Word: thunderclapping
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...repetitive, were read from scribbled notes on a large pad held in a hand more often seen brandishing a rifle. In that context, his characteristic call to Iraqis to "draw your sword" to defeat "little, evil Bush" sounded like the recoil of a man just hit by a thunderclap of reality...
...gazebo in a London park, to which Ginger has repaired because of threatening weather. Fred is there too; they've met before, in strained circumstances, and she feels uneasy in his presence. He wears a business suit, she's in riding gear with a cute fedora. A thunderclap sends her rushing into his arms for shelter. Chagrined at her momentary dependence on him, she retreats. Nonchalantly, he explains that a storm is Nature's way of showing how two people come together. A boy cloud and a girl cloud spark, and that's lightning. "They kiss. Thunder!" There...
...time for the final, fastest dance chorus. Lightning and a thunderclap cue a quick change in the emotional weather. Ginger hears this, but she's not frightened, as she was a few minutes ago; now she's jizzed. The horn section starts bleating like impatient klaxons, modulates seven times, up the whole scale, as the dancers do slide-taps, facing each other, too close for comfort. Something's got to give, and it's the music. The trumpet blasts a kind of sexual cavalry call, to which the two respond with a furious stomp; they've got firecracker feet. Fred...
...like an old inner tube, develops a blister and eventually pops, spilling large quantities of blood into the skull. That, in a nutshell, is what doctors call a ruptured cerebral aneurysm. What it feels like is the worst headache of your life. My patients have described it as a "thunderclap" in the head followed by blinding pain, nausea and vomiting. They can't look at bright lights. Their necks get stiff. Confusion sets in. Half the people who suffer through one don't live to describe...
...hairy skin as he lies prostate on the dungeon floor, except for a tight, black patent-leather thong that squeezes rolling hills from his plump hips. She leans over the man's rump, rubs a furry cheek for aim, cocks her hand a good meter back and delivers a thunderclap wallop. Then she slings a high-heeled boot over his back and, straddling his haunches, spanks and rubs in rapid succession: hot sting, warm caress, hot sting again. Without missing a stroke, she looks up at a visitor and explains with a broad smile: "This is his ideal lunchtime...