Z Boys Quotes

So I hear we get to go to town this weekend. Want to catch a movie or something? --Z P.S. That is, if Jimmy doesn't mind. Translation: This weekend might be a good chance for us to see each other outside our school in a social environment, free of competetiton. I do not view other boys as threats, and I enjoy making them seem insignificant by calling them the wrong names. (Translation by Macey McHenry)

Fang: “Let them blow up the world, and global-warm it, and pollute it. You and me and the others will be holed up somewhere, safe. We’ll come back out when they’re all gone, done playing their games of world domination." Max: “That’s a great plan. Of course, by then we won’t be able to go outside because we’ll get fried by the lack of the ozone layer. We’ll be living at the bottom of the food chain because everything with flavor will be full of mercury or radiation or something! And there won’t be any TV or cable because all the people will be dead! So our only entertainment will be Gazzy singing the constipation song! And there won’t be amusement parks and museums and zoos and libraries and cute shoes! We’ll be like cavemen, trying to weave clothes out of plant fibers. We’ll have nothing! Nothing! All because you and the kids want to kick back in a La-Z-Boy during the most important time in history!” Fang: “So maybe we should sign you up for a weaving class. Get a jump start on all those plant fibers.” Max: "I HATE YOU!!!" Fang: "NO YOU DOOOOOON'T!!" Voice: "You two are crazy about each other.

All the black leather she needs is the E-Z boy recliner where her love is parked with one of his hands wrapped around a remote, the other, a bottle of beer. She's right. It's kinky. The way he doesn't look away from the TV, as her head bobs in his lap like a fisherman's float on a nature program, hectic with the pace his breath sets. His crotch swells under her mouth's prowess. He's such a sweetheart he waits until the commercials to come.

  “Yes, well, I thought you should see it. The cover page is in Arabic scribblin’, but the next hundred-plus pages are in five sections, and in English. I can’t for the life of me figure out what to make of it. This appears to be more American, and it seems to be a kind of scientific material. Have a look at it and let me know what to tell the boys in Z-land,

The last dying days of summer, fall coming on fast. A cold night, the first of the season, a change from the usual bland Maryland climate. Cold, thought the boy; his mind felt numb. The trees he could see through his bedroom window were tall charcoal sticks, shivering, afraid of the wind or only trying to stand against it. Every tree was alone out there. The animals were alone, each in its hole, in its thin fur, and anything that got hit on the road tonight would die alone. Before morning, he thought, its blood would freeze in the cracks of the asphalt.

Sometimes we gotta be brave even when we're scared. We gotta not let being scared keep us from thinkin' straight. That's all brave is, boy, when you come right down to it, not lettin' the fear get you so turned around you start doin' stupid things, instead of what you know you ought to do.

The minute you land in New Orleans, something wet and dark leaps on you and starts humping you like a swamp dog in heat, and the only way to get that aspect of New Orleans off you is to eat it off. That means beignets and crayfish bisque and jambalaya, it means shrimp remoulade, pecan pie, and red beans with rice, it means elegant pompano au papillote, funky file z'herbes, and raw oysters by the dozen, it means grillades for breakfast, a po' boy with chowchow at bedtime, and tubs of gumbo in between. It is not unusual for a visitor to the city to gain fifteen pounds in a week--yet the alternative is a whole lot worse. If you don't eat day and night, if you don't constantly funnel the indigenous flavors into your bloodstream, then the mystery beast will go right on humping you, and you will feel its sordid presence rubbing against you long after you have left town. In fact, like any sex offender, it can leave permanent psychological scars.

Tony:...but you need something to do about Noah. Paul: I know, I know. The only problem being that (a) he thinks I'm getting back with my ex-boyfriend, (b) he thinks I'll only hurt him, because (c) I've already hurt him and (d) someone else has already hurt him, which means that I'm hurting him even more. So (e) he doesn't trust me, and in all fairness, (g) every time I see him, I (h) want everything to be right again and I (i) want to kiss him madly. This means that (j) my feelings aren't going away anytime soon, but (k) his feelings don't look likely to budge, either. So either (l) I'm out of luck, (m) I'm out of hope, or (n) there's a way to make it up to him that I'm not thinking of. I could (o) beg, (p) plead, (q) grovel, or (r) give up. But, in order to do that, I would have to sacrifice my (s) pride, (t) reputation, and (u) self-respect, even though (v) I have very little of them left and (w) it probably wouldn't work anyway. As a result, I am (x) lost, (y) clue-free, and (z) wondering if you have any idea whatsoever what I should do.

How rude could you get? She was treating a boy she'd only just met as an inferior being. The only other person I can think of who does that is a Saiyan prince.

Oh, look, the lights are so pretty,” I said dreamily, having just noticed them. I smiled at the way the lights were dancing overhead, pink and yellow and blue. I felt some pressure on my arm and thought, I should look over and see what’s going on, but then the thought was gone, sliding away like Jell-O off a hot car hood. “Fang?” “Yeah. I’m here.” I struggled to focus on him. “I’m so glad you’re here.” “Yeah, I got that.” “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” I peered up at him, trying to see past the too-bright lights. “You’d be fine,” he muttered. “No,” I said, suddenly struck by how unfine I would be. “I would be totally unfine. Totally.” It seemed very urgent that he understand this. Again I felt some tugging on my arm, and I really wondered what that was about. Was Ella’s mom going to start this procedure any time soon? “It’s okay. Just relax.” He sounded stiff and nervous. “Just...relax. Don’t try to talk.” “I don’t want my chip anymore,” I explained groggily, then frowned. “Actually, I never wanted that chip.” “Okay,” said Fang. “We’re taking it out.” “I just want you to hold my hand.” “I am holding your hand.” “Oh. I knew that.” I drifted off for a few minutes, barely aware of anything, but feeling Fang’s hand still in mine. “Do you have a La-Z-Boy somewhere?” I roused myself to ask, every word an effort. “Um, no,” said Ella’s voice, somewhere behind my head. “I think I would like a La-Z-Boy,” I mused, letting my eyes drift shut again. “Fang, don’t go anywhere.” “I won’t. I’m here.” “Okay. I need you here. Don’t leave me.” “I won’t.” “Fang, Fang, Fang,” I murmured, overwhelmed with emotion. “I love you. I love you sooo much.” I tried to hold out my arms to show how much, but I couldn’t move them. “Oh, jeez,” Fang said, sounding strangled.

Why'd you go and have to have a straight boy crush?" "We all do. That's how fairies get their wings.

Susan . . . it wasn't a good name, was it? It wasn't a truly bad name, it wasn't like poor Iodine in the fourth form, or Nigella, a name which meant "oops, we wanted a boy." But it was dull. Susan. Sue. Good old Sue. It was a name that made sandwiches, kept its head in difficult circumstances, and could reliably look after other people's children. It was a name used by no queens or goddesses anywhere. And you couldn't do much even with the spelling. You could turn it into Suzi, and it sounded as though you danced on tables for a living. You could put in a Z and a couple of Ns and an E, but it still looked like a name with extensions built on. It was as bad as Sara, a name that cried out for a prosthetic H.

I never had a gay son." Stu gave an overly dramatic sniff. "But if I did, I'd want him to go to the city for dinner with a boy just like you." Petey slapped his back. "And don't forget all that sex they'll have afterwards." "Oh, yeah." Stu nodded. "If only my fictitious gay son could get as lucky as Lucho is gonna get tonight. That's all a man could ask for.

Hodges eats this diet of full-color shit every weekday afternoon, sitting in the La-Z-Boy with his father’s gun—the one Dad carried as a beat cop—on the table beside him. He always picks it up a few times and looks into the barrel. Inspecting that round darkness.

katolicyzm w Polsce jest zaledwie w jakich 20% religią, a w 80% przemysłem, znakomicie zorganizowanym przedsięwzięciem finansowym. Aparat działa z drapieżną precyzją, ale zarazem z poczuciem, że wszystko to wspiera się na ciemnocie i na zastraszeniu i że wystarczyłoby trochę światła i powietrza, aby podciąć ten przemysł, uprawiany w mroku i zaduchu.

If at 1st you don't succeed, stretch out on your La-Z-Boy with a six-pack and a porn flick. Y' still won't succeed, but you sure as hell won't give a shift.

22And Reuben answered them,  z“Did I not tell you not to sin against the boy? But you did not listen. So now  athere comes a reckoning for his blood.

La-Z-Boy

Zits,” I said. “Z-I-T-S. Actually, I don’t think you even need electric bolts. You could just breathe on us.” I looked him in the eyes and smiled. “Seriously, dude, when was the last time you brushed your teeth?” “Shut up!” “No, really. Did you eat a diaper?” “Shut up!” he shouted. He squinted. “Do you know how much I enjoyed guarding your mother? I shocked her at least a dozen times just to watch her squeal.” “Yeah, well you could have just sat next to her and let her smell you. That would have been much worse. I’ve had hamsters with better hygiene.” “Enough! Don’t think I won’t electrocute you, Vey!” Taylor looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. “It’s his Tourette’s, he can’t help it.” “I’m scared, Zits,” I said. “You know Hatch would have your head if you did. But here’s my promise: after I’m in charge, my first command is to make you my shoeshine boy. You’ll be following me around with a towel.” “You’ll never be in charge.” “No, that’s what Hatch said. You heard him. He wants my power. I’m not kidding, Zits. When Hatch was trying to get me to join you guys, he promised me that you would be my servant.” Zeus looked at me with a worried expression. After a moment he shouted, “Shut up! And stop calling me Zits!” “I don’t think I will. In fact, it’s going to be the first rule I make. I’m going to have everyone else call you that.” “I don’t care what Hatch says. I’m gonna fry you, Vey.” “Oooh, now I’m really shaking. You don’t have enough juice in you to light a flashlight.” “Michael!” Taylor shouted. “Stop it. He’s got a temper. I’ve seen it.” “You should listen to the cheerleader, Vey.” He stepped toward me. “You think you’re so cool. But you can’t shoot electricity like me, can you? You’re just a flesh-covered battery.” “And you’re a flesh-covered outhouse. You should tie a couple hundred of those car air fresheners around your neck.” “Last warning!” Zeus shouted. “I’m not kidding, Zits. There are porta-potties with better aromas. Would a little deodorant kill you? What was the last year you took a bath?

La-Z-Boy type thing covered with bronze and silver gears. Kronos slashed, and I managed to jump straight up onto the seat. The throne whirred and hummed with secret mechanisms. Defense mode, it warned. Defense mode.

Experimenting with touch, he found he barely had to ripple a light fingertip over his sleeping lover, and Tristan would move, twisting until he was melted into Michael's embrace. Stroking Tristan's cheek got Michael a sleepy kiss. Touching Tristan's back or sliding a hand down his spine earned Michael the satisfying squeeze of arms around him. And squeezing Tristan's ass got him a fully awake and erect boy-toy looking for love.

Okay, i admit it," Connor looked away, "I'm a little disappointed." "Excuse me?" snapped Kevin, sure he hadn't heard right. "Well, now that I'm thoroughly and diligently queer, I expected more manly love-talk, you know? Not like Pretty Baby and feeding you graped and stuff," he snorted. "Uh, you mean like, hey you bastard I don't have a beer and nobody's sucking my dick, what's wrong with this picture?" "Oh," Connor climbed Kevin a little, his cock becoming interested again. "That's the spirit." "Like, I've got handcuffs and I'm not afraid to yo use them, that kind of talk?" "Oh, officer, show me your nightstick." "I'm not even a cop anymore." "No but oddly enough, I am." Connor grinned, holding Kevin's hands above his head. "And you there, are looking a little guilty." "Oh man," Kevin bit his lip. "I just can't help myself, Officer Dougal. I've been such a bad, bad boy." "Oh, well then, son, I guess you'll just have to spead 'em." He slid down beneath the covers, "This will require some in depth observation, I think." Kevin's cock was getting hard again as Connor's tongue lapped all the way down on it then back up again, teasing the little slit in the top. "Yep, just as I thought, blunt instrument. I'm afraid you'll have to come with me...

Matka pociągnęła nosem w sposób sugerujący, że ma szczery zamiar żyć wiecznie, coraz chudsza, twardsza i podobniejsza do kamiennego posągu, jedząc mniej i mniej, aż w końcu będzie mogła żywić się jedynie powietrzem, owocami z wosku i niechęcią do całego świata świata.

Oddalił się od babci tak bardzo jak wszyscy z rodziny, którzy odeszli, choć siedział naprzeciwko. Podczas odwiedzin powiedział jej, że jest zdrowy, tylko smutny, że nie jest łatwo, ale jakoś sobie radzi, a przecież najbardziej na świecie chciał powiedzieć: "Zobacz, babciu, co oni ze mną zrobili. Zobacz, co ze mną zrobili.

Taking these things into consideration, while blinking stupidly at Dr. Z, I resolved to retire gracefully, if I must; so, with a valedictory to my boys, a private lecture to Mrs. Waldman, and a fervent wish that I could take off my body and work in my soul, I mournfully ascended to my apartment, and Nurse P. was reported off-duty.

You think you’ve got it hard?” Sol says. “Try giving a free grammar lesson every time you tell people your pronouns and they don’t believe in singular they. Try convincing your literature professor tía that Latinx is a real word. At least people know what a fucking boy is.” They pound their fist on my dashboard. Grin. Do it again. “Fuck!

THE SOUNDTRACK OF WES AND LIZ Someone Like You | Van Morrison Paper Rings | Taylor Swift Lovers | Anna of the North ocean eyes | Billie Eilish Bad Liar | Selena Gomez Public Service Announcement (Interlude) | Jay-Z Up All Night | Mac Miller How Would You Feel (Paean) | Ed Sheeran Hello Operator | The White Stripes Paradise | Bazzi Sabotage | Beastie Boys Feelin’ Alright | Joe Cocker Someone Like You | Adele Monkey Wrench | Foo Fighters Bella Luna | Jason Mraz Forrest Gump | Frank Ocean Electric (feat. Khalid) | Alina Baraz Kiss | Tom Jones Enter Sandman | Metallica Death with Dignity | Sufjan Stevens We Are Young | fun. feat. Janelle Monáe New Year’s Day | Taylor Swift River | Joni Mitchell

Pani Dunwiddy była stara i tak też wyglądała. Istniały epoki geologiczne młodsze od pani Dunwiddy. W dzieciństwie Gruby Charlie wyobrażał sobie panią Dunwiddy w Afryce Równikowej, spoglądającą z dezaprobatą przez grube okulary na od niedawna wyprostowanych hominidów. - Tylko nie właźcie mi na podwórko - mówiła świeżo wyewoluowanym i dość nerwowym okazom homo habilis - albo dostaniecie ode mnie pasem w kanał słuchowy.

... I was disturbed by how many of my classmates disliked Thoreau, railed against him even, as if he (who claimed never to have learned anything of value from an old person) was an enemy and not a friend. His scorn of commerce--invigorating to me--nettled a lot of the more vocal kids in Honors English. "Yeah, right," shouted an obnoxious boy whose hair was gelled and combed stiff like a Dragon Ball Z character--"some kind of world it would be if every-body just dropped out and moped around in the woods--

PROLOGUE   Zoey “Wow, Z, this is a seriously awesome turnout. There are more humans here than fleas on an old dog!” Stevie Rae shielded her eyes with her hand as she looked around at the newly lit-up campus. Dallas was a total jerk, but we all admitted that the twinkling lights he’d wrapped around the trunks and limbs of the old oaks gave the entire campus a magickal, fairy-like glow. “That is one of your more disgusting bumpkin analogies,” Aphrodite said. “Though it’s accurate. Especially since there are a bunch of city politicians here. Total parasites.” “Try to be nice,” I said. “Or at least try to be quiet.” “Does that mean your daddy, the mayor, is here?” Stevie Rae’s already gawking eyes got even wider. “I suppose it does. I caught a glimpse of Cruella De Vil, a.k.a. She Who Bore Me, not long ago.” Aphrodite paused and her brows went up. “We should probably keep an eye on the Street Cats kittens. I saw some cute little black and white ones with especially fluffy fur.” Stevie Rae sucked air. “Ohmygoodness, your mamma wouldn’t really make a kitten fur coat, would she?” “Faster than you can say Bubba’s drinkin’ and drivin’ again,” Aphrodite mimicked Stevie Rae’s Okie twang. “Stevie Rae—she’s kidding. Tell her the truth,” I nudged Aphrodite. “Fine. She doesn’t skin kittens. Or puppies. Just baby seals and democrats.” Stevie Rae’s brow furrowed. “See, everything is fine. Plus, Damien’s at the Street Cats booth, and you know he’d never let one little kitten whisker be hurt—let alone a whole coat,” I assured my BFF, refusing to let Aphrodite mess up our good mood. “Actually, everything is more than fine. Check out what we managed to pull off in a little over a week.” I sighed in relief at the success of our event and let my gaze wander around the packed school grounds. Stevie Rae, Shaylin, Shaunee, Aphrodite, and I were manning the bake sale booth (while Stevie Rae’s mom and a bunch of her PTA friends moved through the crowd with samples of the chocolate chip cookies we were selling, like, zillions of). From our position near Nyx’s statue, we had a great view of the whole campus. I could see a long line at Grandma’s lavender booth. That made me smile. Not far from Grandma, Thanatos had set up a job application area, and there were a bunch of humans filling out paperwork there. In the center of the grounds there were two huge silver and white tents draped with more of Dallas’s twinkling lights. In one tent Stark and Darius and the Sons of Erebus Warriors were demonstrating weaponry. I watched as Stark was showing a young boy how to hold a bow. Stark’s gaze lifted from the kid and met mine. We shared a quick, intimate smile

There are human boys here somewhere?” Zoey asked. Aurox’s face scrunched up as he frowned at her. “Not here. Outside—out there. ” He pointed in the general direction of the door to the field house behind them. “Outside the field house!” she almost yelled. “Zo, sometimes I think you don’t listen so good,” Aurox said. Still frowning at her, he continued speaking slowly, as if trying to get her to understand a foreign language. “Two boys. Outside the wall. With the keg. And cups. They. Want. Hot. Vampyre. Chicks.” “Okay, I think I get it.” Stark grabbed Aurox’s arm and started to drag him toward the door and away from Z before she went for his throat, although that would have been funny as hell. “You found two kids, with beer, trying to get over the wall, right?” “See, you listen better.” Aurox patted him on the back, almost knocking Stark over. “But they’re just looking through the hole for vampyre pussy, not trying to get over the wall.” “If you say pussy one more time I’m going to smack the crap out of you,” Zoey said, coming after them. “You can’t come!” Aurox stumbled to a stop. “You have legs and tits!” “Oh. My. Goddess. I’m going to kill him!” Stark stepped between the two of them. He faced Zoey. She’d gone from pale to bright red in zero-point-nothing seconds. “Z, I think this is something that a Warrior needs to handle.” Behind him, Aurox belched, sending a wave of beer air wafting over them. Zoey narrowed her eyes and pointed at Aurox. “You have never been able to drink!” Then she spun around and stomped back to the basement entrance, slamming the door behind her. “She seems mad. Should we bring her a beer?” Aurox said. Stark covered his laugh with a cough. “Ur, no. Z doesn’t like beer.” “Doesn’t like beer? She should. It would make her head feel bubbly and happy.” Stark didn’t bother to cover his laugh a second time. “I wish it worked that way with her, but it doesn’t.” “Because she has legs and tits?” Stark knew it was wrong, but he couldn’t stop himself. “I’m not sure. Maybe you should ask her next time you see her.” Aurox nodded, looking as serious as a drunk could look. “I will.” “That should be fun. But until then, show me where these humans are, and while we’re going there, start back at the beginning and tell me exactly what happened before and after you were introduced to the red Solo cup.

And there won’t be any TV or cable because all the people will be dead!” I was on a roll now. “So our only entertainment will be Gazzy singing the constipation song! And there won’t be amusement parks and museums and zoos and libraries and cute shoes! We’ll be like cavemen, trying to weave clothes out of plant fibers. We’ll have nothing! Nothing! All because you and the kids want to kick back in a La-Z-Boy during the most important time in history!” I was practically frothing at the mouth. Fang looked at me. “So maybe we should sign you up for a weaving class. Get a jump on all those plant fibers.

Dallas pointed out to me once that there is a world of difference between being busy and being hurried. Being busy is an outward condition, a condition of the body. It occurs when we have many things to do. Busy-ness is inevitable in modern culture. If you are alive today in North America, you are a busy person. There are limits to how much busy-ness we can tolerate, so we wisely find ways to slow down whenever we can. We take vacations, we sit in a La-Z-Boy® with a good book, we enjoy a leisurely meal with friends. By itself, busy-ness is not lethal. Being hurried is an inner condition, a condition of the soul. It means to be so preoccupied with myself and my life that I am unable to be fully present with God, with myself, and with other people. I am unable to occupy this present moment. Busy-ness migrates to hurry when we let it squeeze God out of our lives. Note the differences between the two: Busy Hurried A full schedule Preoccupied Many activities Unable to be fully present An outward condition An inner condition of the soul Physically demanding Spiritually draining Reminds me I need God Causes me to be unavailable to God I cannot live in the kingdom of God with a hurried soul. I cannot rest in God with a hurried soul.

When I got beers for all of us, I discovered something mildly amusing about Milwaukee. If you are ever there, order a Budweiser. Seriously, people FLIP OUT at you. I was confused at first, until it was explained to me: The city of Milwaukee is basically owned by Miller Brewing Company, and of course their big rival is Bud, presumably because they are located in St. Louis. Hey, Milwaukeeans, I’m going to let you in on a little secret: Bud, MGD, Bud Light, Miller Lite—it’s all shitty beer. No one cares except fat-assed cow town hicks like you. Get over it and focus on something important, like why you’re out of breath when you go from the La-Z-Boy to the kitchen.

but I didn’t realize how sick Leon was until he arrived at the studio in LA. He looked like the ailing patriarch in a Tennessee Williams play: a long white beard, dark glasses and a cane. He struggled to walk. He would sit in a La-Z-Boy recliner in the studio for a couple of hours a day and sing and play. That was all he could manage, but what he did in those two hours was incredible. There were moments when I wondered if his contributions to the album were going to be released posthumously. One day, his nose started running: it was fluid leaking from his brain. He was rushed into hospital for surgery and treated for heart failure and pneumonia while he was there.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand they’ve gone into full Fitzphie eye-staring mode—so that’s our cue!” Keefe announced, fumbling for his home crystal. He hooked his arm around Ro’s, but she locked her knees. “Nope, I have one more question for Pretty Boy, first.” Sophie and Keefe groaned. Fitz crossed his arms and tilted his chin up. “Okay, hit me with it.” Ro flashed all of her pointed teeth. “If Sophie can’t find out who her genetic parents are, does that change anything for you?” He frowned. “Why wouldn’t she be able to?” “Doesn’t matter,” Ro told him. “Just answer the question.” “But… the question makes no sense!” Fitz argued. “It’s not like the information doesn’t exist. If we needed to, we could pull it right out of Forkle’s brain.” He glanced at Sophie. “Wait—should we just do that?” “It’s plan Z,” Keefe told him.

They sit and stare and stare and sit Until they're hypnoti[z]ed by it, Until they're absolutely drunk With all that shocking ghastly junk. Oh yes, we know it keep them still, They don't climb out the window sill, They never fight or kick or punch, They leave you free to cook the lunch And wash the dishes in the sink- But did you ever stop to think, To wonder just exactly what This does to your beloved tot? It rots the senses in the head! It kills imagination dead! It clogs and clutters up the mind! It makes a child so dull and blind He can no longer understand A fantasy, a fairyland! His brain becomes as soft as cheese! His powers of thinking rust and freeze! He cannot think-he only sees! 'All right' you'll cry. 'All right' you'll say, 'But if we take the set away, What shall we do to entertain Our darling children? Please explain!' We'll answer this by asking you, 'How used they keep themselves contented Before this monster was invented?' Have you forgotten? Don't you know? We'll say it very loud and slow: They... used ... to... read! They'd read and read, And read and read, and then proceed To read some more, Great Scott! Gadzooks! One half their lives was reading books!... Oh books, what books they used to know, Those children living long ago! So please, oh please, we beg, we pray, Go throw your TV set away, And in its place you can install A lovely bookshelf on the wall... ...They'll now begin to feel the need Of having something good to read. And once they start-oh boy, oh boy! You watch the slowly growing joy That fills their hearts. They'll grow so keen They'll wonder what they'd ever seen In that ridiculous machine, That nauseating, foul, unclean, Repulsive television screen! And later, each and every kid Will love you more for what you did...

Oh, sure, they all went through the motions. For almost two weeks, they paraded out witnesses and experts and walked us through a chain of custody and exhibits A to Z, all of which I guess gave legitimacy to what was already a foregone conclusion. I was guilty. Hell, as far as the police and the prosecutor and the judge and even my own defense attorney were concerned, I was born guilty. Black, poor, without a father most of my life, one of ten children—it was actually pretty amazing I had made it to the age of twenty-nine without a noose around my neck. But justice is a funny thing, and in Alabama, justice isn't blind. She knows the color of your skin, your education level, and how much money you have in the bank. I may not have had any money, but I had enough education to understand exactly how justice was working in this trial and exactly how it was going to turn out. The good old boys had traded in their white robes for black robes, but it was still a lynching.

If it were a bedtime story, I’d call it A Rat’s Tale and begin something like this: "Once upon a time there was a curious cat who lived in front of a field filled with possibility. On one particularly perfect summer afternoon he surprised his about to turn 15-year-old owner with an early birthday present. Though appreciative of the gesture, the boy decided to bestow a gift of his own by returning it." Anyway… Z’s caught quite a few field mice in his time but this was the first real-deal rat I've seen him get. Not that he necessarily hasn't, considering how he roams around out back all by himself pretty much any time he feels like it. For all I know, he'd already eaten one for breakfast this morning and had his fill. Which might also explain why he set him free right next to me just as I was finishing up with my milkshake. With mixing it I mean. He ‒ I mean it ‒ seemed pretty small as far as rats go but was still way bigger than a regular old field mouse. Actually, this’ll likely take a while as it is so I think I'll keep referring to it as he after all. Though I didn't exactly get a great look down there, I’m pretty sure that I saw a teeny-tiny ballsack.

[J.Ivy:] We are all here for a reason on a particular path You don't need a curriculum to know that you are part of the math Cats think I'm delirious, but I'm so damn serious That's why I expose my soul to the globe, the world I'm trying to make it better for these little boys and girls I'm not just another individual, my spirit is a part of this That's why I get spiritual, but I get my hymns from Him So it's not me, it's He that's lyrical I'm not a miracle, I'm a heaven-sent instrument My rhythmatic regimen navigates melodic notes for your soul and your mental That's why I'm instrumental Vibrations is what I'm into Yeah, I need my loot by rent day But that is not what gives me the heart of Kunte Kinte I'm tryina give us "us free" like Cinque I can't stop, that's why I'm hot Determination, dedication, motivation I'm talking to you, my many inspirations When I say I can't, let you or self down If I were of the highest cliff, on the highest riff And you slipped off the side and clinched on to your life in my grip I would never, ever let you down And when these words are found Let it been known that God's penmanship has been signed with a language called love That's why my breath is felt by the deaf And why my words are heard and confined to the ears of the blind I, too, dream in color and in rhyme So I guess I'm one of a kind in a full house Cuz whenever I open my heart, my soul, or my mouth A touch of God reigns out [Chorus] [Jay-Z (Kanye West)] Who else you know been hot this long, (Oh Ya, you know we ain't finished) Started from nothing but he got this strong, (The ROC is in the building) Built the ROC from a pebble, pedalled rock before I met you, Pedalled bikes, got my nephews pedal bikes because they special, Let you tell that man I'm falling, Well somebody must've caught him, Cause every fourth quarter, I like to Mike Jordan 'em, Number one albums, what I got like four of dem, More of dem on the way, The Eight Wonder on the way, Clear the way, I'm here to stay, Y'all can save the chitter chat, this and that, this and Jay, Dissin' Jay 'ill get you mased, When I start spitting them lyrics, niggas get very religious, Six Hail Maries, please Father forgive us, Young, the Archbishop, the Pope John Paul of y'all niggas, The way y'all all follow Jigga, Hov's a living legend and I tell you why, Everybody wanna be Hov and Hov still alive.

THIS IS MY ABC BOOK of people God loves. We’ll start with . . .           A: God loves Adorable people. God loves those who are Affable and Affectionate. God loves Ambulance drivers, Artists, Accordion players, Astronauts, Airplane pilots, and Acrobats. God loves African Americans, the Amish, Anglicans, and Animal husbandry workers. God loves Animal-rights Activists, Astrologers, Adulterers, Addicts, Atheists, and Abortionists.           B: God loves Babies. God loves Bible readers. God loves Baptists and Barbershop quartets . . . Boys and Boy Band members . . . Blondes, Brunettes, and old ladies with Blue hair. He loves the Bedraggled, the Beat up, and the Burnt out . . . the Bullied and the Bullies . . . people who are Brave, Busy, Bossy, Bitter, Boastful, Bored, and Boorish. God loves all the Blue men in the Blue Man Group.           C: God loves Crystal meth junkies,           D: Drag queens,           E: and Elvis impersonators.           F: God loves the Faithful and the Faithless, the Fearful and the Fearless. He loves people from Fiji, Finland, and France; people who Fight for Freedom, their Friends, and their right to party; and God loves people who sound like Fat Albert . . . “Hey, hey, hey!”           G: God loves Greedy Guatemalan Gynecologists.           H: God loves Homosexuals, and people who are Homophobic, and all the Homo sapiens in between.           I: God loves IRS auditors.           J: God loves late-night talk-show hosts named Jimmy (Fallon or Kimmel), people who eat Jim sausages (Dean or Slim), people who love Jams (hip-hop or strawberry), singers named Justin (Timberlake or Bieber), and people who aren’t ready for this Jelly (Beyoncé’s or grape).           K: God loves Khloe Kardashian, Kourtney Kardashian, Kim Kardashian, and Kanye Kardashian. (Please don’t tell him I said that.)           L: God loves people in Laos and people who are feeling Lousy. God loves people who are Ludicrous, and God loves Ludacris. God loves Ladies, and God loves Lady Gaga.           M: God loves Ministers, Missionaries, and Meter maids; people who are Malicious, Meticulous, Mischievous, and Mysterious; people who collect Marbles and people who have lost their Marbles . . . and Miley Cyrus.           N: God loves Ninjas, Nudists, and Nose pickers,           O: Obstetricians, Orthodontists, Optometrists, Ophthalmologists, and Overweight Obituary writers,           P: Pimps, Pornographers, and Pedophiles,           Q: the Queen of England, the members of the band Queen, and Queen Latifah.           R: God loves the people of Rwanda and the Rebels who committed genocide against them.           S: God loves Strippers in Stilettos working on the Strip in Sin City;           T: it’s not unusual that God loves Tom Jones.           U: God loves people from the United States, the United Kingdom, and the United Arab Emirates; Ukrainians and Uruguayans, the Unemployed and Unemployment inspectors; blind baseball Umpires and shady Used-car salesmen. God loves Ushers, and God loves Usher.           V: God loves Vegetarians in Virginia Beach, Vegans in Vietnam, and people who eat lots of Vanilla bean ice cream in Las Vegas.           W: The great I AM loves will.i.am. He loves Waitresses who work at Waffle Houses, Weirdos who have gotten lots of Wet Willies, and Weight Watchers who hide Whatchamacallits in their Windbreakers.           X: God loves X-ray technicians.           Y: God loves You.           Z: God loves Zoologists who are preparing for the Zombie apocalypse. God . . . is for the rest of us. And we have the responsibility, the honor, of letting the world know that God is for them, and he’s inviting them into a life-changing relationship with him. So let ’em know.

I’m sure that’s just what Mr. Worthington was thinking as Luther Kite butchered him.  ‘Boy, I’m glad I have this faith.

Did you fabricate a silver lining there?” “If they had their faith, I believe they’re in heaven.” “I’m sure that’s just what Mr. Worthington was thinking as Luther Kite butchered him.  ‘Boy, I’m glad I have this faith.’” 

• I have experienced the youth of Generation X, Y and currently Z. Teenage boys have changed in many ways over the years. Yet still they are quite similar to the boys I first coached in 1980 at a high school in Ohio.

Piekło kobiet (Tadeusz Boy-Żeleński) - Your Highlight on page 6 | location 81-90 | Added on Sunday, 7 December 2014 14:17:43 Uczynić biedną dziewczynę matką, pozbawić ją pracy dlatego, bo2 się spodziewa macierzyństwa, kopnąć ją z pogardą, zrzucić na nią cały ciężar błędu i jego skutków, i zagrozić jej latami więzienia, jeżeli, oszalała rozpaczą, chce się od tego zbyt ciężkiego na jej siły brzemienia uwolnić — oto filozofia praw, które, aż nadto znać, były przez mężczyzn pisane! Głosić wzniosłe teorie o „prawie płodu do życia”, znów grozić matce więzieniem w imię praw tego płodu, ale równocześnie nie troszczyć się o to, aby nosicielka tego płodu miała co do ust włożyć... I rzecz szczególna, ten sam płód, nad którym trzęsą się ustawodawcy, póki jest w łonie matki, w godzinę po urodzeniu traci wszelkie prawa do opieki prawnej, może zginąć pod mostem z zimna, gdy matka — którą jej „święte” macierzyństwo czyni nieraz wyrzutkiem społeczeństwa — nie ma dachu nad głową. ========== Piekło kobiet (Tadeusz Boy-Żeleński) - Your Bookmark on page 5 | location 74 | Added on Sunday, 7 December 2014 14:19:11

Never Let Me Down" (feat. Jay-Z, J-Ivy) [Intro:] Yeah Grandmama Told you I won't let you down Told you I won't let this rap game change me, right? [Chorus:] When it comes to being true, at least true to me One thing I found,one thing I found Oh no you'll neva let me down, Get up I get(down) Get up I get(down) Get up I get(down) Get up I get(down) Get up I get(down) Get up I get(down) [Jay-Z:] Yo, yo first I snatched the street then I snatched the charts, First had they ear now I hav they're heart, Rappers came and went, I've been hear from the start, Seen them put it together Watch them take it apart, See the Rovers roll up wit ribbons I've seen them re-poed, re-sold and re-driven So when I reload, he holds #1 position When u hot I'm hot And when your feet cold, mines is sizzelin It's plain to see Nigga's can't f*** wit me Cuz ima be that nigga fo life This is not an image This is God given This is hard liven Mixed wit crystal sipping It's the most consistent Hov Give you the most hits you can fit inside a whole disc and Nigga I'm home on these charts, y'all niggaz visitin It's Hov tradition, Jeff Gordan of rap I'm back to claim pole position, holla at ya boy [Chorus] [Kanye West:] I get down for my grandfather who took my momma Made her sit that seat where white folks ain't wanna us to eat At the tender age of 6 she was arrested for the sit in With that in my blood I was born to be different Now niggas can't make it to ballots to choose leadership But we can make it to Jacob and to the dealership That's why I hear new music And I just don't be feeling it Racism still alive they just be concealing it But I know they don't want me in the damn club They even made me show I.D to get inside of Sam's club I did dirt and went to church to get my hands scrubbed Swear I've been baptised at least 3 or 4 times But in the land where nigga's praise Yukons and getting paid It gon' take a lot more than coupons to get us saved Like it take a lot more than do-rags to get your waves Noting sadder than that day my girl father past away So I promised to Mr Rany I'm gonna marry your daughter And u know I gotta thank u for they way that she was brought up And I know that u were smiling when u see that car I bought her And u sent tears from heaven when u seen my car get balled up But I can't complaint what the accident did to my Left Eye Cuz look what a accident did to Left Eye First Aaliyah and now romeo must die I know a got angels watching me from the other side

But it isn’t the fun of DIY invention, urban exploration, physical danger, and civil disorder that the Z-Boys enjoyed in 1976. It is fun within serious limits, and for all of its thrills it is (by contrast) scripted. And rather obedient. The fact that there are public skateparks and high-performance skateboards signals progress: America has embraced this sport, as it did bicycles in the nineteenth century. Towns want to make skating safe and acceptable. The economy has more opportunity to grow. America is better off for all of this. Yet such government and commercial intervention in a sport that was born of radical liberty means that the fun itself has changed; it has become mediated. For the skaters who take pride in their flashy store-bought equipment have already missed the Z-Boys’ joke: Skating is a guerrilla activity. It’s the fun of beating, not supporting, the system. P. T. Barnum said it himself: all of business is humbug. How else could business turn a profit, if it didn’t trick you with advertising? If it didn’t hook you with its product? This particular brand of humbug was perfected in the late 1960s, when merchandise was developed and marketed and sold to make Americans feel like rebels. Now, as then, customers always pay for this privilege, and purveyors keep it safe (and generally clean) to curb their liability. They can’t afford customers taking real risks. Plus it’s bad for business to encourage real rebellion. And yet, marketers know Americans love fun—they have known this for centuries. And they know that Americans, especially kids, crave autonomy and participation, so they simulate the DIY experience at franchises like the Build-A-Bear “workshops,” where kids construct teddy bears from limited options, or “DIY” restaurants, where customers pay to grill their own steaks, fry their own pancakes, make their own Bloody Marys. These pay-to-play stores and restaurants are, in a sense, more active, more “fun,” than their traditional competition: that’s their big selling point. But in both cases (as Barnum knew) the joke is still on you: the personalized bear is a standardized mishmash, the personalized food is often inedible. As Las Vegas knows, the house always wins. In the history of radical American fun, pleasure comes from resistance, risk, and participation—the same virtues celebrated in the “Port Huron Statement” and the Digger Papers, in the flapper’s slang and the Pinkster Ode. In the history of commercial amusement, most pleasures for sale are by necessity passive. They curtail creativity and they limit participation (as they do, say, in a laser-tag arena) to a narrow range of calculated surprises, often amplified by dazzling technology. To this extent, TV and computer screens, from the tiny to the colossal, have become the scourge of American fun. The ubiquity of TV screens in public spaces (even in taxicabs and elevators) shows that such viewing isn’t amusement at all but rather an aggressive, ubiquitous distraction. Although a punky insurgency of heedless satire has stung the airwaves in recent decades—from equal-opportunity offenders like The Simpsons and South Park to Comedy Central’s rabble-rousing pundits, Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert—the prevailing “fun” of commercial amusement puts minimal demands on citizens, besides their time and money. TV’s inherent ease seems to be its appeal, but it also sends a sobering, Jumbotron-sized message about the health of the public sphere.

The problem is that most older people aren’t expected or encouraged to do much of anything, and it often hurts when they do, so they don’t. “For some generations, exercise has a stigma. You say ‘exercise,’ it turns people off,” says LeBrasseur, whose research center is connected to a senior living community. “The most striking thing to me is how people are building their world around the La-Z-Boy. They have their medication around them, and the TV, and their food. They’ve engineered the physical activity out of life.

Gil handed Henny one of the cushions and a one-pound coffee can from under the seat. Henny was very suspicious. “What’s this for?” he asked. “Why are you giving me this stuff?” “The cushion is for your sitter,” Gil said, “and the can is for the water.” “What water?” said Henny. He didn’t look too good. “Well, there’s bound to be a little extra water with the three of us sitting here,” said Gil. “And your friend hasn’t done much rowing. He splashes a bit over the side.” Henny glared at me. “Quit it,” he said. “Just quit splashing water into the boat.” I tried to be smooth. By the time we got out into the river, I was doing better. “Two steps forward, one step backward,” said Gil. “We aren’t making much progress against this current.” “I’ll go out a little farther,” I said. “Maybe the current won’t be so strong out there.” I felt very good about things. My rowing was getting better. We were closer to the bowl. The crew was busy and in high spirits. Gil was reading from The Journals of Lewis and Clark. Henny was searching his photographic memory for loose information. “Says here that one time, the expedition had nothing to eat but bear fat and candles,” said Gil. “Now that’s real interesting.” Henny sighed. “Sometimes they ate buffalo humps, and wolf meat, and a root called Wappato. Wappato is supposed to taste like potatoes. Boy, am I hungry. Did anybody bring a snack?” “There might be a few crackers under your seat,” said Gil. “Then again, there might not be.” “There is a box of Wheat Thins,” said Henny after he rummaged around under the seat. “It is soggy, dirty, crushed, and unfit for human consumption.” “I never eat them,” said Gil. “I feed them to the kingfishers. But if you’re really hungry, they’re better than candles.” Henny waved the box in the air. “Is anything going to go right on this trip?” he said. A sea gull swooped down and almost got the box. The crew was starting to feel the hardships. Desperation and hunger had set in. I figured the people from my island would look to the turtle for an answer to this situation, so I tried to do the same. The only thing I could come up with was that the armor on a turtle was much better protection than an old rowboat.

Give a man a beer, the remote and a La-Z-Boy and he’s a happy camper! All Things Caveman humor cartoon book will help you understand that hairy guy beside you.

Were all boys like this today, he wondered. In 1917, when he himself was eight, had he had so lethal a vocabulary, been so conscious of the other war? He decided not. There were no radios then, no Lifes and Looks—no newsreels, no avalanche of comic books about martial daredevils. For him during that war there had been only his parents’ talk about it, and the newspaper which came each morning. He’d had none of this war’s incessant instruction in the very sounds and colors and sights of killing and dying.

For a moment Phil stayed on, his thoughts rocketing back to Kathy. “When something hits into your kid.” Just names? Just exclusion? Or equally the sly corruption, the comforting poison of superiority? “Any place can be a hotbed, Phil; each house decides it.” His house would decide it for Tom—by a phrase, a nuance, an attitude. Each day it would go on being decided, through the rest of his childhood, through adolescence. A passion tore through Phil, to protect this one boy from that slow sure poison.

but these guys were also so pitiful—I pictured them sitting in their La-Z-Boys, working up the courage to make their obscene call, maybe jacking off after from all the excitement, if not during—I couldn’t really take them seriously, or only took them seriously as specimens of the ugly fragility of masculinity.

There was so much to think about and so much to do with all this activity and responsibility that he hardly had time to really consider how he missed London, the hum of it, the Brixton roar and the beloved river, the West Indian take aways, the glittering of the tower blocks at night, the mobile phone shacks, the Africans in Peckham, the common proximity of plantain, the stern beauty of church women on Sunday mornings, the West End, the art in the air, the music in the air, the sense of possibility. He missed the tube, the telephone boxes. He even missed, deep down, the wicked parking inspectors and the heartless bus drivers who flew past queues of freezing pedestrians out of spite. He missed riding from Loughborough to Surrey Quays on his bike with the plane trees whizzing by, the sight of some long-weaved woman walking along in tight jeans and a studded belt and look-at-me boots and maybe a little boy holding her hand. The skylines, the alleyways, and yes, the sirens and helicopters and the hit of life, all these things he knew so well. And the fact, most of all, that he belonged there in a way that he would never, could never, belong in Dorking. He was outside, displaced. He was off the A-Z. He felt, in a very fundamental way, that he was living outside of his life, outside of himself. And the problem was, if indeed it was a problem – how could you call something like this a problem when there were bills to pay and children to feed and a house to maintain? – the problem was that he did not know what to do about it, how to get rid of this feeling, how to get to a place where he felt that he was in the right place. And this not being such a serious problem, not really a problem at all, he had suppressed it and accepted things as they were.

„Z armády som sa vrátil bez zubov. Bol december, tridsaťstupňový mráz. Ten chalan bol z Kalifornie... Išli sme ho odprevadiť do hotela. Mal na sebe páperku, teplé zimné rukavice, išiel celý taký zababušený po Moskve a oproti nám ide ruský Váňa – s rozopnutým ovčím kožuchom, s pupkom trčiacim spopod trička, bez čiapky a rukavíc. ‚Ahojte, chlapi!‘ – ‚Ahoj!‘ – ‚A to je kto?‘ – ‚Američan.‘ - ‚Ó, Američan!‘ Podal mu ruku, potľapkal ho po pleci. A išiel ďalej. Prišli sme s ním do izby, Američan mlčí. ‚Šéfko! Čo je?‘ pýtam sa ho. - ‚Ja mám páperku, rukavice a on bol holý. Ale ruku mal teplú. S takou krajinou sa nedá bojovať.‘ A ja na to: ‚Jasné, že nedá. Zahádžeme vás mŕtvolami!

Tie it up!” Meryem immediately bent forward, but the boy’s mother looked up and said, “Shame on you, son! Is that the way to talk to your elders? You’re a big boy now. You can tie your own shoes.” “But isn’t she a maid?” asked the boy. “No, she’s not.” “But she looks just like our maid.

By command of her uncle, the bearded patriarch of the village, her family had stopped sending her to school after the first grade. It would be immoral for a girl to sit beside a boy, he decreed.

Cemal was amazed how clothes could change a person. In his commando uniform, with his equipment and weapons, he had felt like the ruler of the world. In these funny shorts, he was an incompetent boy. Besides, he had no money, no job, no home, nor anywhere to go. He was like a refugee on the professor’s boat.

Leelan,” Wrath barked as he exploded up from his chair. There were all kinds of deep-voiced greetings, but his brothers got out of the way so that she had a clear shot into his arms. And as he lifted her up, he was careful to put no pressure on her belly. “How are you?” he whispered in her ear, knowing that one of these days, she was going to answer that she was having contractions. “Fine and dandy. Oh, my God, I got the best stuff! I had to go blue—I mean, whatever, we’re having a boy. The crib and dressing table are perfect—right, iAm?” The Shadow answered, “Perfect.” No doubt the poor bastard had no interest in the shit at all, but that didn’t matter. He was another one who had stuck by Beth and been her protector in the human world—and Wrath knew the why, of course. It was iAm’s way of paying the household back for letting him and his it’s-complicated brother stay at the mansion after their pad at the Commodore had been compromised. Plus, it was pretty obvi that he liked Beth in a nonromantic kind of way. “Right? I know, right?” Beth hugged Wrath’s neck so hard he couldn’t swallow. “I’m so excited! I want to meet him now!” “Is this nesting?” Wrath asked in the direction of where he’d heard Z’s voice last. “Yeah. And wait for it. You still have Diaper Genies and bottles to get through.” “We’re going Born Free,” Beth informed him, like he knew what that meant. “In case my milk doesn’t come in.” Wrath just sat down in the chair and arranged her on his lap, content to ease back and let her enjoy making her report. And the brothers and the fighters? They rallied right around, asking questions like big brothers would. Any one of them would have laid down his life for her or that young in her womb. It was enough to make a male have to blink a little faster.

Paw, paw, paw. On his shirt. “Fucking hell.” He gave in and rubbed that black belly. “And no, I don’t need anything.” The purring got so loud, he had to lean in to the butler. “What did you say?” “I’m happy to oblige whatever you require.” “Yeah. I know. But I’m going to take care of my brother. No one else. Are we clear.” The cat was now rubbing its head into his pec. Then stretching up into the itching. Oh, God, this was awful—especially as the butler’s already droopy face sagged down to what were no doubt knobby knees. “Ah, shit, Fritz—” “Is he ill?” iAm closed his eyes briefly as the female voice registered. Fantastic. Another party heard from. “He’s fine,” iAm said without looking at the Chosen Selena. Leaving the kibitzers in the dust, he went into the pantry with the freeloading cat and . . . Right. How was he going to get the load of post-migraine recovery rations down from the shelves with his arms full of— What was its name? Fine. It was G*dd*mn Cat, then. Looking down into those wide, contented eyes, iAm thinned his lips as he rubbed under its chin. Behind an ear. “Okay, enough with this.” He played with one of the paws. “I gotta put you down now.” Assuming control, he took the cat out of its recline and went to put it down on the— Somehow the thing managed to claw its way into the very fibers of his fleece and hang off the front of him like a tie. “Are you kidding me.” More purring. A blink of those luminous eyes. An expression of self-possession that iAm took to mean this interaction was going to go the cat’s way—and no one else’s. “Mayhap I shall help?” Selena asked softly. iAm bit out a curse and glared at the cat. Then at the Chosen. But short of taking off his pullover? G*dd*mn Cat was sticking with him. “I need some of those Milanos up there?” The Chosen reached up and took a bag from the Pepperidge Farm munchie department. “And he’s going to need some of those tortilla chips.” “Plain or the lime flavor?” “Plain.” iAm gave up the ghost and resumed servicing G*dd*mn—and the cat immediately went into full La-Z-Boy again. “He’s going to want one of the Entenmann’s pound cakes. And we’re going to bring him three ice-cold Cokes, two big Poland Springs, room temperature, and a partridge in a pear tree.” -Boo, iAm, Fritz, & Selena

Kniha Zinkoví chlapci není rozborem válečné situace, ani výčtem akcí se statistikou padlých. Je sestavena z rozhovorů se sovětskými vojáky přeživšími afghánskou válku a také s příbuznými těch, kteří se z ní vrátili v zinkových rakvích. A právě mozaika těchto útržků vzpomínek a úvah vydává svědectví o nesmyslnosti a hrůze celého tažení, o mravním rozvratu a naprosté devalvaci lidského života, jež přineslo. Má neobyčejnou dokumentární sílu a je velmi aktuální navzdory osmadvaceti rokům, které uplynuly od jejího vydání

Nemůžu se zbavit pocitu, že válka je věc mužské nátury, mnohé z toho mi uniká. Avšak každodennost války je velkolepá. Apollinaire píše: „Ach, jak je válka krásná.“ Ve válce je všechno jiné, i ty, i příroda, i tvé myšlenky.

První ranění, co jsem uviděla, byli ve spodním prádle a v holínkách. Bez pyžam. Pyžama se objevila až za dlouho. Pantofle taky. A deky… Vzpomínám si na jednoho chlapce: tělo se mu zdeformovalo do všech stran, jako kdyby neměl kosti, nohy měl jako provázky… Vytahali z něj dvě desítky střepin. Celý březen se hned vedle stanů povalovaly uřezané ruce a nohy. Těla… ta ležela ve zvláštní místnosti… Polonahé, s vypíchnutýma očima, jedno s vyřezanou hvězdou na břiše… Předtím jsem něco takového viděla jen v kině ve filmech o občanské válce. Zinkové rakve ještě nebyly, ještě je nevyrobili.

Zabíjet je hrozné a nepříjemné. Velmi brzy si však začínáte uvědomovat, že zabíjet zblízka je hrozné a nepříjemné, ale když je vás víc a jste všichni spolu pohromadě, stává se z toho zápal, někdy jsem viděl, že je to dokonce i zábava. V době míru stojí zbraně srovnané v pyramidě, každá pyramida je na zvláštní zámek, sklad zbraní je zajištěn alarmem. Ale tady máte zbraň neustále u sebe, zvyknete si na ni.

Co jsme vlastně zač? Proč je možné s námi provádět, co se komu zlíbí? Vrátit matce místo syna zinkovou rakev a pak ji přesvědčit, aby žalovala spisovatelku, která napsala, jak ona nemohla svého syna na rozloučenou ani políbit a jak výtažkem z bylin omývala a poté hladila jen zinkový plech… Co jsme to za lidi?

Mr. Hardy said that to him the most interesting angle to the case was the fact that the suspect apparently used one or more wigs as a disguise. “He may have bought at least one of them in Bayport. I suggest that you boys make the rounds of all shops selling wigs and see what you can find out.” The boys glanced at the clock on their father’s large desk, then Frank said, “We’ll have time to do a little sleuthing before closing time. Let’s go!” The two boys made a dash for the door, then both stopped short. They did not have the slightest idea where they were going! Sheepishly Joe asked, “Dad, do you know which stores sell wigs?” With a twinkle in his eyes, Mr. Hardy arose from the desk, walked into the library, and opened a file drawer labeled “W through Z.” A moment later he pulled out a thick folder marked WIGS: Manufacturers, distributors, and retail shops of the world. “Why, Dad, I didn’t know you had all this information—” Joe began. His father merely smiled. He thumbed through the heavy sheaf of papers, and pulled one out. “Bayport,” he read. “Well, three of these places can be eliminated at once. They sell only women’s hair pieces. Now let’s see. Frank, get a paper and pencil. First there’s Schwartz’s Masquerade and Costume Shop. It’s at 79 Renshaw Avenue. Then there’s Flint’s at Market and Pine, and one more: Ruben Brothers. That’s on Main Street just this side of the railroad.” “Schwartz’s is closest,” Frank spoke up. “Let’s try him first, Joe.” Hopefully the boys dashed out to their motorcycles and hurried downtown. As they entered Schwartz’s shop, a short, plump, smiling man came toward them. “Well, you just got under the wire fellows,” he said, looking up at a large old-fashioned clock on the wall.

Do patnácti let věku umírají (chlapci) třikrát častěji než děvčata, a to z nejrůznějších příčin - ale nejvíce následkem úrazu, násilí a pokusu o sebevraždu.

I’d also toyed with calling him Caverat before that ‒ which I’ll explain in a minute. Anyway, Twitch was the nickname of the kid that took Zero's place and who I named Z after when he ran away in Holes ‒ which is still my favorite book ever. Now that I think about it, it's probably my favorite movie too. Not only that but my other cat’s name was X-Ray. He was mostly black but had several white markings that looked sorta like fuzzy bones ‒ with one in particular running down his left hind leg about where his tibia would show up in an actual x-ray. So I probably would've called him X-Ray no matter what but it sure didn't hurt that it's the name of the leader of the kids at Camp Green Lake. I even considered Stanley before that ‒ who's the book’s main character and of course, the star of its’ movie. Before that that, I’d actually debated calling him Bob ‒ if you can believe it. But cats shouldn't have regular old people names as far as I'm concerned ‒ with maybe just a few exceptions. I decided that neither Bob ‒ which only came up in the first place because I like palindromes ‒ nor Stanley were one of 'em. Even besides the bone-like birthmarks making X-Ray the obvious choice. To be honest, it was Nat's suggestion anyway. Back to Stanley though, even though his nickname at Camp Green Lake was Caveman, I decided against Cave-cat right away. But it did seem to fit Twitch since he was hiding under the china cabinet and all. Another name I’d thought about before she brought up X-Ray was Yelnats ‒ which is Stanley's last name and the emordnilap of his first ‒ and plenty un-regular-old-people-like enough but as I pointed out at the time, we already had a Nat in the house who yells. That made her laugh but it wasn't exactly true plus on top of it, I ended up having to admit that her idea was better all along. By the way, if you didn’t know it, an emordnilap is the reverse of a word or phrase that isn't a nonsense string but also isn’t a palindrome ‒ which spells the same thing forwards and backwards. Other palindromes besides ‘Bob’ are 'refer'; ‘bird rib’; 'a nut for a jar of tuna’; ‘borrow or rob?’; ‘racecar’; ‘Yo banana boy!’; 'deified'; ‘Go Hang a Salami, I'm a Lasagna Hog’ ‒ or like I already half mentioned… Stanley Yelnats. Emordnilaps make a new one instead ‒ such as ‘live’ and ‘evil’; ‘lived’ and ‘devil’; ‘dog’ and ‘god’; ‘stressed’ and ‘desserts’; ‘stops’ and ‘spots’; or ‘keep reward’ and ‘drawer peek’. As you’ve probably figured out already, ‘emordnilap’ is the emordnilap of ‘palindrome’ so therefore ‘palindrome’ is not a palindrome.

twins with blond hair so light it appeared white. Duke, a tall boy. And Campbell, a short blond kid with a big smile.

off the couch when they walked in, and said, “Whelp, I got a lesson in twenty minutes, I better get to work.” “Work” was a golf course, where he was a teaching pro. When Rex had gone in the Cadillac, Lucas introduced Mattsson and Elle; Jorgenson settled the other two women on the couch, and Lucas in a La-Z-Boy. “I have to tell you that I’m a little upset by all this,” she said. “I never believed that Horn was still out there. I thought he’d crawled off somewhere and died, or was gone to Brazil or something. I mean, I am so scared. I got Rex to put his gun under the bed.” “I think he’d have a hard time finding you, that you wouldn’t hear about it before he got here,” Lucas said. “Oh, pish,” she said. “If he knows anything about computers, he could find me in

was going to play Star Wars, Dragonball Z, Sky landers, watch movies, catch up on all my fav cartoons and TV shows, overdose on Minecraft and eat chocolate and ice-cream straight from the container. Man it was going to be an insanely cool holiday.

Lay Z Boy.

I announced to Kate, who was still wearing her scarf over her face, “I want to be a warlord.” No reply. “But I want to ride a white Arabian stallion. Not a Toyota.” “The only leather that’s ever come in contact with your ass is your La-Z-Boy.

First, I was going to put my bean bag in front of the TV and superglue my big fat bum to it from the moment the sun came up until the moment it went down. I was going to play Star Wars, Dragonball Z, Sky landers, watch movies, catch up on all my fav cartoons and TV shows, overdose on Minecraft and eat chocolate and ice-cream straight from the container. Man it was going to be an insanely cool holiday.

Dr. Z would one day explain the father-son relationship to me this way: For the son, his father begins as a deity on a pedestal. The father can do no wrong. As the son ages, he discovers that his father is flawed, mortal, and full of frailty: an oedipal fall from grace. The son is filled with disappointment, hurt, and anger over his dad’s imperfections. The father starts to sink in the son’s eyes, slowly sometimes, and other times all at once. What follows is conflict and resentment. As the son’s psyche grinds against his father’s, men are forged. Boys become men. Or they don’t. Only some dads survive the son’s journey intact. Before they do, they all fall down.

Nechy was nine years old when her eleven-year-old cousin Z’vulin suddenly stopped playing with her. This happened after Z’vulin’s rebbe told him that it was a terrible sin to play with a girl, even if she was your cousin. And if they played, the rebbe warned, especially when nobody saw, God would make a baby come. The only girls a boy could play with after the age of three were his own sisters. Nechy

Anderson took a seat on the La-Z-Boy. Motherfucker. Did he not know a man’s La-Z-Boy was right up there with his woman? You didn’t touch it, you didn’t even fucking look at it, let alone use it.

If one man's meat is another man's poison, one person's murder may be another person's income. Thus tragedy and happiness interweave, forming life's queer pattern. Fall over a cliff to-morrow, and somebody will benefit from your fall—a press photographer, a gossip-monger, a little boy who had previously been rather bored with existence, or an aunt in India.

Bucket ~ A round, open vessel for carrying water (Ooops! Almost forgot—Bucket is the name of one of the most important families in the history of books featuring boys called Charlie and lots of chocolate.)

A boy didn’t need the polish of celebrity to be beautiful or to grow into a beautiful man. He didn’t have to be a photographer’s dream. He only had to be Dare’s dream. And maybe one that could push the nightmares aside.

Thump. Oh boy. Here comes the kneeling.

the music blasting from them was so loud I could clearly make out the sound of Jay-Z singing about having ninety-nine problems. I hear you, Jay-Z…