Hotshot

Hotshot!

She married a hotshot lawyer from New York.

She fell in love with a hotshot lawyer.

He thinks he's a real hotshot.

Tom thinks he's a real hotshot.

He was a hotshot lawyer, with an astounding win-loss record.

Keep up those hotshot baskets, and the scouts are sure to take notice.

She sure was a hotshot on the keyboard, 93 words per minute!

Heading into 2016 and 2020, if you told the hotshots from Obamaworld that you thought Biden would be a good candidate, they would uniformly offer a look of infinite patience, tolerance and condescension and say something like, “Well, I could understand how someone would think that.”

Indeed, development proceeded so rapidly thereafter that Mopac, for instance, was rebuilding a series of 10-year-old Woodard 2-8-4's into 4-8-4's by 1940 - not because they couldn't steam but because their 63-inch drivers couldn't roll the hotshots fast enough.

I sniffed glue, transmission fluid, gasoline, whatever drug anybody gave me, I took. […] [Y]ears ago, I was in a drug rehabilitation program and found out that my brother was killed after somebody gave him a hotshot, drugs laced with poison.

“You guys are being babies.” “Babies.” “Oh, we're being babies, Mac? Why don't you go work for your dad all day?” “My dad's a meth dealer.” “[Mock Crying] Oh, oh, no! My daddy's in prison!” “My daddy used to give hot shots to prostitutes. Feel sorry for me!”