A Quote by Rodney Dangerfield

With girls I get no respect. A belly dancer told me I turned her stomach. — © Rodney Dangerfield
With girls I get no respect. A belly dancer told me I turned her stomach.
God, I love you," he said, and laid his head on her belly, his arms locked around her hips. Madelyn slid her fingers into his hair. "It took you long enough," she said gently. "What I lack in quickness, I make up in staying power." "Meaning?" "That I'll still be telling you that fifty years from now." He paused and turned his head to kiss her stomach.
Madonna is a pro. I don't like her and have no respect for her but- I don't think she should be called a musician or a dancer or whatever you know, but I do have, well I do have respect for her ability to completely manipulate the media and have them work for her.
I hate my stomach. It's impossible to get it flat, and the area around my belly button drives me crazy.
For me, when I have those moments of getting down on my body - let's say, for example, my stomach doesn't look my stomach before I had kids, just saying - that bums me out, so I really have to shift that negative into a positive and get really grateful for the fact that my body delivered me two amazing little girls.
I look up to Gigi Hadid. I love where she's taken herself, I love what brands she's working on. I respect her because I understand... I mean, girls like her open the doors for girls like me. So all I can do is thank her.
Kessa ran her fingers over her stomach. Flat. But was it flat enough? Not quite. She still had some way to go. Just to be safe, she told herself. Still, it was nice the way her pelvic bones rose like sharp hills on either side of her stomach. I love bones. Bones are beautiful.
I gestured my frustration. “I don’t know. She’s much better already. She wasn’t talking half an hour ago. Look at her now.” We all turned, finding Ceri sobbing quietly and drinking her tea in small reverent sips as the pixy girls hovered over her. Three were plating her long, fair hair and another was singing to her. Okay,” I said as we turned back. “Bad example.
I am NOT a belly dancer. I have never been one, and never will be. What I do is not what Hollywood vulgarly calls 'belly dance', but it's art. I have traveled the world to prove that my dance is not a dance of the belly but a refined, artistic dance full of tradition, of dreaming and beauty. Oriental dance is primarily an expressive dance; in that resides the beauty.
"What do you want out of life?" I asked, and I used to ask that all the time of girls. "I don't know," she said. "Just wait on tables and try to get along." She yawned. I put my hand over her mouth and told her not to yawn. I tried to tell her how excited I was about life and the things we could do together; saying that, and planning to leave Denver in two days. She turned away wearily. We lay on our backs, looking at the ceiling and wondering what God had wrought when He made life so sad.
I interviewed around 20 women boxers and all of them told me they learnt boxing to get a job. At one point, I asked one boxer if she had the passion for sports. She told me 'put some food in my belly and I'll talk about passion.'
Girls like her, my grandfather once warned me, girls like her turn into women with eyes like bullet holes and mouths made of knives. They are always restless. They are always hungry. They are bad news. They will drink you down like a shot of whisky. Falling in love with them is like falling down a flight of stairs. What no one told me, with all those warnings, is that even after you’ve fallen, even after you know how painful it is, you’d still get in line to do it again.
I had a Spanish teacher in high school. I rarely got in trouble in her room because I felt I was disappointing her if I got a bad grade. That had more power over me than teachers who told me I talked too much. That level of respect I had for her made me not want to fail for her.
Eventually she came. She appeared suddenly, exactly like she'd done that day- she stepped into the sunshine, she jumped, she laughed and threw her head back, so her long ponytail nearly grazed the waistband of her jeans. After that, I couldn't think about anything else. The mole on the inside of her right elbow, like a dark blot of ink. The way she ripped her nails to shreds when she was nervous. Her eyes, deep as a promise. Her stomach, pale and soft and gorgeous, and the tiny dark cavity of her belly button. I nearly went crazy.
I started over again with an image: Nothing goes right. Then when The Godfather came out, all I heard was, Show respect. With me, you show respect. So I changed the image to I don't get no respect. I tried it out in Greenwich Village. I remember the first joke I told: Even as a kid, I'd play hide and seek and the other kids wouldn't even look for me. The people laughed. After the show, they started saying to me, Me, too - I don't get no respect. I figured, let's try it again.
It's useful to know how much society's holding you back. My mother would talk about how she was told by the head of her art school that she was the best painter, but that she wouldn't get the biggest prize because she would waste her talent by having children. I think we have to get honest with girls about how they can expect the world to block them, and we have to prepare girls, and ourselves, to break through those blocks.
My stomach was hurting, so I just told the doctor, let me get a MRI. I went and got an MRI and two hours later, they told me I had got cancer. I said something like, 'Hell no. I ain't got no cancer, y'all trippin'.'
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