Standing on the balcony outside the master bedroom, looking at the twinkling skyline of downtown Fort Worth, she shook her head sadly and said: “I guess we both did some things to each other. But this . . . this is what we call no-takesy-backsy.”
Source: wiktionary
When it’s over, you’re less stung by a sense of injustice than haunted by images that hit you like a Ford Bronco: Locklear’s gold necklace spelling out “RICHBITCH,” or her languid Percodan-popping by the fireplace, or the moment when she clutches her massive diamond necklace and hisses at Strauss, “This ain’t no takesy-backsy!”
Source: wiktionary
Of course, the people who insist on paying attention to the exotic little numbers in the Daily Racing Form probably need more of a reason. And, sure, I’ve got plenty. But I have even more faith in my Last-Chance-No-Takesy-Backsy-System (Advil is the official sponsor).
Source: wiktionary
“How did this all come about?” I asked. “We argued, we yelled, and we shouted. And since she wants to be Miss Takesy Backsy, I asked for my fucking keys back, too.”
Source: wiktionary
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