Did you see Bush on TV, trying to debate? Jesus, he talked like a donkey with no brains at all...It was pitiful...I almost felt sorry for him, until I heard someone call him 'Mr. President,' and then I felt ashamed.
I get more ass than a giant donkey stable.
A donkey appears to me like a horse translated into Dutch.
A machine is a great moral educator. If a horse or a donkey won’t go, men lose their tempers and beat it; if a machine won’t go, there is no use beating it. You have to think and try till you find what is wrong. That is real education.
Christ was born in a manger, laying down amongst donkeys ang goats. He was given gifts of incense and perfume. No kidding.
If a woman's got nothing but her fair fame to feed on, why, it's thin tack, and a donkey would die of it!
The entrance into Jerusalem has all the elements of the theatre of the absurd: the poor king; truth comes riding on a donkey; symbolic actions - even parading without a permit!
Rationality went down the drain donkey's years ago and hasn't been seen since.
Anyone can see that an ass laden with books remains a donkey. A human being laden with the undigested results of a tussle with thoughts and books, however, still passes for wise.
It was fun to blow off a Porsche with a 3900 donkey [the 1965 Shelby GT350 Mustang].
It amazes me how well the majority of jump jockeys ride in a race until they've landed over the last, then how badly most of them ride a finish. Apart from a half-dozen, they look like coster boys sitting on top of donkeys' behinds, bashing about with shillelaghs.
Recently Mr. Mawdsley’s donkey escaped from his stall, raced down the road, and somehow found his way into an enclosed pasture. Mr. Caird’s prized mare was innocently grazing when the ill-bred seducer had his way with her. Now it appears the mare has conceived, and a feud is raging between Caird, who demands financial compensation, and Mawdsley, who insists that had the pasture fencing been in better repair, the clandestine meeting would never have occurred. Worse still, it has been suggested that the mare is a shameless lightskirt and did not try nearly hard enough to preserve her virtue.
I was feeling as sick as the proverbial donkey.
It doesn't matter! From waist down, my best friend is a donkey.
Instead of learned young people we have donkeys with University degrees. Instead of future leaders we have mollusks with expensive blue jeans and phony revolutionaries with ski masks. And do you know what? Maybe this is another reason why our Moslem invaders have such an easy game.
There are no bigger donkeys than these workers.... Look at our 'craftsmen'; Sad that world history should be be made with such people.
Genghis Miliband roars up to the despatch box like a caged donkey.
Vanity is a confounded donkey, very apt to put his head between his legs, and chuck us over; but pride is a fine horse, that will carry us over the ground, and enable us to distance our fellow-travelers.
A man who believes the word of a donkey in preference to my word does not deserve to be lent anything.
I was in a Nativity play as a kid. Back then, I played the donkey.
Can an ass be tragic?--To perish under a burden that one can neither bear nor cast off? The case of the philosopher.
In school nativity plays I was always the bloody little donkey, I was never Mary.
The swelling and towering omnibuses, the huge trucks and wagons and carriages, the impetuous hansoms and the more sobered four-wheelers, the pony-carts, donkey-carts, hand-carts, and bicycles which fearlessly find their way amidst the turmoil, with foot-passengers winding in and out, and covering the sidewalks with their multitude, give the effect of a single monstrous organism, which writhes swiftly along the channel where it had run in the figure of a flood till you were tired of that metaphor. You are now a molecule of that vast organism.
Maybe your life resembles a Bethlehem stable. Crude in some spots, smelly in others. Not much glamour. Not always neat. People in your circle remind you of stable animals: grazing like sheep, stubborn like donkeys, and that cow in the corner looks a lot like the fellow next door. You, like Joseph, knocked on the innkeeper's door. But you were too late. Or too old, sick, dull, damaged, poor, or peculiar. You know the sound of a slamming door.
Poetry might be more about the eternal verities, the essence of the human soul, and - although it's reductive to say so - fiction has perhaps been more about the differences between the unconstrained world of the imagination and the realities you run into, day-to-day, when you're riding your donkey.
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