Neat Whiskey Quotes

When shit hits the fan, and everyone around you is losing their mind, find the silent guy. The one that looks calm enough to take a nap. He’s about to fuck something up, and you’ll want to follow him. -Rule of Thumb Griffin

Yeah, I say that now…because I can’t hold it in anymore. I’ve loved you since you sold me a dildo I didn’t need,

If I stop my car so you can cross the road, you better wave your thanks. I also don’t want you to dawdle. Knees to chest, bitch, knees to chest. -Driver’s etiquette 101 Lenore

Dear teenagers complaining about life: You’ve only felt the tip of life’s dick. There’s a lot more to go. Pull your big girl panties up and hold on. It’s gonna be a rough ride. -Words of Wisdom

If you mean doughnut when you say I'll give you the Big D, then yes. I'll take the D. If not then I'm not interested. -Lenore to a customer

Dad’s. Scaring men, law abiding or not, since the beginning of time. -Lenore’s

He knocked the whiskey back neatly and did not grimace. “Once more, please. Once more with feeling, as they say in the world next door.

The chains on my mood swing just snapped. -Bumper Sticker Griffin

Tea was the order of the day, neat for the hardened drinker or containing a tot of whiskey for those who liked it watered down! Throughout the afternoon, the wonderful aroma of rosemary wafted throughout the cottage and I later discovered that Mrs Darley sprinkled the dried herb on her grill pan and, with the grill on a low heat, it scented the whole cottage, bringing a feeling of warmth and security to us all.

I started my day waking up in a pool of my own blood. Is that how you'd like to end yours?" -Lenore, period day 1.

You took your stomach meds at least, didn’t you?” She looked at me sternly. I nodded and held up my hand in the universal ‘Spock Sign.’ “Vulcan’s honor.” She

You don’t know me. You don’t know what I’ve done. What I plan to do. All you know is that I fucked you good.” She

Looking at her, he felt as if he’d had a tumbler of whiskey, rather than a neat port. He felt warm and a little impulsive.

Isabel did a double take at his stumbling response. “Alec Ravissant, are you blushing?” He frowned. “Maybe.” “Because you drink hot chocolate?” “Maybe.” “Why?” “It’s not…tough. You know? I’m a Ranger. Or at least, I used to be. I’m supposed to drink my coffee tar black and my whiskey neat. But I can’t stand coffee. Or whiskey, for that matter.” She grinned. “I think that’s sort of adorable.

Then I wash them down with a neat Jim Beam bourbon whiskey. It’s now early morning and, at this time, it’s either my last drink of the day or my first. I don’t feel so guilty when I think of it like that.

These occasions always took him by surprise. He was shocked anew each time the crisply surveyed, neatly kept world he so cherished rose up to confront him with all its essential sloppiness, irrationality, and bad business sense.

I’ve kept a tally of the alcohol Ellie’s consumed—three martinis at the dinner reception and four whiskeys neat at the pub. She downs a fifth one like water. “You’re a Viking!” Henry encourages her. “Vikings!!!” Ellie shouts. When the Prince calls the bartender for another, I push my way through the crowd to Henry. “She’s had enough,” I tell him quietly. “She’s fine.” He waves his hand at the air. “She’s just a girl,” I insist. Ellie takes exception, poking my arm with her finger and slurring. “Hey! I resent that. I’m a matter adult. Mattur. Ma-ture.” She tilts her head, gasping. “Oh my God, I just realized that except for one letter, mature and manure are the same word! That’s so weird.” I turn back to Prince Henry. “Like I said . . . more than enough.” He leans across the bar towards Ellie, holding up two fingers. “Ellie, how many fingers do you see?” Ellie squints and strains, until finally she grabs Henry’s hand and holds it still. “Four.” “Brilliant answer!” “Was I right?” Ellie asks hopefully. “No—if you’d gotten it right, I’d be really concerned.” Then he bangs the bar with his palm. “Another round!” That’s when Ellie slides clear off her stool. I catch her before she hits the floor, but just barely. And then I glare at Henry. “Mmm . . . perhaps we have reached our quota for the evening.” He puts his hand on Ellie’s arm, lifting his chin a little as he says, “It’s always important to be able to actually walk out of the pub on our own two feet. Dignity and all that.” Ellie’s head lolls on her neck until she rests it on my shoulder, her puffs of breath brushing my throat. “M’kay

What do we need to talk about?” I ground out, folding my arms to keep myself from hitting him with a blast of akasha, the fifth and most powerful element only the gods and the Apollyon could wield. It wouldn’t kill him, but sure as hell would sting like a bitch. Apollo shifted his gaze to the dark ocean. “Do you have to always be so messy?” My brows rose. “Huh?” “Back there,” he said, jerking his chin to where the lights from the mansion twinkled in the distance. “Do you always have to be so messy when you dispatch those who betrayed us?” “Do I have to? No.” “Then why?” He looked at me. Killing them the way I did was unnecessary. I could just blast them into nothing, make it quick, neat, and painless, but that’s not how I rolled. Maybe in the beginning I’d been less…violent, but not anymore. Not when my sole purpose of existence was carrying out the gods’ dirty work. Because every time I saw one of their faces, I thought of my own major screw-ups, and they were plentiful, and that made me think of— I cut that thought off. I was so not going down that road tonight without a bottle of whiskey. “You all turned me into the Terminator. What did you expect?” I shrugged. “Is this what you wanted to talk to me about? My method of carrying out your orders? I’d think you’d have better things to do than pop up just to bitch at me because I made a mess.” “It’s not just making a mess, Seth, and you know that. It’s you.

attention and she examines Riham. She shakes her head. “Too itchy,” she declares. She has a bizarrely older voice, nearly sensual, a lounge singer’s voice, hoarse, as though she has spent all of her five years drinking whiskey and lighting cigarettes. In Souad’s features, the dead flicker. His father in the almond-shaped eyes, the color of wet bark—a father Atef barely remembers, knows through old photographs his mother kept in Nablus, the man looking directly into the camera. And in the mouth, the quirk of lips when she smiles, is Mustafa. She is the child they hadn’t intended to have, surprising them and toppling the neat symmetry of their family—Karam and Alia, Riham and Atef—so that even in babyhood she arrived in mutiny, with reincarnated features.

The neat whiskey ripped into his tongue and pierced the skin on the sides of his mouth as if a razor blade had slid across it

Max tells the approaching barman, “Couple of fingers of whiskey and another of whatever this asshat is nursing.” He squints at my glass. “What the fuck is that anyway? Water?” “Vodka, neat, assface.” “If you’re looking to get shitfaced, that’s the way to do it.

Whiskey Truths and Lies" (Verse 1) In this dimly lit honky tonk, where the jukebox plays my life, I've heard a thousand stories, felt a million eyes. But the one thing I know, under these neon skies, Hurt me with the truth, but never comfort me with a lie. (Chorus) 'Cause lies are like whiskey, they burn going down, Leaving you empty, spinning round and round. But truth is like sunrise, clears the darkest night, Hurt me with the truth, but never comfort me with a lie. (Verse 2) I've danced with shadows, I've sung with the band, Worn my heart on my sleeve, got blood on my hands. In the echo of the steel guitar, I've let out my cries, Hurt me with the truth, but never comfort me with a lie. (Bridge) I'll take the pain, the bitter and the sweet, Over a sugar-coated poison, that's no treat. So pour me another, bartender, keep it neat, And tell me something real, make this heart beat. (Chorus) 'Cause lies are like whiskey, they burn going down, Leaving you empty, spinning round and round. But truth is like sunrise, clears the darkest night, Hurt me with the truth, but never comfort me with a lie. (Outro) So here's to the truth, it's the song I'll sing, In this honky tonk palace, let the truth bell ring. For every broken heart, for every goodbye, Hurt me with the truth, but never comfort me with a lie.

Neat?” Ben asked. “Real whiskey drinkers at least add water.” Persephone’s heart pounded as she watched Hades’s eyes connect with Ben’s. “I add the blood of mortals.

The waiter reappeared, and she ordered a whiskey neat, making me grateful I hadn’t tried to guess her drink, because, given a thousand guesses, that would’ve never been one of them.

All I knew was that I couldn’t enjoy the spicy sweetness of rum if I was drinking it while still staring at a neat glass of Whiskey. And so, I did what I needed to do. I poured that last glass down the drain, twisted the cap on the bottle, and put it back on the shelf, locking the doors to the liquor cabinet up tight.

Well.” Tate grabbed his whiskey—neat—and knocked it back. “I am exceptionally bored. Excuse me while I go find someone to bury my dick in.” He stalked off. “Please, God, make that someone be a great white shark.” Gia pressed her palms together in a silent prayer, looking heavenward before continuing to work on her iPad.

All I knew was that I couldn’t enjoy the spicy sweetness of rum if I was drinking it while still staring at a neat glass of Whiskey.

Yes.” He waves the bartender over. “I’ll have a whiskey neat. And the lady would like…” I’m given a second chance, and I’m not going to hesitate this time. “A porn star martini,” I say. “With lots and lots of passionfruit.” The stranger shoots me a crooked grin. “Interesting choice.” “The drink tastes good,” I say defensively, “despite the name.” “Hmm. Or perhaps because of it?” To my mortification, a blush rises to my cheeks. I clear my throat and nod to the other side of the bar. “I’ve been thinking about the couple in the back… They’re

There were two types of women in the world: ones who drank expensive cocktails at restaurants that boasted local and organic produce, and ones who took their whiskey neat and ate pussy like porn stars. Jamie Manning was firmly and resolutely in the second category.

I wouldn’t call this “fun,” but I did call whiskey neats and trying to drink like men “rebellious and edgy” and therefore some twisted idea of fun. I call this what happens when you fully denounce a substance that is marketed to you to keep you from your power, or when you show up for this life with clear eyes and see all the ways you’ve been held down by yourself and by society. The ultimate act of rebellion, and the real delicious one, is served up from the courage you summon to exist in the world as an equal, as a human claiming their space. Be

I had forgotten the number one truth I had discovered last year in Stockholm, and which should be axiomatic for anyone having to interview or get tangled up with royal persons: it is courtiers who make royalty frightened and frightening; taken neat like whiskey they are perfectly all right. This does not mean that they are as others, but you can get on to plain terms with the species, like an ornithologist making friends with some rare wild duck.