A woman is just a woman, but a good cigar is a smoke.
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Taoism: Shit happens Hare krishna: Shit happens Rama Rama Ding Ding Hinduism: This shit has happened before Islam: That shit happens is the will of Allah Zen: What is the sound of shit happening? Existentialism: Shit doesn't happen; shit is Buddhism: When shit happens, is it really shit? Confucianism: Confucius say, 'Shit happens' 7th day Adventist: Shit happens on Saturdays Protestantism: Shit won't happen if I work harder Protestantism: If shit happens, it happens to someone else Catholicism: If shit happens, you deserved it Jehovah's Witnesses: Knock, knock, 'Shit happens' Jehovah's Witnesses: No shit happens until Armaggedon Unitarian: What is this shit? Mormon: Shit happens again & again & again Judaism: Oy vey! Why does this shit always happen to us? Pentacostalism: Praise the shit! Atheism: There is no shit! New Age: Shit happens and it happens to smell good Rastafarianism: Let's smoke this shit
Shit Happens, in various World Religions
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The paradox of our time in history is that we have taller buildings but shorter tempers, wider freeways, but narrower viewpoints. We spend more, but have less; we buy more, but enjoy less. We have bigger houses and smaller families, more conveniences, but less time. We have more degrees but less sense, more knowledge, but less judgment, more experts, yet more problems, more medicine, but less wellness. We drink too much, smoke too much, spend too recklessly, laugh too little, drive too fast, get too angry, stay up too late, get up too tired, read too little, watch TV too much, and pray too seldom. We have multiplied our possessions, but reduced our values. We talk too much, love too seldom, and hate too often. We've learned how to make a living, but not a life. We've added years to life not life to years. We've been all the way to the moon and back, but have trouble crossing the street to meet a new neighbor. We conquered outer space but not inner space. We've done larger things, but not better things. We've cleaned up the air, but polluted the soul. We've conquered the atom, but not our prejudice. We write more, but learn less. We plan more, but accomplish less. We've learned to rush, but not to wait. We build more computers to hold more information, to produce more copies than ever, but we communicate less and less. These are the times of fast foods and slow digestion, big men and small character, steep profits and shallow relationships. These are the days of two incomes but more divorce, fancier houses, but broken homes. These are days of quick trips, disposable diapers, throwaway morality, one night stands, overweight bodies, and pills that do everything from cheer, to quiet, to kill. It is a time when there is much in the showroom window and nothing in the stockroom. A time when technology can bring this letter to you, and a time when you can choose either to share this insight, or to just hit delete.
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Religion has actually convinced people that there's an invisible man living in the sky who watches everything you do, every minute of every day. And the invisible man has a special list of ten things he does not want you to do. And if you do any of these ten things, he has a special place, full of fire and smoke and burning and torture and anguish, where he will send you to live and suffer and burn and choke and scream and cry forever and ever 'til the end of time! But He loves you. He loves you, and He needs money! He always needs money! He's all-powerful, all-perfect, all-knowing, and all-wise, somehow just can't handle money! Religion takes in billions of dollars, they pay no taxes, and they always need a little more. Now, you talk about a good bullshit story. Holy Shit!
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If alcohol is queen, then tobacco is her consort. It's a fond companion for all occasions, a loyal friend through fair weather and foul. People smoke to celebrate a happy moment, or to hide a bitter regret. Whether you're alone or with friends, it's a joy for all the senses. What lovelier sight is there than that double row of white cigarettes, lined up like soldiers on parade and wrapped in silver paper? I love to touch the pack in my pocket, open it, savor the feel of the cigarette between my fingers, the paper on my lips, the taste of tobacco on my tongue. I love to watch the flame spurt up, love to watch it come closer and closer, filling me with its warmth.
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Courage is fire, and bullying is smoke.
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I suck in smoke! I smile at grimy mirth, And laugh to think that you had parried death.
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Intelligence: I was asked tonight why I refuse to have truck with intellectuals after business hours. But of course I won t. 1. I am not an intellectual. Two minutes talk with Aldous Huxley, William Glock, or any of the New Statesman crowd would expose me utterly. 2. I am too tired after my day's work to man the intellectual palisade. 3. When my work is finished I want to eat, drink, smoke, and relax. 4. I don't know very much, but what I do know I know better than anybody, and I don't want to argue about it. I know what I think about an actor or an actress, and am not interested in what anybody else thinks. My mind is not a bed to be made and re-made.
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Everything one does in life, even love, occurs in an express train racing toward death. To smoke opium is to get out of the train while it is still moving. It is to concern oneself with something other than life or death.
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In its purest sense, nicknaming is an elitist ritual practiced by those who cherish hierarchy. For preppies it's a smoke signal that allows Bunny to tell Pooky that they belong to the same tribe, while among the good old boys it serves the cause of masculine dominance by identifying Bear and Wrecker as Alpha males.
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Say not, the struggle naught availeth, The labor and the wounds are vain, The enemy faints not, nor faileth, And as things have been, they remain. If hopes are dupes, fears may be liars; It may be, in yon smoke concealed Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers And, but for you, possess the field. For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, Seem here no painful inch to gain, Far back, through creeks and inlets making, Comes silent, flooding in, the main. And not by eastern windows only, When daylight comes, comes in the light; In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, But westward, look, the land is bright.
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It's a health issue, is what it basically amounts to. We tried to have a counter, the first 15 seats, that was no smoking to split it up a bit, but it's such a closed area that no matter where you are, you're in smoke.
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Things cannot always go your way. Learn to accept in silence the minor aggravations, cultivate the gift of taciturnity and consume your own smoke with an extra draught of hard work, so that those about you may not be annoyed with the dust and soot of your complaints.
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Lawyers spend a great deal of their time shoveling smoke.
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There is in every American, I think, something of the old Daniel Boone -- who, when he could see the smoke from another chimney, felt himself too crowded and moved further out into the wilderness.
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A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke,/ Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go.
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A custom loathsome to the eye, hateful to the nose, harmful to the brain, dangerous to the lungs, and in the black, stinking fume thereof nearest resembling the horrible Stygian smoke of the pit that is bottomless.
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Good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke!
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We are concerned that the push to measure quality will become just a smoke screen to cut costs and to reduce the resources devoted to health care.
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One may have a blazing hearth in one's soul and yet no one ever come to sit by it. Passersby see only a wisp of smoke from the chimney and continue on the way.
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There may be a great fire in our soul, yet no one ever comes to warm himself at it, and the passers-by see only a wisp of smoke.
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Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs, Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes, Being vexed, a sea nourished with lovers’ tears. What is it else? A madness most discreet, A choking gall and a preserving sweet.
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Do not smoke without asking permission or sit so near (as in a train) that the smoke might annoy.
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Life is a random lottery of meaningless tragedies and a series of near escapes.
So, I sit here and I smoke my camel straits.
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Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs, Being purged, a fire sparkling in loversand#8217; eyes, Being vexed, a sea nourished with loversand#8217; tears. What is it else? A madness most discreet, A choking gall and a preserving sweet.
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We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and a presumption that once our eyes watered.
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But when I don't smoke I scarcely feel as if I'm living. I don't feel as if I'm living unless I'm killing myself.
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The strongest possible piece of advice I would give any young woman is Don't screw around, and don't smoke.
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Gossip is a sort of smoke that comes from the dirty tobacco-pipes of those who diffuse it: it proves nothing but the bad taste of the smoker.
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Herein is not only a great vanity, but a great contempt of God's good gifts, that the sweetness of man's breath, being a good gift of God, should be wilfully corrupted by this stinking smoke.
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