In football they measure forty-yard sprints. Nobody runs forty yards in basketball. Maybe you run the ninety-four feet of the court; then you stop, not on a dime, but on Miss Liberty's torch. In football you run over somebody's face.
Oh cat, I'd say, or pray: be-ootiful cat! Delicious cat! Exquisite cat! Satiny cat! Cat like a soft owl, cat with paws like moths, jewelled cat, miraculous cat! Cat, cat, cat, cat.
Let me tell you what's fun in golf - low scores. The manufacturers have tricked people into believing that distance is everything. There is no place on the scorecard that says you need to hit it 350 yards.
Today, at 35, I can throw a small football close to 80 yards - and straighter than I can hit a golf ball.
she was a little startled by seeing the Cheshire Cat sitting on a bough of a tree a few yards off. The Cat only grinned when it saw Alice.
Whiskers of the cat, Webbed toes on my swimming dog; God is in the details.
But whether, for example, a coat can be exchanged for twenty yards of linen cloth or for forty yards is not a matter of chance, but depends upon objective conditions, upon the amount of socially necessary labor time contained in the coat and in the linen respectively.
The fact is football players get beat all the time in the course of a game. But if it happens to a defensive tackle, it's usually 5 or 10 yards. With us, it's 76 yards.
If you put me in the fairway at my average distance into a par 4, 175 to 180 yards, and you put another player in the rough 120 yards from the green, over time, I'm going to wear him out.
In the NFL, if you make the play or you don't make the play, you're just a football player who did or didn't make the play. You don't get more yards or less yards based on what you're labeled as by society.
The cat looked as if it were about to say something sarcastic. Then it flicked its whiskers and said, "Challenge her. There's no guarantee she'll play fair, but her kind of thing loves games and challenges.
I was in a movie called 'Twister,' and in it, I had to hit a golf ball off of a roof with a driving wood. The guy who owned the place where we shot showed me how to do it, and I hit the ball about 150 yards.
Yeah? What'd you name all those cats?" Death, Famine, Pestilence, War, and Mr. Whiskers." You named your cats after the riders of the apocal--wait. Mr. Whiskers?" Well, there are only four horsemen.
Went to 16 and hit a really bad 3 wood for my second shot and got stuck in the bunker about 70 yards from the pin. Poor execution, chunked it, hit a good chip up to about eight feet, missed it.
I can't hit a ball more than 200 yards. I have no butt. You need a butt if you're going to hit a golf ball.
Keeping the cat front-and-center was definitely a smart choice, from Tim and the animation department. Mr. Whiskers got referred to more than we actually saw him on stage. Seeing him on screen, you just love him.