Why shouldn't I work for the NSA? That's a tough one. But I'll take a shot. Say I'm workin' at the NSA and somebody puts a code on my desk, somethin' no one else can break. Maybe I take a shot at it and maybe I break it and I'm real happy with myself cause I did my job well, but maybe that code was the location of some rebel army in North Africa or the Middle East and once they have that location, they bomb the village where the rebels are hiding, fifteen hundred people I never met, never had no problem with get killed.
Now the politicains are sayin' 'Oh send in the marines to secure the area, cause they don't give a shit, won't be their kid over there gettin' shot just like it wasn't them when their number got called cause they were all pullin' a tour in the National Guard. It'll be some kid from Southy over there takin' shrapnel in the ass. He comes back to find that the plant he used to work at, got exported to the country he just got back from, and the guy that put the shrapnel in his ass got his old job cause he'll work for 15 cents a day and no bathroom breaks.
Meanwhile, he realises the only reason he was over there in the first place was so that we could install a government that would sell us oil at a good price, and ofcourse the oil companies use a little skirmish over there to scare up domestic oil prices, a cute little ancilliary benefit for them, but it ain't helpin' my buddy at 2.50 a gallon. Their takin' their sweet time bringin' the oil back, of course maybe they even took the liberty of hiring an alcoholic skipper who likes to drink martini's and fuckin' play slolum with the icebergs. It ain't to long til he hits one, spills the oil, and kills all the sea life in the North Atlantic... so now my buddy's out of work, he can't afford to drive, so he's walkin' to the fuckin' job interviews which sucks cause the shrapnel in his ass is givin' him cronic hemroids and meanwhile, he's starvin' cause everytime he tries to get a bite to eat the only blue plate special their serving is North Atlantic scrod with Quaker State....
so what did I think? I'm holdin' out for somethin' better. I figure fuck it, while Im at it why not just shoot my buddy, take his job, give it to his sworn enemy, hike up gas prices, bomb a village, club a baby seal, hit the hash pipe, and join the National Guard. I could be elected President.
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God made man to go by motives, and he will not go without them, any more than a boat without steam or a balloon without gas.
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Razors pain you Rivers are damp Acids stain you and drugs cause cramp
Guns aren't lawful Nooses give Gas smells awful you might as well live
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Scared, Cold, in pain, the dust hasn't settled yet. Pinned in, crying, my clothes are ripped, red, and wet. Lights, noise, and confusion, all part of the night. I'm going to die alone, give up the fight. Red lights are flashing, mixing with blue. A face appears at my window, the face is you. You're gonna be all right is the first thing you say. A reassuring voice, someone wants me to stay. You could have been home with family, they need you too. You worked all day at the job, your sleeping hours numbered two. But you went down the hall, hoping your family is OK. Now you're here with me and Death, with comforting words to say. No time for yourself, no thought for your safety. Later you may think, your decision was hasty. Get the Jaws. Watch that gas; Keep the people away. Get his vitals, hose this down. Some things I hear them say. You stand in gas, look in my window, show no fear. I look back at you knowing, your voice is the last I'll ever hear. I fade away as you hold me, while holding back your tears. Thank you for being there, You Brave Volunteers.
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'A truck driver was driving along on the freeway. A sign comes up that reads, ' Low Bridge Ahead.' Before he knows it, the bridge is right ahead of him and he gets stuck under the bridge. Cars are backed up for miles. Finally, a police car comes up. The cop gets out of his car and walk s to the truck driver, puts his hands on his hips and says, 'Got stuck, huh?' The truck driver says, 'No, I was delivering this bridgeand ran out of gas.'
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True Civilization does not lie in gas, nor in steam, nor in turn-tables. It lies in the reduction of the traces of original sin.
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'A truck driver was driving along on the freeway. A sign comes up that reads, ' Low Bridge Ahead.' Before he knows it, the bridge is right ahead of him and he gets stuck under the bridge. Cars are backed up for miles. Finally, a police car comes up. The cop gets out of his car and walk s to the truck driver, puts his hands on his hips and says, 'Got stuck, huh?' The truck driver says, 'No, I was delivering this bridgeand ran out of gas.'
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Without power at the gas stations, people are going to have to wait, ... Patience is kind of the word of the day.
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It's a 106 miles to Chicago, we've got a full tank of gas, half a packet of cigarettes, it's dark and we're wearing sunglasses. Hit it.
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Man, I see in Fight Club the strongest and smartest men who've ever lived. I see all this potential, and I see squandering. God damn it, an entire generation pumping gas, waiting tables; slaves with white collars. Advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working jobs we hate so we can buy shit we don't need. We're the middle children of history, man. No purpose or place. We have no Great War. No Great Depression. Our Great War's a spiritual war... our Great Depression is our lives. We've all been raised on television to believe that one day we'd all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won't. And we're slowly learning that fact. And we're very, very pissed off.
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Lloyd There's really nothing to worry about Mary. Statistically they say you're more likely to get killed on the way to the airport. You know, like on a head on crash or flying off a cliff or getting trapped under a gas truck That's the worst I have this cousin, well y'know, I had this cousin...
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The improved American highway system isolated the American-in-transit. On his speedway he had no contact with the towns which he by-passed. If he stopped for food or gas, he was served no local fare or local fuel, but had one of Howard Johnson's nationally branded ice cream flavors, and so many gallons of Exxon. This vast ocean of superhighways was nearly as free of culture as the sea traversed by the Mayflower Pilgrims.
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That's the whole thing with the hog. It's you and 80 wild horses under your butt, just sitting on 10 square inches where the rubber meets the road. That hurricane gale wind whipping you in the face, leaning into a curve you can feel that gravity wanting to suck you down into it and what do you do Give it a little more gas. Pure centrifugal force. You can see yourself hurtling ass end over teakettle into oblivion.
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On being an actor .nothing more than a worker in a service occupation . It's like being a waiter or a gas station attendant, but I'm waiting on 6 million people in a week if I'm lucky.
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Razors pain you; Rivers are damp; Acids stain you; Drugs cause cramp; Guns aren't lawful; Nooses give; Gas smells awful; You may as well live.
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If we are trespassing, so were the American Soldiers who broke down the gates of Hitler's death camps; If we are thieves, so were the members of the Underground Railroad who freed the slaves of the South; and if we are vandals, so were those who destroyed forever the gas chambers of Buchenwald and Auschwitz.
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I'm an assistant storyteller. It's like being a waiter or a gas-station attendant, but I'm waiting on six million people a week, if I'm lucky. On being an actor
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How horrible, fantastic, incredible it is that we should be digging trenches and trying on gas masks here because of a quarrel in a far-away country between people of whom we know nothing. It seems still more impossible that a quarrel which has already been settled in principle should be the subject of war.
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No horse gets anywhere until he is harnessed. No stream or gas drives anything until it is confined. No Niagara is ever turned into light and power until it is tunneled. No life ever grows great until it is focused, dedicated, disciplined.
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When we can drain the Ocean into mill-ponds, and bottle up the Force of Gravity, to be sold by retail, in gas jars; then may we hope to comprehend the infinitudes of man's soul under formulas of Profit and Loss; and rule over this too, as over a patent engine, by checks, and valves, and balances.
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Razors pain you; rivers are damp; acids stain you; and drugs cause cramp. Guns aren't lawful; nooses give; gas smells awful; you might as well live.
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Today you can go to a gas station and find the cash register open and the toilets locked. They must think toilet paper is worth more than money.
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Ass, gas or grass, nobody rides for free.
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Men want sex. If men ruled the world, they could get sex anywhere, anytime. Restaurants would give you sex instead of breath mints on the way out. Gas stations would give sex with every fill-up. Banks would give sex to anyone who opened a checking account.
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What a comfort a dull but kindly person is, to be sure, at times! A ground-glass shade over a gas-lamp does not bring more solace to our dazzled eyes than such a one to our minds.
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Our generation is realistic for we have come to know man as he really is. After all, man is that being who has invented the gas chambers of Auschwitz; however, he is also that being who has entered those gas chambers upright, with the Lord's Prayer or Shema Yisrael on his lips.
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No steam or gas drives anything until it is confined. No life ever grows great until it is focused, dedicated, disciplined.
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We are mindful that the tight natural gas supplies could create temptations for improper behavior by some market participants.
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No one knows his true character until he has run out of gas, purchased something on the installment plan and raised an adolescent.
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Somebody give me a match so I can see where the gas is coming from!
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