Quotes About Cab

Any time three New Yorkers get into a cab without an argument, a bank has just been robbed.

Particularly if I could drive it myself. Silverbridge does, at night, when he thinks people won't see him." "Drive the cab in the streets! What does he do with his man?" "Puts him inside. He was out once without the man and took up a fare, — an old woman, he said. And when she was going to pay him he touched his hat and said he never took money from ladies.

There's the cab, Hopkins, and you can remove your man. If you want me for the trial, my address and that of Watson will be somewhere in Norway –I'll send particulars later.

Leaning back in the cab, this amateur bloodhound carolled away like a lark while I mediated upon the many-sidedness of the human mind.

I have worked out I can quite happily jog the distance to work as long as I hail a cab first and leave my high heels on the back seat.

The driver treated his cab as a peasant might treat his horse or ass, with numb and proprietorial cruelty. The bursts of acceleration were like long-toothed, lip-flapping exhalations; then came the looping whinny of the brakes.

My experience of camp life in Afghanistan had at least had the effect of making me a prompt and ready traveller. My wants were few and simple, so that in less than the time stated I was in a cab with my valise, rattling away to Paddington Station. Sherlock Holmes was pacing up and down the platform, his tall, gaunt figure made even gaunter and taller by his long gray travelling-cloak and close-fitting cloth cap.

They pictured themselves dashing around Manhattan, latte in one hand, cell phone in the other, adorably breaking a designer heel while hailing a cab, and falling into the arms of a charming, disarming soul mate with winningly floppy hair.

The wounded cab driver was swearing softly and constantly, and Vertu moved slightly away from him, so as to give him the privacy such a rendering of art deserved.

Anytime four New Yorkers get into a cab together without arguing, a bank robbery has just taken place.

A few minutes later we pulled up in front of a nondescript office building. I paid the driver and we got out. The rain had stopped but the street was empty, almost forlorn. If I hadn't known where we were, I would have thought it an odd place to get out of a cab in the middle of the night.

Picture it in your mind's nostril: you get in a cab in time to catch twin thugs named Vomit and Cologne assaulting a defenseless pine-tree air freshener.

In a cab home from a jazz club, he said, "You act like I just want to sleep with you." He said, "I want to everything with you.

I have a lot of road rage. Mostly with the rickshaw and cab drivers trying to cut me; it's the traffic. Grrrr!

Good evening, Miss Tramell." The doorman accompanied the greeting with a tap of his fingers to the brim of his hat and waited patiently while I swiped my debit card. When I'd finished paying, I accepted his help out of the back of the cab and felt his gaze slide discreetly over my tearstained face.

I took a cabbie to taxi court once. Years ago, this guy didn't want to take me to Brooklyn. Just refused. I explained that I would absolutely take him to Taxi Court because, see, I'm an actor and have pretty much nothing but free time.

When there's not ten feet of snow on the ground, I ride my bike down the streets of New York, and I literally hear two things out of car windows as cabs pass by me: They either yell, 'Hey, dummy,' or 'Hey, Mayhem.'

You're at LaGuardia, and you get in a cab, and it's taking you into Brooklyn, and you're on the BQE, and you can see the skyline, the whole skyline, and it's so beautiful.

Cab Mulcahy poured the coffee. Skip Wiley drank.

I took all your columns from the last four months," Mulcahy said, "and I gave them to Dr. Courtney, the psychiatrist. " "Jesus! He's a wacko, Cab. The guy has a thing for animals. I've heard this from seven or eight sources. Ducks and geese, stuff like that.

The shortest unit of time in the multiverse is the New York Second, defined as the period of time between the traffic lights turning green and the cab behind you honking.

I feel The Fear coming on, and the only cure for that is to chew up a fat black wad of blood-opium about the size of a young meatball and then call a cab for a fast run down to that strip of X-film houses on 14th Street… peel back the brain, let the opium take hold, and get locked into serious pornography.

Beyond a certain age, a journey across the city becomes uncomfortably reflective...One day I too will prompt a moment's reflection in the passenger of a passing cab.

Here I am sitting in the back of a cab with Catherine Zeta-Jones who is telling me Michael Douglas has fond memories of me - it just makes me feel good as a human being.