I'm ex-player, ex-technical director, ex-coach, ex-manager, ex-honorary president. A nice list that once again shows that everything comes to an end.
The phone rang, picked up, and the same male voice announced, “Chris Powers." "Hey there, Chris. Are you aware it's a felony to make threats over the phone?" To give Powers his fair due, he got over his shock within a split second. “Try it, asshole. I dare you. My lawyers will have you for lunch.” He clicked off again. I did what any red-blooded American male would do. I called my big, ex-cop ex-boyfriend.
Oh, that lovely title, ex-president.
It's different when you're trying to turn something around, especially something that you built, at a time when so many constituents - the media, Wall Street, competitors, ex-employees - are all saying that Starbucks's best days are behind it, and that Schultz is never going to be able to bring it back.
Whenever you have an ex, and they're like, 'I hope we can still be friends!' and you weren't friends before you started dating, then what do you go back to, really?
When I planned my wedding the first time, my ex-husband and I, we were both struggling comics. I had a TV show that had gotten cancelled. Basically, I rented a wedding gown; the reception hall smelled like feet.
It was great to play an ex-marine cockney thug. All my roles are as different as the colours of the rainbow.
Divorce isn't the child's fault. Don't say anything unkind about your ex to the child, because you're really just hurting the child.
And if I'm being honest, I don't think I have an ex-boyfriend who would have something mean to say about me.
I'm a warrior at heart; I'm an ex-Navy Seal. I'm too old to wage war anymore, and so now I wage it mentally. And so I find politics very stimulating; it's war without guns.
The former stewardess glared at her ex-pilot husband as if he had been speaking, and thinking, in the absence of sufficient oxygen.
The whole family is a bunch of dangerous freaks...Most are ex-cons or junkies or deranged from inbreeding. Five have died violently, three are back in prison, two have gone insane from untreated venereal disease, and one writes book reviews.
Zaphod Beeblebrox, adventurer, ex-hippie, good-timer (crook? quite possibly), manic self-publicist, terrible bad at personal relationships, often thought to be completely out to lunch.
It's always gratifying to share a hobby with a friend, and pining for erstwhile suitors falls into that category. In the months to come, Libby and I would analyze our respective exes with the gusto and intellectual rigor of Jesuits.
I don't care what is written," Meyer Landsman says. "I don't care what supposedly got promised to some sandal-wearing idiot whose claim to fame is that he was ready to cut his own son's throat for the sake of a hare-brained idea. I don't care about red heifers and patriarchs and locusts. A bunch of old bones in the sand. My homeland is in my hat. It's in my ex-wife's tote bag.
Among the gods, there is a dispute as to which one of them originally thought of Christianity; or, as they call it, the Great Leg Pull. Apollo has the best claim, but a sizeable minority support Pluto, ex-God of the Dead, on the grounds that he has a really sick sense of humour. How would it be, suggested the unidentified god, if first we tell them all to love their neighbour, pack in the killing and thieving, and be nice to each other. Then we let them start burning heretics.
I collect ex-boyfriends -- and more than five, at last count.
This parrot is no more. It has ceased to be. It's expired and gone to meet its maker. This is a late parrot. It's a stiff. Bereft of life, it rests in peace. If you hadn't nailed it to the perch, it would be pushing up the daisies. It's rung down the curtain and joined the choir invisible. This is an ex-parrot.
I said, "It seems like you have fond feelings toward your ex-wife. Are you two still close?" "Nah," he said casually. "She thinks I changed my name to Motherfucker."
The subject of criminal rehabilitation was debated recently in City Hall. It's an appropriate place for this kind of discussion because the city has always employed so many ex-cons and future cons.
I did as much as I could in Vancouver. You can only play so many ex-'Falcon Crest' sons in so many movies of the week before you burn out.
Oh, boy. I'm still in touch with about 90 percent of my exes. They would describe me as being unlucky in love.
I mean everybody's got ex-boyfriends and girlfriends. Everybody's got baggage.
Here is my prescription to heal all wounds. Watch the film Funny Girl at least five times, eat at least 45 chocolate bars, and hang out with all those friends you blew off to hang out with your ex. I truly believe that, through a combination of Nutella, old pals and Barbra Streisand, we can achieve happiness and, very probably, world peace.
First of all, let it be remembered that I speak as an ex-Communist and one who has not testified before Congressional Committees, nor written works on the Communist conspiracy.
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