Even my mom is calling me Shaggy now, which is weird, because Shaggy is more like a character that I play. Shaggy is flamboyant; he's cocky. And I can't live that twenty-four hours a day - hell, no.
Eventually, I had to figure out what the hell I was going to do with my life. I needed to find my way back to Fleetwood Mac.
My favorite zany horror flick is 'Evil Dead 2.' Sam Raimi is awesome! I saw this back in the day when I was younger. 'Evil Dead' was actually scary, and 'Evil Dead 2' was zany as hell. I don't really watch 'Army of Darkness' though.
If I could, I'd sing old French songs or American folk music, but I sure as hell can't do it as well as Mississippi John Hurt - no way in hell am I getting near that!
It struck me that what I'd heard about certain celebrities was true: they had It, whatever the hell It was. Star power isn't a myth; it is tangible and forceful.
The word that scares the hell out of me is 'frail.' I don't want to be frail.
No real fairytale scared me, but Freddy Krueger did. 'Nightmare on Elm Street' scared the living hell out of me, but no fairytale. Maybe 'Hansel and Gretel' a little bit when they were walking through the forest and they met the witch. But I liked being scared, I really enjoy being scared.
Funny thing about the volatile and biased French crowds. While they'd prefer to be cheering a countryman and giving his foreign opponent merry hell, if there was no Frenchman in the game, they'd always support a Continental player over an Englishman, an American, or an Australian.
I have stage fright every single concert I've ever done. I have at least four or five minutes of it. It's absolute living hell.
The frontier between hell and heaven is only the difference between two ways of looking at things.
Hell isn't merely paved with good intentions; it's walled and roofed with them. Yes, and furnished too.
Hell hath no fury like a liberal scorned.
Hell hath no fury like a hustler with a literary agent.
I'd walk through hell in a gasoline suit to play baseball.
Hateful to me as are the gates of hell, Is he who, hiding one thing in his heart, Utters another.
I would storm the gates of Hell if Third Marine Air Wing was overhead.
I feel I've had three careers in one, really. There was the 'Benny Santini' stuff; that came with a general sense of, 'Who the hell is he?' And then there was 'The Road To Hell' stuff, and now there's the blues stuff.
The safest road to hell is the gradual one - the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts.
Hell, covering all with its gloomy vapors, has cast shadows on even the holiest eyes.
All right, then, I'll go to hell.
