Mouse And Cheese Quotes

The early bird gets the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese.

INVISIBLE BOY And here we see the invisible boy In his lovely invisible house, Feeding a piece of invisible cheese To a little invisible mouse. Oh, what a beautiful picture to see! Will you draw an invisible picture for me?

The second mouse gets the cheese!

The early bird may get the worm, but it's the second mouse who gets the cheese.

In baiting a mousetrap with cheese, always leave room for the mouse.

The early bird catches the worm but it's the second mouse that gets the cheese.

There is magic in this sad, hard world. A magic stronger than fate, stronger than chance. And it is seen in the unlikeliest of places. By a hearth at night, as a girl leaves a bit of cheese for a hungry mouse. In a slaughter yard, as the old and infirm, the weak and discarded, are made to matter more than money. In a poor carpenter's small attic room, where three sisters learned that the price of forgiveness is forgiving. And now, on a battlefield, as a mere girl tries to turn the red tide of war. It is the magic of a frail and fallible creature, one capable of both unspeakable cruelty and immense kindness. It lives inside every human being ready to redeem us. To transform us. To save us. If we can only find the courage to listen to it. It is the magic of the human heart.

The early bird gets the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese

The second mouse gets the cheese.

It's true that the early bird gets the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese.

Kiddies, Graphic Design, if you wield it effectively, is Power. Power to transmit ideas that change everything. Power that can destroy an entire race or save a nation from despair. In this century, Germany chose to do the former with the swastika, and America opted for the latter with Mickey Mouse and Superman.

The little country mouse looked at the trap. Then he looked at his cousin. “I think I will go home,” he said. “I’d rather have barley and grain and eat it in peace, than have brown sugar and cheese and eat in fear.” The two mice shook hands. The country mouse happily went back to his home. And there he stayed for the rest of his life.

He expected pages and pages of bright pictures of pancakes of every variety shown in plain stacks, or built into castles or bridges or igloos, or shaped like airplanes or rowboats or fire engines. And pitchers of syrup to choose from -- partridge berry syrup, thimbleberry syrup, huckleberry syrup, bosenberry syrup, and raspberry syrup. Then there would be cheese plates and cheeses a la carte. Creamy cheeses, crumbly cheeses, and peculiar little cheeses in peculiar little clay pots.

The first thing he noticed was that Las Vegas seemed to have invented a new school of functional architecture, 'The Gilded Mousetrap School' he thought it might be called, whose main purpose was to channel the customer-mouse into the central gambling trap whether he wanted the cheese or not.

The early bird gets the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese.

If one mouse is a spark...then ten thousand are a conflagration.

Dear Fly, I love you. If you are a mouse I am cheese. If you are a cat I am a mouse. You are a fly, so I want to be shit.

Nana is the reason I began this work, but not in a wholesome, made-for-TED Talk kind of way Instead, this science was a way for me to challenge myself, to do something truly hard, and in so doing to work through all of my misunderstandings about his addiction and all of my shame. Because I still have so much shame. I'm full to the brim with it; I'm spilling over. I can look at my data again and again. I can look at scan after scan of drug-addicted brains shot through with holes, Swiss-cheesed, atrophied, irreparable. I can watch that blue light flash through the brain of a mouse and note the behavioral changes that take place because of it, and know how many years of difficult, arduous science went into those tiny changes, and still, still, think, Why didn't Nana stop? Why didn't he get better for us? For me?

I felt like a mouse running through one of those cardboard mazes. I didn't have to think about anything I did. My body just...went. The difference was that, unlike the mouse, there was no hunk of cheese waiting for me at the end. No reward of any kind for making it through. In fact, there was no end at all.

I was not the mouse, I was the cheese. I

The early bird gets the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese. —Steven Wright

I was not the mouse, I was the cheese. I was going to stand there until he came to me.

A mouse who fails to get the cheese tries again without kicking herself for being an idiot.

like two single people playing cat and mouse for way too long, where the cheese has long since expired for the mouse and the mouse is way too malnourished for the cat.

Dude, stop trying so hard.” She kneeled until she was at eye level with the cage. The mouse kicked around with its little legs, its tail flopping back and forth. “You’re supposed to be bad at this. And I’m supposed to write a dissertation about how bad you are. And then you get a chunk of cheese, and I get a real job that pays real money and the joy of saying ‘I’m not that kind of doctor’ when someone is having a stroke on my airplane.

Instead, realizing that there is only so much that a mouse in the maze can know and understand … I resolved to get out of the maze.

To a mouse, cheese is cheese. That is why mousetraps are effective.

This morning I had not so much as carfare. Now I am here, on velvet. You are itching to learn of this haven; you would like to organize trips here, spoil it, send your relations-in-law, perhaps even come yourself. After all, this journal will hardly fall into your hands till I am dead. I’ll tell you. I am at Bracey’s Giant Emporium, as happy as a mouse in the middle of an immense cheese, and the world shall know me no more.

Elizabeth was counting on Marco to keep cousin Mary occupied until after the board meeting was over. A piece of cheese might catch a mouse, but an afternoon alone with a muscular masseur would ensnare her cousin far more effectively. And afterwards, while Mary lay sated and sleeping upon a massage table, wiser heads could determine the company's future. There were times, Elizabeth thought, when success in business demanded utter ruthlessness.

Are you falling asleep before midnight?" Cassie leaned over the edge of the couch to look at Jack. He was stretched out on the floor, his head resting against a pillow near the center of the couch, his eyes closed. She was now wide awake and headache free. He wasn't in so good a shape. "The new year is eighteen minutes away." "Come kiss me awake in seventeen minutes." She blinked at that lazy suggestion, gave a quick grin, and dropped Benji on his chest. He opened one eye to look up at her as he settled his hand lightly on the kitten. "That's a no?" She smiled. She was looking forward to dating him, but she was smart enough to know he'd value more what he had to work at. He sighed. "That was a no. How much longer am I going to be on the fence with you?" "Is that a rhetorical question or do you want an answer?" If this was the right relationship God had for her future, time taken now would improve it, not hurt it. She was ready to admit she was tired of being alone. He scratched Benji under the chin and the kitten curled up on his chest and batted a paw at his hand. "Rhetorical. I'd hate to get my hopes up." She leaned her chin against her hand, looking down at him. "I like you, Jack." "You just figured that out?" "I'll like you more when you catch my mouse." "The only way we are going to catch T.J. is to turn this place into a cheese factory and help her get so fat and slow that she can no longer run and hide." Or you could move your left hand about three inches to the right right and catch her." Jack opened one eye and glanced toward his left. The white mouse was sitting motionless beside the plate he had set down earlier. "Let her have the cheeseburger. You put mustard on it." "You're horrible." He smiled. "I'm serious." "So am I." Jack leaned over, caught Cassie's foot, and tumbled her to the floor. "Oops." "That wasn't fair. You scared my mouse." Jack set the kitten on the floor. "Benji, go get her mouse." The kitten took off after it. "You're teaching her to be a mouser." "Working on it. Come here. You owe me a kiss for the new year." "Do I?" She reached over to the bowl of chocolates on the table and unwrapped a kiss. She popped the chocolate kiss into his mouth. "I called your bluff." He smiled and rubbed his hand across her forearm braced against his chest. "That will last me until next year." She glanced at the muted television. "That's two minutes away." "Two minutes to put this year behind us." He slid one arm behind his head, adjusting the pillow. She patted his chest with her hand. "That shouldn't take long." She felt him laugh. "It ended up being a very good year," she offered. "Next year will be even better." "Really? Promise?" "Absolutely." He reached behind her ear and a gold coin reappeared. "What do you think? Heads you say yes when I ask you out, tails you say no?" She grinned at the idea. "Are you cheating again?" She took the coin. "This one isn't edible," she realized, disappointed. And then she turned it over. "A real two-headed coin?" "A rare find." He smiled. "Like you." "That sounds like a bit of honey." "I'm good at being mushy." "Oh, really?" He glanced over her shoulder. "Turn up the TV. There's the countdown." She grabbed for the remote and hit the wrong button. The TV came on full volume just as the fireworks went off. Benji went racing past them spooked by the noise to dive under the collar of the jacket Jack had tossed on the floor. The white mouse scurried to run into the jacket sleeve. "Tell me I didn't see what I think I just did." "I won't tell you," Jack agreed, amused. He watched the jacket move and raised an eyebrow. "Am I supposed to rescue the kitten or the mouse?

I thought of my favorite business analogy—the mouse who says let me out of the trap, I've decided I don't want the cheese.' There are a million business traps. You can get sloppy, you can get alcoholic, you can get megalomania, you can not understand your own limitations. There are a million ways to gum it up.

Classic style also differs subtly from plain style, where everything is in full view and the reader needs no help in seeing anything. In classic style the writer has worked hard to find something worth showing and the perfect vantage point from which to see it. The reader may have to work hard to discern it, but her efforts will be rewarded. Classic style, Thomas and Turner explain, is aristocratic, not egalitarian: "Truth is available to all who are willing to work to achieve it, but truth is certainly not commonly possessed by all and is no one's birthright." The early bird gets the worm, for example, is plain. The early bird gets the worm, but the second mouse gets cheese is classic.

David Eagleman describes how you can take a male stickleback fish and have a female fish trespass on its territory. The male gets confused, because it wants to mate with the female, but it also wants to defend its territory. As a result, the male stickleback fish will simultaneously attack the female while initiating courtship behavior. The male is driven into a frenzy, trying to woo and kill the female at the same time. This works for mice as well. Put an electrode in front of a piece of cheese. If the mouse gets too close, the electrode will shock it. One feedback loop tells the mouse to eat the cheese, but another one tells the mouse to stay away and avoid being shocked. By adjusting the location of the electrode, you can get the mouse to oscillate, torn between two conflicting feedback loops.

Those beautiful girls, so happy when you acted like a gentleman and all of that, just to touch them and carry the memory of it back to my room, where dust gathered upon my typewriter and Pedro the mouse sat in his hole, his black eyes watching me through that time of dream and reverie. Pedro the mouse, a good mouse but never domesticated, refusing to be petted or house-broken. I saw him the first time I walked into my room, and that was during my heyday, when The Little Dog Laughed was in the current August issue. It was five months ago, the day I got to town by bus from Colorado with a hundred and fifty dollars in my pocket and big plans in my head. I had a philosophy in those days. I was a lover of man and beast alike, and Pedro was no exception; but cheese got expensive, Pedro called all his friends, the room swarmed with them, and I had to quit it and feed them bread. They didn't like bread. I had spoiled them and they went elsewhere, all but Pedro the ascetic who was content to eat the pages of an old Gideon Bible.

About sexuality of English mice. A warm perfume is growing little by little in the room. An orchard scent, a caramelized sugar scent. Mrs. MOUSE roasts apples in the chimney. The apple fruits smell grass of England and the pastry oven. On a thread drawn in the flames, the apples, from the buried autumn, turn a golden color and grind in tempting bubbles. But I have the feeling that you already worry. Mrs. MOUSE in a Laura Ashley apron, pink and white stripes, with a big purple satin bow on her belt, Mrs. MOUSE is certainly not a free mouse? Certainly she cooks all day long lemon meringue tarts, puddings and cheese pies, in the kitchen of the burrow. She suffocates a bit in the sweet steams, looks with a sigh the patched socks trickling, hanging from the ceiling, between mint leaves and pomegranates. Surely Mrs. MOUSE just knows the inside, and all the evening flavours are just good for Mrs. MOUSE flabbiness. You are totally wrong - we can forgive you – we don’t know enough that the life in the burrow is totally communal. To pick the blackberries, the purplish red elderberries, the beechnuts and the sloes Mr. and Mrs. MOUSE escape in turn, and glean in the bushes the winter gatherings. After, with frozen paws, intoxicated with cold wind, they come back in the burrow, and it’s a good time when the little door, rond little oak wood door brings a yellow ray in the blue of the evening. Mr. and Mrs. MOUSE are from outside and from inside, in the most complete commonality of wealth and climate. While Mrs. MOUSE prepares the hot wine, Mr. MOUSE takes care of the children. On the top of the bunk bed Thimoty is reading a cartoon, Mr. MOUSE helps Benjamin to put a fleece-lined pyjama, one in a very sweet milky blue for snow dreams. That’s it … children are in bed …. Mrs. MOUSE blazes the hot wine near the chimney, it smells lemon, cinnamon, big dry flames, a blue tempest. Mr. and Mrs. MOUSE can wait and watch. They drink slowly, and then .... they will make love ….You didn’t know? It’s true, we need to guess it. Don’t expect me to tell you in details the mice love in patchwork duvets, the deep cherry wood bed. It’s just good enough not to speak about it. Because, to be able to speak about it, it would need all the perfumes, all the silent, all the talent and all the colors of the day. We already make love preparing the blackberries wine, the lemon meringue pie, we already make love going outside in the coldness to earn the wish of warmness and come back. We make love downstream of the day, as we take care of our patiences. It’s a love very warm, very present and yet invisible, mice’s love in the duvets. Imagine, dream a bit ….. Don’t speak too badly about English mice’s sexuality …..

It was Horace. He’d squeezed out of his cage again. He could make himself quite runny when he wanted to. There was a broken butter dish on the floor, but although it had been full of butter, there was none there now. There was just a greasy patch. And, from the darkness under the sink, there came a sort of high-speed grumbling noise, a kind of mnnamnamnam.... “Oh, you’re after butter now, are you, Horace?” said Tiffany, picking up the dairy broom. “That’s practically cannibalism, you know.” Still, it was better than mice, she had to admit. Finding little piles of mouse bones on the floor was a bit distressing. Even Miss Treason had not been able to work that one out. A mouse she happened to be looking through would be trying to get at the cheeses and then it would all go dark. That was because Horace was a cheese. Tiffany knew that Lancre Blue cheeses were always a bit on the lively side, and sometimes had to be nailed down, but...well, she was highly skilled at cheese making, even though she said it herself, and Horace was definitely a champion. The famous blue streaks that gave the variety its wonderful color were really pretty, although Tiffany wasn’t sure they should glow in the dark.

Miika sighed, his tail drooping like a string that had lost its balloon. 'I just need some words of reassurance.' 'Well, I can reassure you that terrible things will probably happen.' 'Great.' 'Terrible things always happen.' 'Thanks.' 'But good things will also happen. Because that is what life is. You need the bad to know what good is. You need the dark to know the light.' Miika thought of how Urga-burga cheese tasted. All the opposites mixed together, complementing each other like in life itself. 'I mean,' continued the Truth Pixie, 'think of the night sky. The stars wouldn't shine without all the darkness around them, would they?

The Merry Chrismouse by Stewart Stafford What a time for the merry Chrismouse, Making toys in his workshop/house, Everyone contributes, even his spouse, With Christmas cheer, no one will douse. A sprig of holly for a present tree, Blizzard snow is grated cheese, The kindly rodent set to please, When he comes on Christmas Eve. Nuts and seeds on their button table, Playing games and telling fables, Discarded tinsel on the wall of gable, In midwinter's icy spell unstable. A time for amnesia that felines exist, Kindness and joy at their fingertips, Baby mice excitedly make lists, To have many gifts when they insist. © Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

16:31 As a metaphor we could say we are like a mouse running inside its wheel. What keeps us moving is the allure of some tasty cheese—the myth of obtainable “survival-happiness”—just outside the wheel. The “cheese” is only there to get us to run; it is not there for us to obtain. Unfortunately for us, we don’t know that. Since we don’t seem to be closing the gap, we run all the harder chasing this cheese—the promise of happiness. If we didn’t believe we were entitled to the cheese, or we knew we couldn’t ever get the cheese, we’d stop running. But our wheel and our running and what we perceive as our particular needs are a large part of what makes us “this particular one.” In the overall scheme of surviving as a self, it’s imperative that we remain ignorant of what’s true and what’s only an illusion. If we were to grasp this dynamic for what it is, this self we’ve become confused with might cease to persist.

All this time, I'd wanted to do a job so well that I'd feel done. I wanted to accomplish enough to be good enough. But if that wasn't possible, then the very condition I'd been working so hard to avoid - being uncertain and unfinished - might be unavoidable. It might just be how life was, and everyone else had known it all along, like they all knew what a lobsterman was, and I'd been working my add off like a mouse on a wheel, not realizing that I was running toward cheese that wasn't even there.

Like the mouse creeping out of the scarlet crack, the sunset gnaws hungrily the electric cheese of the outskirts, erected by those who clearly trust their knack for surviving everything: by termites. Warehouses, surgeries. Having measured there the proximity of the desert, the cinnamon-tinted earth waylays its horizontality in the fake pyramids, porticoes, rooftops' ripple, as the train creeps knowingly, like a snake, to the capital's only nipple.

The early bird may get the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese!

I snatch it up. I fucking love gouda cheese, goddammit. UNKNOWN: I’ll be seeing you tonight, little mouse. I snarl. ME: From outside my house, and preferably in a cop’s handcuffs. UNKNOWN: You don’t need a cop to get me in handcuffs, baby. I’ll let you do anything you want to me.

The free cheese in a mousetrap is only for the mouse.

Hunched in a nearby doorway, he looked like a drowned mouse that had been left guarding the empty cheese store while his friends have all scurried off for an evening of port and Stilton. And he did not look happy at all.

Just think, someone somewhere in the world right now just slipped on a banana while his wife was whistling oh come all ye faithful. Someone else just got into an argument with their partner of ten years for the first time and now they're worried about divorce. Someone just had their first kiss and they feel incredible. Someone just took drugs for the first time and they're already feeling regret. Every moment at any given day there are Millions of moments all happening in the ultimate moment - which is NOW. PS: Mickey Mouse just stubbed his toe and no amount of cheese is gonna fix it!

Jill showed friend Kay the cute white mice. They liked to run races for cheese. Mice were lots of fun to play with. Jill said, "Take Poopsie, the male one, please!

The early bird may get the worm but the second mouse gets the cheese. -Anon.

The early bird may get the worm but the second mouse gets the cheese." -Anon.

How do you know a blonde has been using the computer? A: There is cheese in front of the mouse.

The second mouse gets the cheese!

tall buildings and clustered streets of the city had her trapped like a mouse in a maze, without even the possible reward of cheese.

You’re not eating with me, Lady Genevieve?” He’d said her name with a little glide on the initial G—“Zhenevieve”—the way a Frenchman might have said it. He had studied in France. Somehow, despite the Corsican’s protracted nonsense, Elijah Harrison had managed to study in France. She envied him this to a point approaching bitterness. “I’ll nibble some cheese.” “Like a starving mouse?” “Like a woman who had a decent meal not that long ago.

A mouse will climb a mountain just to get a piece of cheese

The early bird may get the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese. Stephen Wright (1955-)

imagine a business problem as a maze. One person might be motivated to make it through the maze as quickly and safely as possible in order to get a tangible reward, such as money—the same way a mouse would rush through for a piece of cheese. This person would look for the simplest, most straightforward path and then take it. In fact, if he is in a real rush to get that reward, he might just take the most beaten path and solve the problem exactly as it has been solved before.

Solutions to life-or-death problems faced by our ancient ancestors while swimming in dark oceans, hiding from dinosaurs, or fighting with other Stone Age bands are built into the brain today. While the parts of the brain work together to meet our needs, they do have specialized functions shaped by our evolutionary history. To push the metaphor, it’s as if we each have an inner lizard freezing or fleeing from danger, a mouse sniffing about for cheese, and a monkey looking for its tribe.

That’s like making the mouse pay for the cheese you put in his trap.

The vampire pizza was shockingly good. Emma decided fairly quickly that she didn't care what was in the sauce. Mouse heads, stewed people parts, whatever. It was amazing. It had crispy crust and just the right amount of fresh mozzarella. She sucked the cheese off her fingers and made faces at Jules, who had excellent table manners.

Zade asks, adding extra shredded cheddar on the mac ‘n’ cheese before sticking the casserole dish back in the oven to crisp. Seeing him doing something so domestic is… odd. I never thought I’d see oven mitts on a stalker and professional killer, but here we are… All he needs is an apron, and I’d be convinced I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole and hit my head on a tree root.

... no trap can be successful without uncounsciously cooperation from a victim. No one forces the mouse to seek cheese in a mousetrap.

Now let’s be going before Susina finishes biting the cash, and comes to ravish you.” “You paid her. I’m in your debt-“ “Yes, yes, and the sun is a vast light, and the world has four corners, and we are all in Lucifer’s net. Out of the trap, mouse. The cheese is eaten.

...Remember, the second mouse to the trap is the one who always gets the cheese.

the tall buildings and clustered streets of the city had her trapped like a mouse in a maze, without even the possible reward of cheese.

Cheese by Maisie Aletha Smikle and Abigail LaTonya Waugh Cheese Cheese Cheese I must get some cheese A rat I must appease And put Micky mouse at ease I need cheese for the steak To shred and bake To make bread and cake While I'm awake Warm cheese is so gooey Heat it longer it melts to oil Floating when it’s boiled Water and oil they just won’t jive When they’re together They are still apart Oil refuses to be absorbed or victimized Frozen cheese is frozen oil hard as ice Grill cheese on toasts Stuff cheese in a roast Cubed cheese on fried rice Tasty and filled with spice While I play ball All I could think of was cheese ball O how I would love to munch On a very big bunch Pizza and cheese went to the circus fair It was indeed a festive affair In the cool breeze Pizza got married to cheese Clown brought the tux and gown On his way into town Pizza and cheese profess their love for each other And swore they'll forever be together Cheese promised pizza never to leave So to cheese, pizza cleave Pizza stuck to cheese like glue And vowed to bond after saying I do

I am watching his every move. I can see where this is going. I am motionless like the cheese before the mouse strikes. The deer before the headlights hit. The mouth before the lips kiss. He has me up on that butcher block and splayed like a slab of meat before I know what hits me.

All this time, I'd wanted to do a job so well that I'd feel done. I wanted to accomplish enough to be good enough. But if that wasn't possible, then the very condition I'd been working so hard to avoid - being uncertain and unfinished - might be unavoidable. It might just be how life was, and everyone else had known it all along, like they all knew what a lobsterman was, and I'd been working my ass off like a mouse on a wheel, not realizing that I was running toward cheese that wasn't even there.

Make please with the cheese,” he demanded. “But snappy.” “You want some snappy cheese?” Jack inquired. “I do not care what kind of teeth the cheese is using,” Feep asserted. “Just so there is plenty of it. Let it be long and strong. Let it be mean and green. Let it be old with mould. But bring me lots of plenty in a fast hurry.” Jack scribbled his order and shuffled away. Lefty Feep turned and I saw his beady eyes were unstrung. “Cheese,” he whispered reverently. “Limburger with real limbs! Thick brick! I love it. Swiss is bliss. Cheddar is better. Camembert is the nerts!” I stared. “What’s the matter?” I asked. “You sound like a cross between Ogden Nash and Mickey Mouse. Since when did you develop such a passion for cheese?” “It is not all for me,” Feep explained. “I take some of it to a friend of mine.” “Are you hanging around with a bunch of rats?” Feep shook his head. “I do not see Gorilla Gabface for weeks,” he declared. “Then what in the world —” I began, but didn’t finish. For

How about you—city mouse or country mouse?” He leans forward and nibbles on the lobe of my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “I don’t care, as long as this mouse gets his cheese.

All this time, I’d wanted to do a job so well that I’d feel done. I wanted to accomplish enough to be good enough. But if that wasn’t possible, then the very condition I’d been working so hard to avoid—being uncertain and unfinished—might be unavoidable. It might just be how life was, and everyone else had known it all along, like they all knew what a lobsterman was, and I’d been working my ass off like a mouse on a wheel, not realizing that I was running toward cheese that wasn’t even there.

For a moment I imagined myself to be that mouse, not a guard at all but just another convicted criminal there on the Green Mile, convicted and condemned but still managing to look bravely up at a desk that must have seemed miles high to it (as the judgment seat of God will no doubt someday seem to us), and at the heavy-voiced, blue-coated giants who sat behind it. Giants that shot its kind with BB guns, or swatted them with brooms, or set traps on them, traps that broke their backs while they crept cautiously over the word VICTOR to nibble at the cheese on the little copper plate.

The only free cheese is in the mouse trap

He who knows does not speak; he who speaks does not know. Freedom is the right to tell people what they do not want to hear. The early bird gets the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese. The pen is mightier than the sword.

Question: How do you make a mouse smile? Answer: Say cheese.