Hit The Jackpot Quotes

I rolled over and picked up Us Weekly magazine off the floor. The cover had a picture of Angelina, Brad, and their little Eskimo son, Maddox. I saw staring at the photo, wondering why this little boy looks so pissed off in every picture. At first I thought he was just pissed about his Mohawk, but then I realized he’s probably furious. Maddox must have thought he hit the jackpot when some A-list celebrity rescued him from third-world Cambodia, only to discover that she was going to shuffle him back and for the to EVERY other third-world country in the universe. He’s probably like, 'When the fuck are we gonna get to Malibu, bitch?

Hayden’s gaze fell to my lips. My heart did a stupid little jump that made me all warm and fuzzy. He liked me— really liked me. Even after seeing my scars. It was like hitting the jackpot of awesome guys.

If you can go home to someone who loves you, if your children are proud of you, if you can keep your integrity, you’ve hit the jackpot. You don’t need the state to call your number. It’s already been called.

It is amateurs who have one big bright beautiful idea that they can never abandon. Professionals know that they have to produce theory after theory before they are likely to hit the jackpot.

A perfect invitation to use and abuse her, a wanton lust for what she knows comes next. I have no idea how any of this can work. But I think I just hit the jackpot. I can have my sweet cake and beat it too.

Her face lit up. Like seriously... Lit. The. Fuck. Up. Like I'd just told her she'd hit the jackpot.

You can't expect to hit the jackpot if you don't put a few nickels in the machine

You should have seen her this morning,' he said, smiling. 'She's got into the pantry and tipped a box of Cheerios all over the kitchen floor. I walk in and she's crawling around eating them as fast as she can. Mum's standing there, watching her - she got this embarrassed look when she saw me - she does, 'I know, I know, but I can't bring myself to stop her. She thinks she's hit the jackpot.

You hit the jackpot," I said, throwing my arms around his neck. He looked down at me, his hands slowly coming down. The slot machine lights reflected red, blue and green in his eyes. The chime of falling coins dwindled away in my ears. The entire casino faded to the background. "I did," he whispered. His hands took my face and he kissed me.

I think I’m getting a notion of how to do this. O.K., a carnival works because people pay to feel amazed and scared. They can nibble around a midway getting amazed here and scared there, or both. And do you know what else? Hope. Hope they’ll win a prize, break the jackpot, meet a girl, hit a bull’s-eye in front of their buddies. In a carnival you call it luck or chance, but it’s the same as hope. Now hope is a good feeling that needs risk to work. How good it is depends on how big the risk is if what you hope doesn’t happen. You hope your old auntie croaks and leaves you a carload of shekels, but she might leave them to her cat. You might not hit the target or win the stuffed dog, you might lose your money and look like a fool. You don’t get the surge without the risk. Well. Religion works the same way. The only difference is that it’s more amazing than even Chick or the twins. And it’s a whole lot scarier than the Roll-a-plane or the Screamer, or any simp twister. This scare stuff laps over into the hope department too. The hope you get from religion is a three-ring, all-star hope because the risk is outrageous. Bad! Well, I’m working on it. I’ve got the amazing part down. And the scary bits are a snap. But I’ve got to come up with a hope.

It’s like winning a lottery. Although the odds are astronomical, most weeks, someone hits the jackpot.

I think I just hit the jackpot. I can have my sweet cake and beat it too.

His baby sister had hit the jackpot with his one. Because as far as I could figure, there probably wasn’t anything in the world better than being unconditionally loved by Lukas Callihan.

I don't believe art is meant to be economical. Art is adventurous, sloppy and hugely imaginative. What I look at is hitting the jackpot. I don't even think about the intermediate levels of getting paid. What I want to create is something that revolutionizes ideas and it just so happens that I'm not good at it enough yet to become the next William Blake, but I'm trying. I'm not interested in trying - and it might sound weird to hear a guy say this - to become popular for a certain marketplace. I'd rather create something that has its own light and people have to pick it up because they feel it's going to wake them up or inspire them to move forward.

In the early part of the ninth century, Muhammad ibn Musa al-Khwarizmi, a mathematician working in Baghdad, wrote a seminal textbook in which he highlighted the usefulness of restoring a quantity being subtracted (like 2, above) by adding it to the other side of an equation. He called this process al-jabr (Arabic for “restoring”), which later morphed into “algebra.” Then, long after his death, he hit the etymological jackpot again. His own name, al-Khwarizmi, lives on today in the word “algorithm.

I hit the goddamn jackpot with celebrity dreams this a.m. In the latest dream I was in bed with Tom and Katie. I’ve never thought much of Tom Cruise but as I watched him fuck Katie fueled with insane lust and cocaine I murmured, 'God, Tom, I admire you so much.' Katie went to the bathroom to clean up and Tom fucked me. I was too happy to remember that I always preferred Ice Man to Maverick.

It is not their quantative scarcity vis-a-vis the majority that makes minorities hapless but rather their qualitative similarity. As a member of a minority group, you can be as industrious as an ant, even hit the jackpot and acquire a considerable fortune, but someday, just because you presently and will always belong to the same community, you could in an instant find yourself on par with those of your community who have idled their lives away since birth. That is why the affluent among the minorities are never affluent enough; neither are their exceptional members ever sufficiently so.

Often, it is precisely the lure of a chance to hit the jackpot which causes all the producers to gamble on untried ventures, out of which some prove to be beneficial to the public. To insist on a closer approximation to merit would reduce the incentives and the benefits to society that flow from these incentives.

The problem is we have a standard of what evil is, Hitler, the Holocaust—THE standard of absolute evil. . . . But then everyone gets frantic as soon as you try to use the standard, nothing compares, nothing resembles—and the standard becomes unusable and nothing qualifies as Evil with a capital E. . . . I mean like a certain ex-actor-turned-president who shall go nameless sat idly and I do mean idly by and watched tens of thousands die of a plague and he couldn't even bother to say he felt bad about it, much less try to help . . . I mean do you have to pile up some magic number of bodies before you hit the jackpot and rare a comparison with you-know-who?

The crowd were totally behind him and it spurred him on, I was right in the heat of battle. There was only one to win; I dug deep and summoned up every bit of strength, I had in me to put in to one punch to see if I could hit the jackpot. I drew him to the ropes and put everything in to a cracking right uppercut and just missed, bastard!

I was on my way into a liquor store to buy some paraphernalia, but I was so full of toxins that I had to casually stroll over and vomit into the gutter. As I vomited, I looked down and spotted those three intact balloons full of heroin. “Yeah! Free drugs. I hit the jackpot!” I thought, and fished out the balloons and saved myself a trip downtown.

His mouth meets my clit and I’m not lost on the fact that this man will have gone down on me four times today. Forget winning the mega millions, I’ve hit the cunnilingus jackpot.

People always say when luck meets opportunity, that equals success. But I call bullshit. And today is proof. Because even when you get knot so lucky, you can still hit a jackpot.

Wealth is not attain by the small investment that hits the jackpot,but rather by properly investing in the two biggest assets you have: your time and your desire.

Luck, circumstances, or the right situation wasn’t what mattered. If it was to be, it was up to me. I was free to fly. No matter who was elected president, how badly the economy tanked, or what anybody said, did, or didn’t do, I was still 100 percent in control of me. Through choosing to be officially liberated from past, present, and future victimhood, I’d hit the jackpot. I had the unlimited power to control my destiny.

As the jackpot got seriously going, after the first wave of pandemics, without EU membership to buffer anything, England started looking a lot like a competitive control area. Lowbeer did what she knew how to do, which by then was run a CCA. But as she kept building it back up, every time another change driver impacted, she found herself using Russians. They knew how to work a CCA. They’d been there before the jackpot hit the fan.

women are socially conditioned to believe that they need a man in their life pretty much as soon as they become adults, whereas men are programmed to sow their wild oats and spread their options. Unfortunately while he’s terrified of missing out, his friends all drop off the radar and settle down, and after a while he becomes the odd one out, clinging to his bachelorhood and claiming that he hasn’t met the ‘right’ woman yet and that they’re all ‘psychos’ or ‘too needy’. At some point he’ll likely have a midlife crisis and panic himself into his version of commitment to some poor woman who thinks she’s hit the jackpot.

One life, one death. For all of us. Those are the numbers. I'm going to die and there's no avoiding it. I can go looking for it early by driving smashed out of my skull or swimming with sharks, sure, but staying with you isn't like that. It wouldn't be stupid and reckless and dumb, it wouldn't be me missing out on part of my life and skipping to the middle of the book. It'd just be me finding the guy I love early. It'd me hitting the jackpot. I'm not walking away from a piece of luck like that. I'm not walking away from you.

Matthew Choptuik, a postdoctoral student at the University of Texas, carried out a simulation on a supercomputer that he hoped would reveal new, unexpected features of the laws of physics; and he hit the jackpot. What he simulated was the implosion of a gravitational wave.47 When the imploding wave was weak, it imploded and then disbursed. When it was strong, the wave imploded and formed a black hole. When its strength was very precisely “tuned” to an intermediate strength, the wave created a sort of boiling in the shapes of space and time. The boiling produced outgoing gravitational waves with shorter and shorter wavelengths. It also left behind, at the end, an infinitesimally tiny naked singularity (Figure 26.7). Fig. 26.6. Our bet about naked singularities. Fig. 26.7. Left: Matthew Choptuik. Middle: An imploding gravitational wave. Right: The boiling produced by the wave, and the naked singularity at the center of the magnifying glass. Now, such a singularity can never occur in nature. The required tuning is not a natural thing. But an exceedingly advanced civilization could produce such a singularity artificially by precisely tuning a wave’s implosion, and then could try to extract the laws of quantum gravity from the singularity’s behavior.

Before he could answer, it started. It sounded like a murmur, and then someone said it out loud, and the whisper became outright laughter. “Is eht Gaylord?” said a rat-faced boy at the front. The room erupted. “Big Bobby Bender?” said another. Shuggie tried to talk over them. His face burned red. “It’s Shuggie, sir. Hugh Bain. I’m transferred here from Saint Luke’s.” “Listen tae that voice!” said another boy, with tight curly hair. He opened his eyes wide like he had hit the bullying jackpot. “Ere, posh boy. Whaur did ye get that fuckin’ accent? Are ye a wee ballet dancer, or whit?” This went down the best of all. It was a divine inspiration to the others. “Gies a wee dance!” they squealed with laughter. “Twirl for us, ye wee bender!” Shuggie sat there listening to them amuse themselves. He took the red football book and dropped it into the dark drawer of this strange school desk. He was glad, at least, to be done with that. It was clear now: nobody would get to be made brand new.

The phone was snatched from her grasp. She let out a screech, her fingers clasping at air. “Hey! Give that back.” Gracie slipped it down the V of her tank and into her ample cleavage. “Come and get it.” Billy plopped down on a vacant stool, eyes bugging out of his head. Maddie stared at Gracie’s chest and contemplated. She could stick her hand down a woman’s top. It was no big deal—just skin, for God’s sake. She jumped off the stool and straightened to her full five-foot-three inches. “What is wrong with calling him?” “It’s a girlfriend’s responsibility to stop her friend from the dreaded drunk dial.” Maddie scowled. She was not drunk dialing! “Telling him where I am isn’t a crime.” Gracie planted her hands on her hips. “Sorry, honey. I’m doing this for your own good.” “You don’t understand.” Maddie picked up her drink and took a slow sip. Her gaze was fixed on the stretch of fabric across Gracie’s ample chest. She wanted that phone, and with way too many margaritas in her system, she wasn’t above groping another woman to get it. “I’m getting that phone.” Billy’s mouth dropped open, and Maddie was surprised no drool hung down his chin like a rabid dog’s. “You’ll thank me later.” Gracie didn’t appear the least bit threatened. If anything, she thrust her breasts out farther, as though daring Maddie to come and get it. “Give it to me!” Maddie stomped her foot. “Like I said, come and get it.” Gracie batted her thick lashes, cornflower-blue eyes sparkling. She tucked her hand into her top and shoved it lower into her bra. “All right, but remember, I know how to fight.” Gracie laughed and Billy whooped like he’d hit the jackpot. Maddie charged. Gracie’s eyes widened in surprise, and she let out a holler, crossing her arms over her chest for protection. Maddie refused to be thwarted. She squeezed her lids together so she wouldn’t have to look and flung her hands out, praying she’d get hold of something. When her palm brushed against soft, pillowy cotton, she squealed. Pay dirt. “Maddie!” Gracie grabbed her hand, twisting her body to block Maddie’s progress. “That’s my boob!” Maddie reached again and this time her hand curled around the cotton neckline. She pulled, squirming down the deep V of the top. Her fingers brushed the phone and a surge of adrenaline pounded through her. “Now, why doesn’t this surprise me?” Mitch’s voice made her knees go weak. Before she could swing around, she was hauled against his warm, strong body. She sagged in relief. He’d come for her after all. “You girls are giving everyone quite a show.” Charlie stood next to Mitch, looking lethal in all black. Maddie could picture him with an FBI armband over his bicep. Wait . . . was that the FBI? Or was it SWAT? “With all these disappointed faces, I’m sorry we broke them up.” Mitch’s tone rang with amusement, and Maddie realized it had been too long since she’d heard him sound like that. “I wanted to call you, but she wouldn’t let me.” Her pulse raced from her girl fight and the buzz of tequila. His palm spread wide over the expanse of her stomach, his thumb brushing the bottom of her breast. “Well, here I am.” “See!” Gracie pointed and shook her hips in a little booty dance. “I told you so!” Yes,

the squirrels don't eat them because underripe peppers are much hotter mild only at the end of the growing season occasionally, you'll see one with little bite marks where an inexperienced scavenger thought he'd hit the jackpot you've got marks like those where someone thought they could take a bite but when their mouths caught fire they understood they weren't ready for you

Lev’s entranceway was cluttered with parenting equipment. Miniature Wellingtons, coatrack clumped with bright rainwear, a push-bike reminding Netherton of the patchers, things to hit balls with, many balls themselves. A few stray bits of Lego edged fitfully about among lower strata, like bright rectilinear beetles.

Matthew Choptuik, a postdoctoral student at the University of Texas, carried out a simulation on a supercomputer that he hoped would reveal new, unexpected features of the laws of physics; and he hit the jackpot. What he simulated was the implosion of a gravitational wave.47 When the imploding wave was weak, it imploded and then disbursed. When it was strong, the wave imploded and formed a black hole. When its strength was very precisely “tuned” to an intermediate strength, the wave created a sort of boiling in the shapes of space and time. The boiling produced outgoing gravitational waves with shorter and shorter wavelengths. It also left behind, at the end, an infinitesimally tiny naked singularity

Statistically, this wasn’t merely unlikely. It was like being struck by a three-mile-wide meteor the day you hit the Powerball jackpot and walking away from the impact. Patently

When I first got on welfare and began to learn all of the tricks of milking the system, it seemed like I’d hit the jackpot.

I study this woman who is my mother. Adopted at birth, I hit the jackpot. I’ve never known anyone to be as selfless and forgiving as she is. I don’t understand it, but I so admire her ability to make forgiveness look so easy.

Shit,” she said, small hand gesturing to encompass their situation. “Lots of it. Now. Hitting many fans. Large ones.

Every day is a good day" does not mean hitting the jackpot everyday. Nor does it mean getting a promise from God or Buddha. Rather it refers to the blissful state in which one can accept reality totally and unconditionally.

More pressingly for a man like David, she had lost her waifish figure after years of work and replaced it with a toned body that she wasn’t shy about showing off. Combined with the way that she was predatorily sexual, he thought that he had hit the jackpot.

It took me a couple of years after I woke up in that cold sweat to figure out what flag I was going to plant, and then how to do something with it. Using the process in Step 1, I found the things that I wanted to be known for and the work that I was passionate about. And then I started telling my story all the time to anyone who would actually listen. For me, this story was around Lean UX because of who I was at the time. I created a pitch based on design for designers, by designers, to change the way that they were working. And I honed that voice and that tone and that dialogue by telling the story over and over and over again using blog posts and articles and eventually in-person talks. The first talk I ever gave as a part of my new professional trajectory was on August 12, 2010. I told the story about how we solved the problem of integrating UX into Agile at TheLadders. And then the timeline started to accelerate from there. A month later, on September 24, I gave my first talk about Lean UX and it was in Paris. I was communicating about this topic publicly, and people were saying, “Hey, come give us a talk about it.” And I was writing about the topic in any publication that would actually listen to this kind of thing. I kept speaking and writing and making presentations, and as I got my ideas out into the world and put them into play in any way I could, on March 7, 2011, I finally hit the jackpot. This was three years after I had my 35th-birthday epiphany and the pressure was on—I knew I had just two years left before I was going to become obsolete, an also-ran. I hit the jackpot when I managed to get an article published in Smashing magazine. At the time, Smashing had a million readers online, and so the scale of my conversation was growing and growing because I was becoming known as the guy who had some answers to this question. That was a massive break for me because the article provided me with a global audience for the first time. Obviously, anything you publish on the internet is global and distributed, but the bottom line is that, if the platform you choose or that chooses you has a built-in audience, you stand a much bigger chance. Smashing magazine had an audience. The article, titled “Lean UX: Getting Out of the Deliverables Business” became very successful, and that’s where I planted my flag—providing solutions to the Agile and design problem with a real-world tested solution nicely packaged and labeled as Lean UX.

Sometimes you hit the jackpot and sometimes the jackpot hits you, I guess.

This has the added negative effect of giving them the illusion of confidence. It is a hard lesson to accept, but the success of many people is due to luck, not knowledge. If a thousand people try a thousand different methods and one of them hits the jackpot, it is an illusion to think the winner necessarily had more knowledge or skill than the losers. If two psychics pick opposite winners in an athletic contest, one of them may appear to have more knowledge that the other, but the appearance is an illusion.

working on something—do you want to see a pitch?” Hornik specialized in Internet companies, so he seemed like an ideal investor to Shader. The interest was mutual. Most people who pitch ideas are first-time entrepreneurs, with no track record of success. In contrast, Shader was a blue-chip entrepreneur who had hit the jackpot not once, but twice. In 1999, his first start-up, Accept.com, was acquired by Amazon for $175

Robert Hooke was a member of another which had used the mails to go intercontinental—the British Royal Society. Hooke picked up on Galileo’s innovations, built his own telescope, used it to discover a new star in Orion and to sketch the planet Mars, then turned it on its head, transforming it into a microscope with which he could examine the invisible intricacies of snowflakes, mosquitoes, feathers, and fungi. He hit the jackpot when he pointed his lenses at a slice of cork, for here he spotted what he described in his best-selling book Micrographia as “the first microscopical pores I ever saw.” Because they reminded him of the chambers in which monks slept, Hooke called these microrooms cells.

Jason Kurland, forty-seven, represented them all. In fall 2011, Kurland, then an attorney at the Long Island branch of the firm Rivkin Radler specializing in commercial real estate law, received a phone call that would determine his future. The caller, seeking legal advice, had gotten Kurland’s name from another client. Payment would not be an issue because he and two coworkers had just won a $254 million Powerball jackpot. After taxes on their lump-sum payout, they would have $104 million to share. We stereotype lottery winners as financially unsophisticated. Not these guys. They were a founding partner, senior portfolio manager, and chief investment officer for Belpointe Asset Management, a financial firm in Greenwich, Connecticut, where mansions sprout from spacious lots and single-family homes list for quintuple the national median price. Kurland was no lottery expert, but he quickly made it his business to become one. He researched how different states tax lottery winnings, whether and how big jackpot winners need to be identified (at least eight states let them remain anonymous), and the legal tricks one might use, depending on location, to claim a monster windfall. Claiming in the name of a trust or a limited liability corporation, for instance, won’t reduce the initial tax hit, but it may limit a winner’s public exposure. Some states let you claim using a legal entity and others don’t. Some require press conferences. Some allow an attorney to claim the prize as a trustee. “In that case, the attorney signs the back of the ticket—and you have to make sure you trust that attorney,” Kurland said. (We will come to see the irony in that advice.)

What the fuck just happened? As Bryce’s white Audi streaked off the lot, I shook my head and replayed the last five minutes. After a hot cup of coffee with Dad in the office, I’d come out to the garage, ready to get to work on the red ’68 Mustang GT I’d been restoring. My morning had been shaping up pretty damn great when a hot, leggy brunette with a nice rack came in for an oil change. Got even better when she flirted back and flashed me that showstopper smile. Then I hit the jackpot because she turned out to be witty too, and the heat between us was practically blue flame. I should have known something was up. Women too good to be true were always out for trouble. This one was only baiting me for a story. And damn, I’d taken that bait. Hook, line and sinker. How the hell had Bryce known Dad was going to be arrested for murder even before the cops had shown up? Better question. How the hell hadn’t I? Because I was out of touch. Not long ago, when the club was still going strong, I would have been the first to know if the cops were moving in my or my family’s direction. Sure, living on the right side of the law had its advantages. Mostly, it was nice to live a life without the gnawing, constant fear I’d wake up and be either killed or sent to prison for the rest of my life. I’d become content. Lazy. Ignorant. I’d let my guard down. And now Dad was headed for a jail cell. Fuck. “Dash.” Presley punched me in the arm, getting my attention. I shook myself and looked down at her, squinting as her white hair reflected the sunlight. “What?” “What?” she mimicked. “What are you going to do about your dad? Did you know about this?” “Yeah. I let him go about drinking his morning coffee, bullshitting with you, knowing he’d get arrested soon,” I barked. “No, I didn’t know about this.” Presley scowled but stayed quiet. “She said murder.” Emmett swept a long strand of hair out of his face. “Did I hear that right?” Yeah. “She said murder.” Murder, spoken in Bryce’s sultry voice I’d thought was so smooth when it had first hit my ears. Dad had been arrested and I’d been bested by a goddamn nosy reporter. My lip curled. I avoided the press nearly as much as I avoided cops and lawyers. Until we got this shit figured out, I’d be stuck dealing with all three.

Young guys moving west after college no longer hope to become the next Steve Jobs, they want to become the next Mark Andreassen. The Valley has become a Casino where the VCS and Angel Investprs blindly bumping money into every slot machine hoping to hit the Jackpot. The difference is that the bunter who gets lucky on a slot machine doesn’t walk away convinced he is a Genius. Instead of writing about tech, the industry‘s bloggers now write about venture deals and who raised how much at what valuation. The Valley has become obsessed with money, and there is a lot of it around.

When a student asked Linus Pauling how he got a good idea, the double Nobel Prize winner answered: 'You have a lot of ideas and you throw away the bad ones.' Francis Crick, co-discoverer of the molecular structure of DNA, said that 'theorists in biology should realize that it is ... unlikely that they will produce a good theory at their first attempt. It is amateurs who have one big bright idea beautiful idea that they can never abandon. Professionals know that they have to produce theory after theory before they are likely to hit the jackpot.

If we don’t show up Monday it’s because we’ve hit the jackpot.

I mean, I can’t prove it, but I’m pretty sure Krissy’s planning on pulling my teeth out in my sleep, putting them under her pillow, and hitting some kind of tooth fairy jackpot.

Hi Celestials Here is a Topic Why do some guys derive joy in spending huge amount of money buying free drinks, for their friends, but can't help or support them? A very sensitive question I couldn't ignore. I've seen this questions in couple of places and now it has been directed specifically to me. I 'm sure you must have come across this scenario or probably been a victim. Someone you've known for long, a childhood friend or colleague hits the jackpot. He excitedly called for celebration, spending a fortune on foods and drinks. Intact he's ready to close down the restaurant that night, but behind close doors, you've been asking him for a little financial assistance to boost your business or start up something, but he keeps giving excuses. After having so much thoughts about this, I only came up with one conclusion. And that is the fact life is partly competition, at least that is how some folks views it. The bitter truth is that Nobody wants you to be greater than they are except your parents. Everybody wants to be ahead. I call them dream wreckers. They would rather watch your dream die, than assist you. They prefer receiving accolades in public for feeding the whole community with foods and beer, than changing someone's destiny. Because it boost their Ego. Depend on them at your own peril. That's why bible said that you need to be pitied if you still put your hopes on mere mortal. You will be shocked by the high level of disappointment. Just be focused, persistent, and do the little you within your reach, then pray for grace. When the time comes, your destiny helper will locate you, and you will know he's the one because he won't feel burdened assisting you.

We all want money but only a few are willing to work for it. The majority dream of hitting the powerball jackpot.

You already put so much money into this machine (emotional energy), it has to pay out. You aren’t going to walk away, because what if the next person comes around and pulls the handle and hits the jackpot (the next woman he dates get the engagement ring)? A slot machine that pays out consistently every time you put money into it might get dull, perhaps like a kind, empathic person who is always there for you. It may not be about big jackpots after all, but rather about loving mutual regard, which is in fact the greatest jackpot of all.

Is the brain a gift from God, or simply the jackpot of a trillion rolls of DNA dice?

found my locker right outside the cafeteria, which was like hitting the jackpot because it was a nice, open spot where the WHOLE SCHOOL

His biggest hit so far is making the first investment in Pinterest, the popular social network used to share photos, organized as collections of pictures on a pin board. Launched in March 2010, it has become one of the most visited sites, with 23 million users in 2012 and a valuation of over $1.5 billion. Pinterest was founded in Palo Alto, Silicon Valley, by three youngsters under 30. “I helped them start and guided them as a mentor to become what they are,” says Cohen. “With this single investment I’m done. As soon as I get my liquidity event I will party like there’s no tomorrow.” All the angels dream of “the big hit,” says Cohen, who has written a book on the subject.[24] They are the ones providing 90% of startup capital, by writing checks out of their own pocket. But they don't do it just thinking of financial returns. “I think we do it because it’s fun. There’s no question that everyone thinks he or she is smarter than everyone else,” the Chairman of the New York Angels says half-jokingly. “In reality no one makes money, although some are luckier and hit the jackpot. Then there is the fashion factor. Everyone today wants to be an angel because it is cool. In other words, we are the prima donnas; we have a big ego. But there is also the idea of doing good, to have the satisfaction of helping start new emerging companies.” The pleasure of giving back: an important part of Jewish culture, and of American culture in general.

Trent pumped his arm as if he'd just hit the jackpot. "Thank God. If I had to hear about one more incident with that squirrel-shifter, I was going to shoot myself." "Squirrel-shifter? Are you fucking kidding me?" Jace raised an eyebrow in a look that said, Do I even want to know? "Some half squirrel, half man has been showing up naked in people's backyards out in the suburbs. Soccer moms tend to be a little alarmed when a nude man nibbling on acorns is perched near their child's window. I'm not sure whether he's a shifter who's unable to hold his animal form for long or just a garden variety nut.

tell you that I went from shit to sugar…my ass went from shit to sugar. I hit the jackpot.

You can't expect to hit the jackpot if you don't put a few nickels in the machine. - Flip Wilson

Hollywood is too busy trying to make old formulas hit the jackpot again to see the future. Hollywood is yesterday, forever catching up with what's happening today. This will change only when it becomes financially profitable, and reality will never be profitable until society overcomes its fear and hatred of difference and begins to see that we're all in this together

Love is, by its definition, impossible to earn. It’s an abundance. It’s extravagant. Did Bill Gates ‘earn’ a gazillion dollars? That much money can’t be ‘earned.’ He hit the jackpot for a thousand different reasons. Worthy or not. Love is like that, I think. It can’t be deserved. It’s given. It’s a gift. And I’m giving it to you. You wanna try to give it back?

Finally, I stumbled onto an unlocked room, and I felt like I had hit the jackpot as I opened the double doors only to find a library. The smell of weathered paper,

What is the right balance? It’s certainly conceivable that the promise of hitting a financial jackpot is so overwhelming that it more than makes up for the inefficiencies introduced by intellectual property law and closed R&D labs. That has generally been the guiding assumption for most modern discussions of innovation’s roots, an assumption largely based on the free market’s track record for innovation during that period. Because capitalist economies proved to be more innovative than socialist and communist economies, the story went, the deliberate inefficiencies of the market-based approach must have benefits that exceed their costs. But, as we have seen, this is a false comparison. The test is not how the market fares against command economies. The real test is how it fares against the fourth quadrant. As the private corporation evolved over the past two centuries, a mirror image of it grew in parallel in the public sector: the modern research university. Most academic research today is fourth-quadrant in its approach: new ideas are published with the deliberate goal of allowing other participants to refine and build upon them, with no restrictions on their circulation beyond proper acknowledgment of their origin. It is not pure anarchy, to be sure. You can’t simply steal a colleague’s idea without proper citation, but there is a fundamental difference between suing for patent infringement and asking for a footnote.

Marco: Hey, you’re a … a genie … the thing that grants all wishes. Oh my God, oh lord! The Gods have finally listened to my everlasting pleas. I hit the jackpot. You’re going to fulfill all my wishes! My life is all set now, sir … Sir … or … madam. Huh … you’re a woman! I’m surprised, I never heard of a female genie in any of the stories. Genie: You are one sexist son of a bitch. Can’t genies be female? Really, bro?

I hit the jackpot with The Apprentice. Trump and I both did. Our connection to the show, and to each other, was sealed.

And that’s pretty much how the next hours left on Earth go. Crispin and Laura have already hit the success jackpot and have been bringing loads of literal tons of our magic beans—as well as a couple dozen of the best damn apple pies in the world and it’s hilarious that Crispin struggles to share, even while he refers to it as ‘dead-fish-finger pie.

Oh, really?” I nuzzle his nose. “My collection of marsupials didn’t scare you off?” “No way, girl, you meet all my koalafications.” My mouth falls open. “He’s hot, has a big dick, and uses marsupial puns? I’ve hit the fucking jackpot.” “Guess that means I’m koala-fied to be your boyfriend.