I read Christopher McDougall's book 'Born to Run.' If running were a religion, this would be its bible. I actually scribbled my favorite passages on my arm to read during the race.
My style is bad white-boy dancing. I can do swing a little bit, but nothing beyond that. My solo dancing is sad. I use my arms, badly.
Big sporting events and spectacles might give the national morale a shot in the arm, but they are too transient and taste-specific to stand as robust symbols of nationhood.
Touch is more important than arm strength. You want to really allow the receiver to run underneath the throw. It'll give you a little margin for error if you undershoot it a bit.
I like a women who's got some balls, some strength. As long as I can beat her at arm wrestling, that's fine.
My greatest concern is that the emergence of this technology without the appropriate public attention and international controls could lead to an unstable arms race.
We tend to lack humility toward love, to patronize it rather than bow before it, to put mundane considerations before the emotional need to hold someone in our arms.
I don't have a crystal ball, but I'm willing to bet one of my arms right now that as long as there's electricity, Ramones music is going to be relevant.
My parents were both very musically inclined, they were both songwriters and musicians, so we grew up in the house singing music together, and R&B had a huge strong arm in the foundation of my career.
My weakness, that is, my quadriplegia, is my greatest asset because it forces me into the arms of Christ every single morning when I get up.
There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter.
To our men and women in the armed services, the huge and deep core of your loyalty has earned the nation's accolade.
The highest prize in a world of men is the most beautiful woman available on your arm and living there in her heart loyal to you.
Really hairy backs on men turn me off. I'm not into the ape thing at all. Or beer bellies and flabby arms, either. Also, one random nose hair which is longer than the others... that's gross.
David Shayne: Suddenly I'm taking suggestions from some strong-arm man with an IQ of minus 50.
Ah, woman. She is an enigma. An anomaly of perfection & irony. She can lure angels into her arms & give birth to a nation of ideologies.
Attend me, hold me in your muscular flowering arms, protect me from throwing any part of myself away.
I just wish we knew a little less about his urethra and a little more about his arms sales to Iran.
What you're looking at there is my arm, going into the rock... and there it is - stuck. It's been without circulation for 24 hours. It's pretty well gone.
I wither slowly in thine arms; here at the quiet limit of the world, a white hair'd shadow roaming like a dream.
Tears of missing you raced down my cheeks; please don't go, your arms are my tears of joy
