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My idea of superwoman is someone who scrubs her own floors.
quote by Bette Midler
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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He who scrubs the head of an ass wastes his soap.
A child while bathing only scrubs its stomach.
I said, I'm on this TV show and I love doing it, but I don't want to be known always as the silly ""Scrubs"" guy... So part of me was like, You know what? Life's short. Let's go for it.
quote by Zach Braff
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I would love to have a photographic memory. It would come in handy with the rants I'm given on Scrubs... often on short notice!
quote by John C. McGinley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I can't live without my beauty products. I love to be in my bathroom with my candles lit, morning, noon and night. I like taking hot baths and hot showers, using my body scrubs and lotions.
quote by Traci Bingham
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sullied
She plunges into the hot water
and begins to scrub. Brush and
soap on skin. She wants him off
and out of her. Undo him from her.
Unkiss his kisses, untouch his touches.
She breathes in. She reeks, stinks
of him. He seems to have penetrated
every orifice on her body. She pushes
herself under the water, holds herself
there, opens her eyes even the sting
brings no purification. She sits up and
holds the sides of the bath. Calm down
she tells her shaking hands and legs
but they disobey and carry on like
disobedient children in play. She tries
to think of other things. Think of
somewhere nice, some time once
enjoyed, some pleasure once had,
sipping of the best wine, greedy
eating of caviar or grape. But no.
Everything is focused on him and
the rape. She rubs and scrubs until
she's red and raw. Stop stop her
inner voice screams. Nothing is
what it seems. He pushes his way
even into her every thought now.
He seeps into every pore. The water
fails to clean. She sits there naked,
undone, brush in hand, hair in a mess.
This is not real she says, but knows
it is, she in the bath, wet, raw, sore
and sullied. Yes that's a word mother
would have used: sullied. Tainted,
tarnished, degraded or as Mother
would have said: dishonoured. She
focuses on each aspect of her flesh
as if seen for the first time. What
you focus on is your reality. Who said
that? Does it matter now? Dostoevsky?
The Idiot, that book. Who cares who
said what. The water is no longer hot.
He is still on skin and in orifice in spite
of the rubs and scrubs and tears and curses.
No longer the innocent, no more the
sipping of wine or eating of grape.
Just him and memory of the rape.
poem by Terry Collett
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Hope And Truth
pain is not your true friend
it does not stay long
it looks for another
faithful company
that is hope
and so is happiness
that knocks once and like pain
enters your door
sits on your chair
and dines and drinks with you
but only for a while
you want it to stay some more
you pamper it with scrubs
and foot massage
a very soft bed and
a bear hug and a french kiss
it goes out without notice
flies from your window
leaving you
a certain emptiness
that is the truth.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The ocean births the infants
The ocean births the infants
Just like you or me;
The tide tears free umbilici
And blots them, with seaweed.
The ocean bathes the babies
In rivulets green and blue;
And scrubs them gently too, with sand
Just like we might do.
The ocean rocks the children
To sleep, in stormy seas;
Then whirls them down, to deeper depths-
Where they are never seen.
The ocean buries children
Without one word or tear,
And leaves their hapless bodies
To schools of mermaids there.
poem by Patti Masterman
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Ofcourse Mom You Can Do............
A mother has so many things to do
from washing, ironing, cleaning and tying a shoe
she scrubs she mends she cooks and sews
she can reapir anything and make it new
ofcourse, thats what a mom can do
she becomes a docter when any one is ill
applying a bandage or giving them a pill
she tends her family with love, care and patience too
ofcourse, thats what a mom can do
she keeps to smile after working so much
everything completes by her final touch
you face so many problems but u share only few
ofcourse, that is what a mom can do
no one knows me as you knew
no one can care me as you can do
ofcourse, thats what a mom can do
but all we can do is just thank you...........
poem by Fahmina Arjumand Misha
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The Bloke Is Broke
The bloke is broke
Takes a coke and lots of smoke
Stroke a joke and leaves the yoke
Spoke and poke and went back folk
Remembering baroque
With a golf stroke
Scrubs an oak with
Another sick joke
Woke and evoke
And even provoke
A gun smoke
Goes amok
With a butterfly stroke
Wild with a James Knox
Towards valley oak
spoke a practical joke
Ending with a choke
that broken bloke
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Old Town Types No27 - Sergeant Mat McGillicuddy
King of all the old town, gaoler, censor, too,
Bane of heavy sinners doing things they shouldn't do,
Terror of the cattle-duffers in the northern scrubs,
Keeping watch on criminals, cautioning the pubs
On those brief hours, in old days, when laws forbade their beer,
Looming forth on court-days, a Nemesis severe
Of a martinet and master in the art of keeping peace
Was Matthew Mark McGillicuddy, Sergeant of Police.
How the gleaming metal jingled, how the polished leather shone
When Sergeant Mat. McGillicuddy put his war-paint on:
Skin-tight corded riding breeches, spur and soldier-strap,
Cartridge case, revolver, and a smart, peaked cap,
A black 'imperial' that wagged beneath his stiff moustache
Authority personified - he cut a heavy dash
With his boots and buttons shining and his coat without a crease
Matthew Mark McGillicuddy, Sergeant of Police.
On race-days and show-days, when strangers sought the town,
The Sergeant was a stern man, and terrible his frown.
But he had scant use on off-days for his little goal of tin,
Save when, to keep the town's repute, he ran some roysterer in;
To come the 'morning after' with a foaming pot of beer:
''Tis agin the regulations; but I want no corpses here.
You perishing with heat an' thirst to but a spot of grease.
An' me firewood there needs splittin',' said the Sergeant of Police.
Then they made him an inspector in the city one sad day;
But he had a glorious 'send off' before he went away
One night of wild carousal that gave scandal for a week,
But the man sent to replace him was a truckler and a sneak,
A plague to petty sinners, a peeping Tom in pubs;
But a jest among the cattle-duffers in the northern scrubs.
So we missed the human touch that lurked beneath the bluster
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Out Back
The old year went, and the new returned, in the withering weeks of drought,
The cheque was spent that the shearer earned,
and the sheds were all cut out;
The publican's words were short and few,
and the publican's looks were black --
And the time had come, as the shearer knew, to carry his swag Out Back.
For time means tucker, and tramp you must,
where the scrubs and plains are wide,
With seldom a track that a man can trust, or a mountain peak to guide;
All day long in the dust and heat -- when summer is on the track --
With stinted stomachs and blistered feet,
they carry their swags Out Back.
He tramped away from the shanty there, when the days were long and hot,
With never a soul to know or care if he died on the track or not.
The poor of the city have friends in woe, no matter how much they lack,
But only God and the swagmen know how a poor man fares Out Back.
He begged his way on the parched Paroo and the Warrego tracks once more,
And lived like a dog, as the swagmen do, till the Western stations shore;
But men were many, and sheds were full, for work in the town was slack --
The traveller never got hands in wool,
though he tramped for a year Out Back.
In stifling noons when his back was wrung
by its load, and the air seemed dead,
And the water warmed in the bag that hung to his aching arm like lead,
Or in times of flood, when plains were seas,
and the scrubs were cold and black,
He ploughed in mud to his trembling knees, and paid for his sins Out Back.
He blamed himself in the year `Too Late' --
in the heaviest hours of life --
'Twas little he dreamed that a shearing-mate had care of his home and wife;
There are times when wrongs from your kindred come,
and treacherous tongues attack --
When a man is better away from home, and dead to the world, Out Back.
And dirty and careless and old he wore, as his lamp of hope grew dim;
He tramped for years till the swag he bore seemed part of himself to him.
As a bullock drags in the sandy ruts, he followed the dreary track,
With never a thought but to reach the huts when the sun went down Out Back.
It chanced one day, when the north wind blew
in his face like a furnace-breath,
He left the track for a tank he knew -- 'twas a short-cut to his death;
For the bed of the tank was hard and dry, and crossed with many a crack,
And, oh! it's a terrible thing to die of thirst in the scrub Out Back.
A drover came, but the fringe of law was eastward many a mile;
He never reported the thing he saw, for it was not worth his while.
The tanks are full and the grass is high in the mulga off the track,
Where the bleaching bones of a white man lie
by his mouldering swag Out Back.
For time means tucker, and tramp they must,
where the plains and scrubs are wide,
With seldom a track that a man can trust, or a mountain peak to guide;
All day long in the flies and heat the men of the outside track
With stinted stomachs and blistered feet
must carry their swags Out Back.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Outback
The old year went, and the new returned, in the withering weeks of drought,
The cheque was spent that the shearer earned,
and the sheds were all cut out;
The publican's words were short and few,
and the publican's looks were black --
And the time had come, as the shearer knew, to carry his swag Out Back.
For time means tucker, and tramp you must,
where the scrubs and plains are wide,
With seldom a track that a man can trust, or a mountain peak to guide;
All day long in the dust and heat -- when summer is on the track --
With stinted stomachs and blistered feet,
they carry their swags Out Back.
He tramped away from the shanty there, when the days were long and hot,
With never a soul to know or care if he died on the track or not.
The poor of the city have friends in woe, no matter how much they lack,
But only God and the swagmen know how a poor man fares Out Back.
He begged his way on the parched Paroo and the Warrego tracks once more,
And lived like a dog, as the swagmen do, till the Western stations shore;
But men were many, and sheds were full, for work in the town was slack --
The traveller never got hands in wool,
though he tramped for a year Out Back.
In stifling noons when his back was wrung
by its load, and the air seemed dead,
And the water warmed in the bag that hung to his aching arm like lead,
Or in times of flood, when plains were seas,
and the scrubs were cold and black,
He ploughed in mud to his trembling knees, and paid for his sins Out Back.
He blamed himself in the year `Too Late' --
in the heaviest hours of life --
'Twas little he dreamed that a shearing-mate had care of his home and wife;
There are times when wrongs from your kindred come,
and treacherous tongues attack --
When a man is better away from home, and dead to the world, Out Back.
And dirty and careless and old he wore, as his lamp of hope grew dim;
He tramped for years till the swag he bore seemed part of himself to him.
As a bullock drags in the sandy ruts, he followed the dreary track,
With never a thought but to reach the huts when the sun went down Out Back.
It chanced one day, when the north wind blew
in his face like a furnace-breath,
He left the track for a tank he knew -- 'twas a short-cut to his death;
For the bed of the tank was hard and dry, and crossed with many a crack,
And, oh! it's a terrible thing to die of thirst in the scrub Out Back.
A drover came, but the fringe of law was eastward many a mile;
He never reported the thing he saw, for it was not worth his while.
The tanks are full and the grass is high in the mulga off the track,
Where the bleaching bones of a white man lie
by his mouldering swag Out Back.
For time means tucker, and tramp they must,
where the plains and scrubs are wide,
With seldom a track that a man can trust, or a mountain peak to guide;
All day long in the flies and heat the men of the outside track
With stinted stomachs and blistered feet
must carry their swags Out Back.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Statecontrol
I've been around the world I take credit for the things I've done.
I've done a lot of things and I just turned 21.
They tied me up put red tape around my hands.
I got caught in the web cause I didn't stand a chance.
I can't control the state I'm in - Go back in line and repeat it again.
I said "Please Mr. Doctor" won't you cure my disease.
I got a sore throat and I got scrubs on my knees.
No matter what I do I can't get it straight.
I tried to sort things out but I'm still stuck in the state.
I can't control the state I'm in - Go back in line and repeat it again.
Can't control the state I'm in - Go back in line repeat again.
I'm gonna lie
song performed by by The Hives from Veni Vidi Vicious
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Watch As You Become A Woman
I watch as you become a woman
Shedding your girlish skin before me
I stand by the bar, ordering our drinks
And melt, as you're easier now
Confident and comfortable with everyone
Such growth since those teenage years
Carrying yourself as a woman does
You pick me up from the office
Still in your laboratory scrubs
So articulate and composed
As I slump my twisting wiry body
Down hard in the passenger seat
Still ill-at-ease with what I'm doing
I watch as you become a woman
On those Saturdays from hell
When I writhe in a bed of hate
And you perch lovingly beside me
Saying 'don't do this anymore,
There is more to life than drink'
You're beautiful, you're a woman
There are things that I don't doubt
One day when you've graduated from me
You'll shine like your potential must
Be an amazing loving wife and mother
And reach every height you’re destined for
I watch as you become a woman
But I wonder how long we've got
Before you realise I'm still a boy
I watch as you become a woman
Now I just have to become a man...
poem by B. Alexander
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Dear Drs. Fisher & Buigues
(St. Petersburg,2008 June 4)
Your fanged sterile gloves,
and snarling scrubs, tear into me
like the yellow teeth
of Novyy Port huskies.
(My leather epidermis might be
the only peace treaty
able to unite America and France,
miles from our homes.)
My sour flesh yearns for Yuribey,
for my mothers creamy milk,
for the Pleistocene days -
for the life you'll never see;
when mom inhaled&exhaled,
and blanketed me in her grey coat.
With every calculation and sketch,
you bludgeon with fluorescent light
whatever infinitesimal vestige of life,
still crawls through my molars.
10,000 years ago,
homo sapiens snuffed us out,
and wore my mother's fur.
But, today you've dissected mystery,
finding your numb heart inside me.
from, Lyuba
poem by Jacob Bearer
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Mother's Intuition
(Carly Simon)
It's a mother's intuition
To make a little space
It's her quiet mission to tidy up her place
A mother's intuition is like a kangaroo's
She hops around, she mops the ground
She fusses over you
A mother
With her intuition
Will know just what to do
It's a mother's intuition to wash her baby
Well she won't forget behind the ears
And the extra soap suds on the tail
A mother's into cleaning
She'll clean until she's through
She's smart enough
She's wise enough
To add up two and two
A mother
With her intuition
Will know just what to do
A mother has a feeling
She pays special attention
If someone is concealing
If someone's playing tricks
She rubs and scrubs and scours the secrets
Until the answer clicks
Then she takes a brush
And polishes your teeth
She'll make you shine and sparkle new
Until she finds the real you
Underneath
Isn't it charming?
Just mommy and little Roo
Fresh as a daisy
Sparkling just like new
It's a mother's intuition
It's a mother's intuition
It's a mother's intuition
song performed by by Carly Simon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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No Elegy For Plaster Teeth (Part 1)
Bony greying woman in a plaster-spattered coat
Mixes stuff of which they're formed with mind afar-remote
Pours the moulds, prepares their beds in fluffy little piles
Therapists in pastel scrubs fly in and out with smiles.
Schooled to their desired shape in template alginate
Mallow soft to nougat hard, delivered, lives oblate
White or pink, uniquely formed with pegs arrayed askew
Four-percent neanderthal effects are coming through.
'Dog ate the retainer' states a form and gives her pause
One way or another pesky canines are her cause
Trims and shapes didactically, prepares them for the fray
Pristine 'fore the onslaught, knows they'll barely last a day.
(Note; refers to the models on which dental appliances are built)
poem by Diane Hine
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How the Land was Won
The future was dark and the past was dead
As they gazed on the sea once more –
But a nation was born when the immigrants said
"Good-bye!" as they stepped ashore!
In their loneliness they were parted thus
Because of the work to do,
A wild wide land to be won for us
By hearts and hands so few.
The darkest land 'neath a blue sky's dome,
And the widest waste on earth;
The strangest scenes and the least like home
In the lands of our fathers' birth;
The loneliest land in the wide world then,
And away on the furthest seas,
A land most barren of life for men –
And they won it by twos and threes!
With God, or a dog, to watch, they slept
By the camp-fires' ghastly glow,
Where the scrubs were dark as the blacks that crept
With "nulla" and spear held low;
Death was hidden amongst the trees,
And bare on the glaring sand
They fought and perished by twos and threes –
And that's how they won the land!
It was two that failed by the dry creek bed,
While one reeled on alone –
The dust of Australia's greatest dead
With the dust of the desert blown!
Gaunt cheek-bones cracking the parchment skin
That scorched in the blazing sun,
Black lips that broke in a ghastly grin –
And that's how the land was won!
Starvation and toil on the tracks they went,
And death by the lonely way;
The childbirth under the tilt or tent,
The childbirth under the dray!
The childbirth out in the desolate hut
With a half-wild gin for nurse –
That's how the first were born to bear
The brunt of the first man's curse!
They toiled and they fought through the shame of it –
Through wilderness, flood, and drought;
They worked, in the struggles of early days,
Their sons' salvation out.
The white girl-wife in the hut alone,
The men on the boundless run,
The miseries suffered, unvoiced, unknown –
And that's how the land was won.
No armchair rest for the old folk then –
But, ruined by blight and drought,
They blazed the tracks to the camps again
In the big scrubs further out.
The worn haft, wet with a father's sweat,
Gripped hard by the eldest son,
The boy's back formed to the hump of toil –
And that's how the land was won!
And beyond Up Country, beyond Out Back,
And the rainless belt, they ride,
The currency lad and the ne'er-do-well
And the black sheep, side by side;
In wheeling horizons of endless haze
That disk through the Great North-west,
They ride for ever by twos and by threes –
And that's how they win the rest.
poem by Henry Lawson
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