The blue-backed notebooks, the two pencils and the pencil sharpener (a pocket knife was too wasteful) the marble-topped tables, the smell of early morning, sweeping out and mopping, and luck were all you needed. For luck you carried a horse chestnut and a rabbit's foot in your right pocket. The fur had been worn off the rabbit's foot long ago and the bones and the sinews were polished by wear. The claws scratched in the lining of your pocket and you knew your luck was still there.
NOW PULL IT OUT YOUR POCKET PULL IT OUT YOUR POCKET BIZ MARK BEATNUTS WE ABOUT TO ROCK IT NOW PULL IT OUT YOUR POCKET PULL IT OUT YOUR POCKET PSYCHO LES BABY, I'M ABOUT TO DROP IT I'M JUST A VILLAIN CHILLIN IN MY GANGSTER STAND I COP ALL MY THREES FROM AMSTERDAM I MAKE THEM BLACK EYED PEAS KIDS SAY 'THAT'S THE JAM' BEATNUTS BABY BACK BY POPULAR DEMAND DROP ANOTHER JAM SOCK YOU AND YOUR MAN IF YOU DON'T KNOW BY NOW, BLAM Y'ALL SMALL SOLDIERS WANNA BLAST BACK LIKE A WEDGIE I'M GONNA GET UP IN THAT ASSCRACK FEET FIRST WHIP A CONCERT WITH NO REHEARSE YOU WANNA SPIT YOU GOTTA TALK TO ME FIRST THE RINGLEADER BLOW YOUR COVER YOU THINK WE COOL CUZ I KNOW YOUR MOTHER?
It's hard when all your life you're used to a big pocket and all of a sudden, it's half the size. With the new regulations, you obviously have to concentrate on getting those pucks into your pocket. But the glove is now smaller and lighter and it means you can make some saves that you never could before. I try to freeze a lot of pucks on to my body.
He's got things to do, places to be, realities to believe in. He can feel the phone he's been told to keep switched off in this communication-free zone vibrating in his pocket and he thanks God for its rebellion and, when the nurse pops out, he quickly reaches closer to life and lets the screen light up inside his pocket. Someone - a beautiful, living someone - is trying to speak with him.
Carla H. Krueger
I suppose every one must have reflected how primeval and how poetical are the things that one carries in one's pocket; the pocket-knife, for instance, the type of all human tools, the infant of the sword. Once I planned to write a book of poems entirely about things in my pockets. But I found it would be too long; and the age of the great epics is past.
Gilbert K. Chesterton
One of the police found a garden chair that I could stand on and they eyed me suspiciously as I tried to slide through the window. The fleece that I was wearing was padding me out too much so I took it off. I tried again, and this time it was my pen, pen-torch and scissors in my shirt pocket that got in the way. I moved them into my trouser pocket. One of the police asked if it would help if I was buttered up. I pretended not to listen to him. Or the giggles of my crewmate.
As soon as I saw that doll all splotched with mud, I saw myself, saw how soiled I was. Or thought I was. From that minute on, I felt liked I'd slipped through a hole in God's pocket. Just took a dive right into the dirt and was lost forever." Greg kissed Faron's hair. "You never hit the dirt. You just slid from one pocket to another. That's what I did too - I took a journey I was meant to take. I know that now." Absorbing this, Faron slanted a puzzled look at Greg. "Which pocket do you suppose I landed in?" "This one. The one we're in together. The one I believe we'll stay in." Faron felt a thrill of optimism in his heart. "I never thought of it that way." "I never did either. Until today." Greg once again settled onto Faron's chest. His cheek moved noticeable into a smile. "God isn't small, honey. God has a lot of freakin' pockets. And we just found the one we belong in.
My shift isn't over until six, ' I say glumly. 'Hold on, ' he says. He pulls a Blackberry from his coat pocket and taps out a text. It buzzes, and he taps out another text before stashing it back in his pocket. 'I think you can take the rest of the afternoon off.' 'I only have a week left, but my boss would kill me, ' I say. 'I'm your boss, Anna.' 'What do you mean?' There's that smile again, the one with all those teeth. 'I just bought Walmart, ' he says.
When a guy says, 'I'll call you, ' and he doesn't say when-that means he won't call you." Kit pulled his phone out of his pocket and pressed a couple buttons. My phone vibrated in my pocket. I fished it out, smiling. "Madness, " Kit whispered softly into his phone. "I meant I'd call you. This is me calling you.
Sarah Rees Brennan
When one day Lagrange took out of his pocket a paper which he read at the Academe, and which contained a demonstration of the famous Postulatum of Euclid, relative to the theory of parallels. This demonstration rested on an obvious paralogism, which appeared as such to everybody; and probably Lagrange also recognised it such during his lecture. For, when he had finished, he put the paper back in his pocket, and spoke no more of it. A moment of universal silence followed, and one passed immediately to other concerns.
Yet Byron never made tea as you do, who fill the pot so that when you put the lid on the tea spills over. There is a brown pool on the table-it is running among your books and papers. Now you mop it up, clumsily, with your pocket-hankerchief. You then stuff your hankerchief back into your pocket-that is not Byron; that is so essentially you that if I think of you in twenty years' time, when we are both famous, gouty and intolerable, it will be by that scene: and if you are dead, I shall weep.
Yet Byron never made tea as you do, who fill the pot so that when you put the lid on the tea spills over. There is a brown pool on the table--it is running among your books and papers. Now you mop it up, clumsily, with your pocket-hankerchief. You then stuff your hankerchief back into your pocket--that is not Byron; that is so essentially you that if I think of you in twenty years' time, when we are both famous, gouty and intolerable, it will be by that scene: and if you are dead, I shall weep.
Eden Ashe > Quotes > Quotable Quote(edit) 'She shifted in his pocket, pressing her back against his chest. "It's iron." Instead of walking into the elevator, he glanced down at her. If he kept craning his neck this way, he was going to have a hell of a nasty headache by the time he made it home. Not to mention the looks he was getting from his taff for talking to himself, he was going to end up in a psych hold if this kept up... ' "We're on the tenth floor. I'm not taking the damn stairs... " "... I'm not talking to myself. I have a fairy in my pocket who's afraid of elevators.
In the field I'm in, there is a lot of that and it gets offered to me all the time. People even go as far as to just stick it in your pocket and walk off. Now, if it was a good thing, they wouldn't do that. I mean, would somebody drop something beautiful in my pocket and just walk off? But I don't want to have anything to do with any of that. I mean, as corny as it sounds, but this is how I really believe: Natural highs are the greatest highs in the world. Who wants to take something and just sit around for the rest of the day after you take it (drugs), and don't know who you are, what you're doing, where you are? Take in something that's gonna inspire you to do greater things in the world.
My mom's coming home soon, " I said. "We should go to your place." Patch ran a hand across the shadow of stubble along his jaw. "I have rules about who I take there." I was getting really tired of that answer. "If you showed me, you'd have to kill me?" I guessed, fighting the urge to feel irritated. "Once I'm inside, I can never leave?" Patch studied me a moment. Then he reached into his pocket, twisted a key off his key chain, and slipped it into the front pocket of my pajama top. "Once you've gone inside, you have to keep coming back.
My mom's coming home soon," I said. "We should go to your place." Patch ran a hand across the shadow of stubble along his jaw. "I have rules about who I take there." I was getting really tired of that answer. "If you showed me, you'd have to kill me?" I guessed, fighting the urge to feel irritated. "Once I'm inside, I can never leave?" Patch studied me a moment. Then he reached into his pocket, twisted a key off his key chain, and slipped it into the front pocket of my pajama top. "Once you've gone inside, you have to keep coming back.
Ah, but surely you must now be saying, "waitaminute, tuna fish would go bad if you kept it in your pocket for weeks and weeks without refrigerating it." To that I simply say: You obviously haven't read Professor P.S. Schackman's informative book How to Keep Tuna Fish in Your Pocket for Weeks and Weeks Without it Going Bad. I suggest you read it before complaining about the tuna situation again.
Jason Carter Eaton
That's an interesting paradox to think about. Make it legal and it's no good. Why? Because as long as it's illegal the people who come in do not qualify for welfare, they don't qualify for social security, they don't qualify for the other myriad of benefits that we pour out from our left pocket to our right pocket. So long as they don't qualify they migrate to jobs. They take jobs that most residents of this country are unwilling to take. They provide employers with the kind of workers that they cannot get. They're hard workers, they're good workers, and they are clearly better off.
Tax reduction has an almost irresistible appeal to the politician, and it is no doubt also gratifying to the citizen. It means more dollars in his pocket, dollars that he can spend if inflation doesn't consume them first. But dollars in his pocket won't buy him clean streets or an adequate police force or good schools or clean air and water. Handing money back to the private sector in tax cuts and starving the public sector is a formula for producing richer and richer consumers in filthier and filthier communities. If we stick to that formula we shall end up in affluent misery.
John W. Gardner
I coax my palm into his lapel in search of my wish, returning his feverish kiss. "Checkmate, you son of a bug, " I say against his mouth two seconds before my fingers find an empty pocket. "Sleight of hand, blossom, " he says right back. "'Tis in fact in my pants pocket, if you'd like to search there." I shove him off and drop to the floor, wiping my mouth. "It's mine!" "And you'll receive it when the time is right." His lips, all I can look at, tilt into that smug smile that I've come to detest. He motions toward the chair. "Sit. You've just been soundly kissed. No doubt you're short of breath." "Don't flatter yourself." I huff in an effort to hide the gulp of air and hold the teddy bear against my chest. "That kiss meant nothing. It had underlying motivation." "Oh, to be sure. That kiss was nothing if not motivational."