first few pages he mentions sitting around and listening to something off The Caution Horses, then he mentions the band later on in there, too. He's always been one of our favourite wackos, so we decided to call him up and see if we could maybe work on something together. It took a while to get him on the phone, because he'd wake up at midnight, stay up all night, drinking and watching sports, then sleep through the day. But we ended up having a bunch of weird phone conversations with him. His idea was we'd go to his ranch out in Colorado, get a camera crew, no script and 'just go crazy, man!' That didn't really fit what we had in mind; we wanted a little more structure than that. Going crazy isn't what we do. But he wasn't into that, at all. He didnt want to write anything, he just wanted this wacked-out thing. Eventually he got really pissed off for some reason. He sent us a fax, saying 'If you guys show up here, you're going home in body bags!' What did we do to piss him off that much?

Yeah I'm one broken mofo. I still care for myself tho. Keep it tidy. Still fit. No one does blip for me. I still eat and mingle with nature. Still recovering. Depression is a bear. It doesn't help that my ever best friend spits bullets. I asked one innocent thing. I begged to drop g's no strings attached. I knew we'd hit it off, maybe for life. I ached for it. Your gift, my trampoline. A hug. Some fun. Some delightful brain food. A happy that would last ages. It's a catch-22 scenario. I begin in the negative to someday find happiness, but I need happiness to get me out of the negative. What am I supposed to do? Take drugs? I teemed for 24 hours anticipating you. That was quite a drug. You call it a conversation? Nah, we be flingin. It's something; a dash of hope. You guesser, judge, jury, executioner. Thinkin I'm some monster by default. Guesser of what I meant. Guessed wrong. It's a choice. You could help pull out the knife or stick it in deeper and twist it around. You do what you enjoy killa. For years I was the only one with a stable income. They told me I was too stupid for school. Instead, I worked to support my family. I worked near 24/7. Then wham, catastrophe. Eugenics at play. Without a support system or tools to defend, you're tossed. I had a lawsuit but I failed to act in time. From zero and stranded in the sticks, I failed lots, threw away lots, I managed to make some money with my skills. Eventually I helped get a house in a decent neighborhood. They let a drug addicted hooker in. I fought the drug fiends. I paid the mortgage debt, several months behind, to save the place, but in the end, I couldn't win. They insisted on moving here. I was the only one with money. I came with to battle the new crisis and to recoup my losses until I figured out what to do next. Couldn't just abandon the kids. Over time the situation improved. Drugs were defeated. I didn't intend to stay. This place got to me. I am ashamed and battered by it all. No, I don't mess with drugs. I found the landscape of my field where most of the jobs are at has changed extensively over the years. I wasn't concentrated on that area. I'm obsolete. Without a degree, you're auto discarded. Still ways in, but I need to be on my A-game. Not going anywhere without exuding confidence. I'm all twisted up inside. Loneliness eating at me. Cold cruel world. My best friend dodgin me. All work, all alone, as it's always been. Can't do it all alone. In the end, what do I get? A hostile mob? Walked in for a chat. What I got was wacked.

Crack is wack. Whitney said so.

The two of them have spent a lot of time together ever since she asked me to hire him.

It was one of my favorite outfits because it complimented my burgundy leather boots.

She had a beautiful garnet-and-gold chain lying on her part and resting on her forehead.

She had, in fact, already started to pour over them.

was hoping to find another position soon since the earl was such a leech.

Ahem,” Lord Pendrake stood in the doorway, making quite the show of clearing his throat, even though it was clear he was only trying to get our attention.

It even had some flare from her home country,

Mads was wearing a daring, deep red dress that’s top mimicked the lines of a man’s suit.

skirts that flair out two-to-three feet from our body,

If I die before you, I instruct the people I love, don't let my name be used for wack shit.

Couldn’t concentrate in class. I was occasionally motivated to succeed by a fleeting interest in the ego boost of a good report card, but always ended up spacing out in the stream of meandering thoughts or playing class clown. I loved to read, but the books they gave me were wack.

[Wack-A-Mole game, at local fair] [pops head UP] "Pardon me! Is it illegal to mention France in THIS part of Heaven, then?" [crossing fingers, listening for reply]

Mental models are the deeply ingrained assumptions, generalizations, or images that influence how one makes sense of and responds to the world. They are usually biased towards the past, and are often vague or based on faulty assumptions about the future. The mental models of key decision-makers should be assessed as early as possible in a strategic foresight activity—and continually reassessed. The aim, according to Wack (1984), “is to change the decision maker’s assumptions about how the world works and compel him to change his image of reality.

he started to slash, wack, and thrust furiously. With backhands, forehands, fivehands (that’s not actually an attack), stabs, jabs, and everything in between

A sustained scenario practice can make leaders comfortable with the ambiguity of an open future,” Wack writes. “It can counter hubris, expose assumptions that would otherwise remain implicit, contribute to shared and systemic sense-making, and foster quick adaptation in times of crisis.

I would wack off a lot and hug my pillow imagining my ex

After crossing most of the North American continent our destination was Goldfield Nevada, a place in the middle of nowhere that I had been to some years before. This ghost town held a special place in my heart and I still feel nostalgic remembering how I got there from LA when I was in my teens. Now as we rolled into town I had the same feeling and thought that my son’s would capture the same aura that I felt years before. Entering the “Santa Fe Club,” an authentic old saloon, we were greeted as if we were neighbors that had just stopped in for a drink. It was as if I had never left but of course that wasn’t true. The bartender asked if we were there for some chicken? I had no idea what he was talking about until he explained that a chicken truck had run off the road and rolled over just outside of town. It took some doing but some of the men in town caught, killed, cleaned and plucked a wack of them and brought them to the saloon for frying. I assumed that he meant that he had fried the chickens and best of was that he offered them free to anyone who came through the doors. I still don’t know if they tasted so good because we were hungry or that they were free. The story of the chicken truck was told for years afterward but he also told me that he remembered me from before, when I was the kid looking for the publisher of the five-page newspaper. “Well, he’s gone and is now in the cemetery but we’re not, so have some more chicken” were his lasting words of wisdom!

A branch smacked him in the face and he glared at the thing carrying him. Another branch smacked him in the face. He groaned. So that's what this whole trip was going to be, wasn't it? A third branch wacked into the side of his skull. Fan-fricken-tastic.

Yeah, you were in my gym class. Didn’t you get hit in the face with a tennis ball one time?” Kiley had long ago accepted that, despite the lack of any reasonable scientific explanation, her face clearly attracted sporting equipment. She’d absolutely gotten hit with a tennis ball, as well as a volleyball, a softball, and a Frisbee. Once she’d even managed to get wacked in the nose with a broom while they’d attempted to play a grounded version of Quidditch. “Yup, that was me.