Whole 9 Yards Quotes

Where do we have it? Do we do the whole nine yards or shorten the ceremony? Do we try to make it religious or keep it nondenominational? Do you have a best man or do you ask Annie to stand with you? Do we involve our families, make one of them travel? Does Chester get to put a corsage on his shovel? If we have to go to Texas, can I put Barnum in a bow tie and have him be the bouncer for the reception?

Cortisol we’ve covered a bit earlier, but adrenaline is something you probably already know about. When we talk about adrenaline, we’re talking about fight-or-flight, get-up-and-go, Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson movie, built-in excitement! Guns blazing, tanks, walking away from the explosion in slow motion, the whole 9 yards. Adrenaline is an incredible part of our physiology that allows us to tap into our greatest strengths. Throughout evolution, adrenaline enabled us to either fight off a threat or run for the hills

could see acres and acres of pickers’ backs bent low, pulling their “whole-9-yards” cotton bags behind them,

Two taps on the door, it opened, and the gang was all there—four disenfranchised African Americans posted up in a 9-by-11 prison-size tenement, one of those spots where you enter the front door, take a half-step and land in the yard. I call us disenfranchised, because Obama’s selfie with some random lady or the whole selfie movement in general is more important than we are and the conditions where we dwell. Surprisingly,

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