A Quote by Steven Wright
I moved into an all-electric house. I forgot and left the porch light on all day. When I got home the front door wouldn't open.
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Little brats yellin 'Trick or Treat' all through my screen door,
When y'all should be at home sleep,
Instead of at my front porch 15 deep.
The jack o' lantern came in handy...
I can turn my porch light out like I ain't got no candy.
But ain't that somethin?
You buy a Halloween costume and a pumpkin,
Almost gave your children a heart attack.
It's a tradition, but who the hell started that?
One of the first things electric I ever saw was a guitar. I was living in a house with no electricity until, at 7, we moved to a house that had it. It had electric lights, but the previous owners had even taken the light bulbs with them when they moved.
We had an argument, and he told me to be home at midnight, and I said no. And so when I did come home, the door was locked. And I had gotten a set of luggage for graduation that day, and it was on the front porch, packed. He thought that he was going to prove a point and I was going to say, 'Oh, I'm sorry, Daddy, I'm sorry'.
Okay," I said. "I'd hoped to avoid this, but... Bill, I rescind your invitation into my house." Bill began walking backward to the door, a helpless look on his face, and my brush still in his hand. Eric grinned at him triumphantly. "Eric," I said, and his smile faded. "I rescind your invitation into my house." And backward he went, out my door and off my porch. The door slammed shut behind (or maybe in front of?) them.
I first started playing when we moved from my first house to a house that had a hoop out in front. Every day, I was in front of the basket shooting balls. The basket was regular height, and I was about 5 years old.
I flung open the door. I got a momentary flash of about a hundred and fifteen cats of all sizes and colours scrapping in the middle of the room, and then they all shot past me with a rush and out of the front door; and all that was left of the mobscene was the head of a whacking big fish, lying on the carpet and staring up at me in a rather austere sort of way, as if it wanted a written explanation and apology.
I have a lightsaber at my front door for home protection. I have an 800-watt electric skateboard that I use to run errands in my neighborhood. It can go about six, seven miles, so depending on how much time I have, and how much I have to carry home, I'll take it really far. I love that thing.
Go out on the front porch of the house, turn the Washington Post over with your big toe, and if your name's above the fold, you know you're not going to have a good day.
Think about the comfortable feeling you have as you open your front door. That's but a hint of what we'll feel some day on arriving at the place our Father has lovingly and personally prepared for us in heaven. We will finally - and permanently - be 'at home' in a way that defies description.
How does light enter a house? If the windows are open. How does light enter a human? If the door of love is open.
The closet door is open for me, where I left it, since I left it open, it has graciously stayed open.
My wife Ann and I had been digging during the day, transplanting lilies from the front of this abandoned farmhouse back down the road to where we live. We finished. She was tired and laid in the grass. I took a picture. The house is now gone. The walnut trees have been bulldozed and burned. I saw this picture the other day for the first time in years and realized how photographing life within a hundred yards of my front porch had helped me focus on everything I cared about.
The Children's Health Insurance Program has given Democrats a wide-open door for socialized medicine. The door was left open by Republicans, who were in the majority when we passed the original legislation in 1997.
We knew the front door was always left open, but we broke in just to keep in practice. Doxy turned all the Washburn family photos to the wall so there wouldn't be any witnesses.
There was no warning, not even a knock. The door flew open, and he forgot his present aches and pains in anticipation of what lay in store. The figure that stood in the door was not that of an enemy. It was worse. It was his mother.
I devised the Bert Lance Toe Test then - you go out on the front porch of the house, turn 'The Washington Post' over with your big toe, and if your name's above the fold, you know you're not going to have a good day.
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