Pop Cork Quotes

Would you like me to grovel with gratitude for bringing me here, High Lord?" "Ah. The Suriel told you nothing important, did it?" That smile of his sparked something bold in my chest. "He also said that you liked being brushed, and if I'm a clever girl, I might train you with treats." Tamlin tipped his head to the sky and roared with laughter. Despite myself, I let out a quiet laugh. "I might die of surprise," Lucien said behind me. "You made a joke, Feyre." I turned to look at him with a cool smile. "You don't want to know what the Suriel said about you." I flicked my brows up, and Lucien lifted his hands in defeat. "I'd pay good money to hear what the Suriel thinks of Lucien," Tamlin said. A cork popped, followed by the sounds of Lucien chugging the bottle's contents and chuckling with a muttered, "Brushed.

I'm an outlaw, not a philosopher, but I know this much: there's meaning in everything, all things are connected, and a good champagne is a drink.' Bernard began to sing again. Timidly, Leigh-Cheri joined in. Between verses, they opened another bottle. The popping of its cork echoed throughout the great stone chamber. Of the three billion people on earth, only Bernard and Leigh-Cheri heard the popping of the cork and its echoes. Only Bernard and Leigh-Cheri passed out under the tablecloth.

Champagne’s completely useless, you know,” he said. “The only good part is the moment you pop the cork.

Was there a better sound in the world than a champagne cork popping? Hell, no.

The insight presumably occurs when a subconscious connection between ideas fits so well that it is forced to pop out into awareness, like a cork held underwater breaking out into the air after it is released.

You cannot be everyone's cup of tea, but you can be someone's first sip of a cold drink on a sunny day. Or a warming hot chocolate when you come in from the rain. Or the pop of a long-awaited champagne cork. Or a stiff shot of tequila when things go awry. Find your people. Love them hard

There had been something about the pop of the champagne cork, the naughtiness of it.

A slight hiss built into a deafening roar of rushing air as the outer hatchway opened onto an empty blackness studded with tiny, impossibly bright points of light. Ford and Arthur popped into outer space like corks from a toy gun.

He was a dim secondary social success -- and all with people who had truly not an idea of him. It was all mere surface sound, this murmur of their welcome, this popping of their corks -- just as his gestures of response were the extravagant shadows, emphatic in proportion as they meant little, of some game of 'ombres chinoises' [French: "shadow play"].

The noise of drinking was exhilarating. Champagne corks popped and the pale, chrysanthemum-coloured liquid, whispering gleefully with bubbles, hissed into the glasses; heavy red wine glupped into the goblets, thick and crimson as the blood of some mythical monster, and a swirling wreath of pink bubbles formed on the surface; the frosty white wine tiptoed into the glasses, shrilling, gleaming, now like diamonds, now like topaz; the ouzo lay transparent and innocent as the edge of a mountain pool until the water splashed in and the whole glass curdled like a conjuring trick, coiling and blurring into a summer cloud of moonstone white.

I attended a breakfast meeting with Fielding...half way through...the cork of nausea abruptly popped in my throat. I only just made it to the adjacent can, which was large and acoustical; my imitation of an exploding hippopotamus came through the closed door in full quadraphonic. I got one or two funny glances on my return ..and if I were them, I'd enjoy the spectacle. It does my poor ticker good to see someone really totalled.

The CO2 has to come out, which it does by forming bubbles. Now, champagne is pressurized to six times the atmospheric pressure on earth at sea level, enough to propel a popped champagne cork faster than 30 miles an hour. Lesson: letting the cork shoot out of a bottle when you open it is both tacky and dangerous.

I suggested, further, that the following might be sculpted: a large box filled with sixty moonshine jugs--piled high, toppling over, corks popping, liquor flowing. Disorder to match the clutter and chaos of our marvelous language. Words upon words, piled high, toppling over, thoughts popping, correspondence and conversation overflowing.

Maclintick did not answer. He removed the cork from a bottle, the slight ‘pop’ of its emergence appearing to em-body the material of a reply to his wife, at least all the reply he intended to give.

In the surprised silence that followed, a champagne cork popped in the kitchen, a burst of laughter. It was just past midnight: two minutes into Christmas Day. Then my father leaned back in his chair, and laughed. “Merry Christmas!” he roared, producing from his pocket a jewelry box which he slid over to Xandra, and two stacks of twenties (Five hundred dollars! Each!) which he tossed across the table to Boris and me. And though in the clockless, temperature-controlled casino night, words like day and Christmas were fairly meaningless constructs, happiness, amidst the loudly clinked glasses, didn’t seem quite such a doomed or fatal idea.

champagne, n. You appear at the foot of the bed with a bottle of champagne, and I have no idea why. I search my mind desperately for an occasion I've forgotten - is this some obscure anniversary or, even worse, a not-so-obscure one? Then I think you have something to tell me, some good news to share, but your smile is silent, cryptic. I sit up in bed, ask you what's going on, and you shake your head, as if to say that nothing's going on, as if to pretend that we usually start our Wednesday mornings with champagne. You touch the bottle to my leg - I feel the cool condensation and the glass, the fact that the bottle must have been sleeping all night in the refrigerator without me noticing. You have long-stemmed glasses in you other hand, and you place them on the nightstand, beside the uncommenting clock, the box of kleenex, the tumbler of water. "The thing about champagne," you say, unfailing the cork, unwinding its wire restraint, "is that it is the ultimate associative object. Every time you open a bottle of champagne, it's a celebration, so there's no better way of starting a celebration than opening a bottle of champagne. Every time you sip it, you're sipping from all those other celebrations. The joy accumulates over time." You pop the cork. The bubbles rise. I feel some of the spray on my skin. You pour. "But why?" I ask as you hand me my glass. You raise yours and ask, "Why not? What better way to start the day?" We drink a toast to that.

I once compiled a list of events that frightened her, and it was quite comprehensive: very loud snoring; low-flying aircraft; church bells; fire engines; trains; buses and lorries; thunder; shouting; large cars; most medium-sized cars; noisy small cars; burglar alarms; fireworks, especially crackers; loud radios; barking dogs; whinnying horses; nearby silent horses; cows in general; megaphones; sheep; corks coming out of sparkling wine bottles; motorcycles, even very small ones; balloons being popped; vacuum cleaners (not being used by her); things being dropped; dinner gongs; parrot houses; whoopee cushions; chiming doorbells; hammering; bombs; hooters; old-fashioned alarm clocks; pneumatic drills; and hairdryers (even those used by her).

Now, champagne is pressurized to six times the atmospheric pressure on earth at sea level, enough to propel a popped champagne cork faster than 30 miles an hour. Lesson: letting the cork shoot out of a bottle when you open it is both tacky and dangerous.

I was trying to contain a surprise bubble of exultation bobbing in the anger I have always tried to keep bottled up. Fury lived inside me under pressure. Now it all started going off inside my body like popped corks; the rage-champagne and feral glee were foaming out.

The scent of Havana tobacco draped thick from the magnolia trees in the front yard. Ice cubes mingled and clinked against the sides of crystal tumblers. Patrick said hello to a group of men sitting on the veranda. I heard the pop of a champagne cork and laughter from inside.

That can’t possibly be what turns me on. Watching porn is a lot like opening a bottle of wine. Once you’ve popped that cork, you have to just see it through and drink the whole thing. Can’t let it go to waste. Or at least that’s the justification in my mind when I return to my couch.

She has come to stay, to be with Claire for a day or two. To sleep in the spare room. To accompany her dying, the same way she accompanied Gloria's dying six years ago. The slow car journey back to Missouri. The smile on Gloria's face. Her sister, Janice, in the front seat, driving. Playing games with the rearview mirror. Both of them pushing Gloria in a wheelchair along the banks of the river, Up a lazy river where the robin's song wakes a brand-new morning as we roll along. It was a celebration, that day. They had dug their feet down into happiness and weren't prepared to let go. They threw sticks into an eddy and watched them circle. Put a blanket down, ate Wonder Bread sandwiches. Later in the afternoon, her sister began crying, like a change in the weather, for no reason except the popping of a wine cork. Jaslyn handed her a wadded tissue. Gloria laughed at them and said that she'd overtaken grief a long time ago, that she was tired of everyone wanting to go to heaven, nobody wanting to die. The only thing worth grieving over, she said, was that sometimes there was more beauty in this life than the world could bear.

I was about to speak when the maître d’hôtel advanced on our table. He showed me the wine label, all smiles as if showing me a photo of his only son. I nodded. He unscrewed the cork with a pleasant pop, then poured out a small mouthful in my glass. It tasted like the price of the entire dinner.

At the door to the shop, a bell tinkled, and moments later they seemed to enter the very flowering of lavender. The scent was all around them; it curled and diffused in the air with a sweet warmth and subtlety, then burst with a peppery, musky intensity. The blind girls moved into another room. There they arranged themselves expectantly around a long wooden table, Mme Musset welcomed them, and a cork was pulled with a squeaky pop. "This is pure essence of lavender, grown on the Valensole plateau," said Madame. "It is in a glass bottle I am sending around to the right for you all to smell. Be patient, and you will get your turn." Other scents followed: rose and mimosa and oil of almond. Now that they felt more relaxed, some of the other girls started being silly, pretending to sniff too hard and claiming the liquid leapt up at them. Marthe remained silent and composed, concentrating hard. Then came the various blends: the lavender and rosemary antiseptic, the orange and clove scent for the house in winter, the liqueur with the tang of juniper that made Marthe unexpectedly homesick for her family's farming hamlet over the hills to the west, where as a child she had been able to see brightness and colors and precise shapes of faces and hills and fruits and flowers.

To Remember you so Vividly" To remember you so vividly, dancing there, with sweet champagne pulsing through your veins . . . to know what it's like to feel another's presence pulsing through mine. And each time, looking forward to popping that enchanted cork with you and really disappearing from the world as we knew it—wondering if we would ever return.

I was a slave in the corsair Dragut’s own palace. I saw his women—Spanish, French, Italian, Irish. I was at the branding of all his poor children. To some women, degradation like that is the worst sort of torture.’ There was a small silence, in which Philippa’s epiglottis popped like a cork. Beside her, Jerott’s breathing faltered in the same moment and resumed, shallowly, as he went on straining to hear.

Everyone was glaring at them. The pressure just popped those two women out the door like corks. I wanted to run out after them and beg them to take me with them. And all the while I was thinking, Oh shit, that’s gonna be me.” Angie shook her head. “It’s tough when you see it coming, ain’t it?” “Yeah,” I said, “it’s like driving on a single-lane highway and seeing an eighteen-wheeler heading right for you.

were spilt on his bib, Jane and Michael could tell that the substance in the spoon this time was milk. Then Barbara had her share, and she gurgled and licked the spoon twice. Mary Poppins then poured out another dose and solemnly took it herself. “Rum punch,” she said, smacking her lips and corking the bottle. Jane’s eyes and Michael’s popped with astonishment, but they were not given much time to wonder, for Mary Poppins, having put the miraculous bottle on the mantelpiece, turned to them. “Now,” she said, “spit-spot into bed.” And she began to undress them. They noticed that whereas buttons and hooks had needed all sorts of coaxing from Katie Nanna, for Mary Poppins they flew apart almost at a look. In less than a minute they found themselves in bed and watching, by the dim light from the night-light, the rest of Mary Poppins’s unpacking being performed. From the carpet bag she took out seven flannel nightgowns, four cotton ones, a pair of boots, a

Many of us drink in order to take that flight, in order to pour ourselves, literally, into new personalities: uncap the bottle, pop the cork, slide into someone else’s skin. A liquid makeover, from the inside out. Everywhere we look, we are told that this is possible; the knowledge creeps inside us and settles in dark corners, places where fantasies lie. We see it on billboards, in glossy magazine ads, in movies and on TV: we see couples huddled together by fires, sipping brandy, flames reflecting in the gleam of glass snifters; we see elegant groups raising celebratory glasses of wine in restaurants; we see friendships cemented over barstools and dark bottles of beer. We see secrets shared, problems solved, romances bloom. We watch, we know, and together the wine, beer, and liquor industries spend more than $1 billion each year*2 reinforcing this knowledge: drinking will transform us.

Curtis Bane screamed and though I came around fast and fired in the same motion, he’d already pulled a heater and begun pumping metal at me. We both missed and I was empty, that drum clicking uselessly. I went straight at him. Happily, he too was out of bullets and I closed the gap and slammed the butt of the rifle into his chest. Should’ve knocked him down, but no. The bastard was squat and powerful as a wild animal, thanks to being a coke fiend, no doubt. He ripped the rifle from my grasp and flung it aside. He locked his fists and swung them up into my chin, and it was like getting clobbered with a hammer, and I sprawled into a row of trash cans. Stars zipped through my vision. A leather cosh dropped from his sleeve into his hand and he knew what to do with it all right. He swung it in a short chopping blow at my face and I got my left hand up and the blow snapped my two smallest fingers, and he swung again and I turned my head just enough that it only squashed my ear and you better believe that hurt, but now I’d drawn the sawback bayonet I kept strapped to my hip, a fourteen-inch grooved steel blade with notched and pitted edges—Jesus-fuck who knew how many Yankee boys the Kraut who’d owned it gashed before I did for him—and stabbed it to the guard into Bane’s groin. Took a couple of seconds for Bane to register it was curtains. His face whitened and his mouth slackened, breath steaming in the chill, his evil soul coming untethered. He had lots of gold fillings. He lurched away and I clutched his sleeve awkwardly with my broken hand and rose, twisting the handle of the blade side to side, turning it like a car crank into his guts and bladder, putting my shoulder and hip into it for leverage. He moaned in panic and dropped the cosh and pried at my wrist, but the strength was draining from him and I slammed him against the wall and worked the handle with murderous joy. The cords of his neck went taut and he looked away, as if embarrassed, eyes milky, a doomed petitioner gaping at Hell in all its fiery majesty. I freed the blade with a cork-like pop and blood spurted down his leg in a nice thick stream and he collapsed, folding into himself like a bug does when it dies.

There is no fault that can’t be corrected [in natural wine] with one powder or another; no feature that can’t be engineered from a bottle, box, or bag. Wine too tannic? Fine it with Ovo-Pure (powdered egg whites), isinglass (granulate from fish bladders), gelatin (often derived from cow bones and pigskins), or if it’s a white, strip out pesky proteins that cause haziness with Puri-Bent (bentonite clay, the ingredient in kitty litter). Not tannic enough? Replace $1,000 barrels with a bag of oak chips (small wood nuggets toasted for flavor), “tank planks” (long oak staves), oak dust (what it sounds like), or a few drops of liquid oak tannin (pick between “mocha” and “vanilla”). Or simulate the texture of barrel-aged wines with powdered tannin, then double what you charge. (““Typically, the $8 to $12 bottle can be brought up to $15 to $20 per bottle because it gives you more of a barrel quality. . . . You’re dressing it up,” a sales rep explained.) Wine too thin? Build fullness in the mouth with gum arabic (an ingredient also found in frosting and watercolor paint). Too frothy? Add a few drops of antifoaming agent (food-grade silicone oil). Cut acidity with potassium carbonate (a white salt) or calcium carbonate (chalk). Crank it up again with a bag of tartaric acid (aka cream of tartar). Increase alcohol by mixing the pressed grape must with sugary grape concentrate, or just add sugar. Decrease alcohol with ConeTech’s spinning cone, or Vinovation’s reverse-osmosis machine, or water. Fake an aged Bordeaux with Lesaffre’s yeast and yeast derivative. Boost “fresh butter” and “honey” aromas by ordering the CY3079 designer yeast from a catalog, or go for “cherry-cola” with the Rhône 2226. Or just ask the “Yeast Whisperer,” a man with thick sideburns at the Lallemand stand, for the best yeast to meet your “stylistic goals.” (For a Sauvignon Blanc with citrus aromas, use the Uvaferm SVG. For pear and melon, do Lalvin Ba11. For passion fruit, add Vitilevure Elixir.) Kill off microbes with Velcorin (just be careful, because it’s toxic). And preserve the whole thing with sulfur dioxide. When it’s all over, if you still don’t like the wine, just add a few drops of Mega Purple—thick grape-juice concentrate that’s been called a “magical potion.” It can plump up a wine, make it sweeter on the finish, add richer color, cover up greenness, mask the horsey stink of Brett, and make fruit flavors pop. No one will admit to using it, but it ends up in an estimated 25 million bottles of red each year. “Virtually everyone is using it,” the president of a Monterey County winery confided to Wines and Vines magazine. “In just about every wine up to $20 a bottle anyway, but maybe not as much over that.

INT. NEWT’S HOUSE—NIGHT NEWT opens the front door cautiously. Inside, a baby Niffler is swinging from the brass cord of a table lamp, causing the light to flicker on and off. The baby Niffler succeeds in stealing the brass cord before spotting NEWT. It scampers away, knocking all manner of objects to the floor. NEWT spots a second baby Niffler sitting on a set of weighing scales, pinned down by gold-colored weights it is clearly attempting to steal. As the first baby makes it to the dining table, NEWT lightly drops a saucepan on top of it, which continues moving across the table. NEWT tosses an apple into the opposite weighing scale, sending the baby Niffler flying into the air. NEWT catches both baby Nifflers as they fall, then tucks them into his pockets. Satisfied, NEWT heads toward the door to his basement but turns at the last moment to see a third escaped baby Niffler climbing onto a bottle of champagne on the counter. With a sense of inevitability, the champagne bottle pops and the baby Niffler zooms toward NEWT on top of the cork, soaring past him and down the stairs to the basement.

As human beings we perceive rubber handles, popping corks, crème centers, lavender lotion, and autumn leaves as real. But just as solid to us are snotty attitudes, inconvenient lust, spade flushes, political lies, steely beauty, hometown support, big-city zeal, coffee intoxication, bizarre fashion moments, cell-phone lobotomies, road rage, pathetic dreams, and a thousand other things that aren’t corporeal. To

And the award for Best Teen Action Star goes to…” She opened and read the card. “…Jett Carson!” Jett jumped to his feet, elated! “YEAAAAAAAHHH!!!!” Up above, Jonas was startled by Jett’s scream – and he started to lose his balance! He had to think fast. He grabbed a cable from his spy utility belt and fired it at the ceiling above. THUNK! The arrow tip sunk solidly into the wooden roof. And fortunately, the sound was muffled by the cheering on the TV and Jett’s own cheering. Jonas pulled hard on the cable, using it to keep from falling. He swayed back and forth, but he eventually righted himself. Phew! Below, Jett danced around the room. “Yes! In your face!” He grabbed his phone and tweeted: “Love to all my fans who voted for me! #MaximumAwesomeness.” Jonas prayed that Jett wouldn’t look up and see him. He still clung tight to the cable, and he looked down to Jett and the floor below. Then he got an idea. Glancing forward to the waiting Rascal at the end of the beam, he motioned for Rascal to come. Rascal walked up to Jonas, and Jonas carefully picked him up. Jonas looked down again at Jett who was singing softly to himself and doing a little dance as he headed into the kitchen. Now was Jonas’s chance. He secured the cable unit to his spy belt, and he got ready to let himself down. But then – POP! – a Champagne cork flew by his head! Below, Jett came back into the room carrying a bottle of Champagne. But Jonas was startled by the cork, and he clumsily slipped off of the beam! He almost dropped Rascal as he swung and slammed against the wall! Jett looked up in shock to see Jonas and Rascal swinging back and forth! “Whoa!” He dropped his Champagne bottle. SMASH! Jonas struggled to get the cable to let out, but he just succeeded in

The noise of drinking was exhilarating. Champagne corks popped and the pale, chrysanthemum-coloured liquid, whispering gleefully with bubbles, hissed into the glasses; heavy red wine glupped into the goblets, thick and crimson as the blood of some mythical monster, and a swirling wreath of pink bubbles formed on the surface; the frosty white wine tiptoed into the glasses, shrilling, gleaming, now like diamonds, now like topaz; the ouzo lay transparent and innocent as the edge of a mountain pool until the water splashed in and the whole glass curdled like a conjuring trick, coiling and blurring into a summer cloud of moonstone white. Presently

Red wine and Hennessy She fell out of her bottle when she fell into love, cup running over, overflowing emotions in glass- red stained palet, on a pallet on the grass, to a quilt on the floor -affixed between lips and red lipstick on a shirt that he wore. A familiar place, she know she's been here before Reminiscent of the evening On his shirt that she tore ............ Drop by drop, puddle in glass getting lower- impressions in her gut, rim of her glass, hour glass figure moves counter clockwise - while absorbing the contents of merlot. Hard liquor and fine wine ............. Red Wine and Hennessy A wicked twist on some champagne tips French nails, manicures over grapes Whoever said wine and liquor don't mix? Last night I had six Bottle caps, corks, bedazzled juice Merlot was her name - slim waist - good taste slinger neck, red lace. Long stem, pedestal - hands embraced her face ............. room temperature, her body temperature ... personality of two, she's mellow and chill... aged to perfection- pop the seal- watch the erection ... splatters on the floor- covers the rug, Residue of red lipstick- Merlot stained lips match the kiss on his neck ............ Chasing fantasy through the Red Sea While chasing that with a white BC How much will she pour- how much will she drink How much more before her ship sinks ........... A full body lush, blackberry crush Medium sized Bordeaux Intense velvety plum I asked her where she's from She said she's international She's longer thinking rational .......... Sips in sync with blinking eyes She sips too much to realize Every time you pour into me, my bottle gets more empty- Glass falling to the floor She staggers to the door Glass shatters her feet She stumbles to her seat She's still asking for more But she falls to the floor Red lipstick in the mud She covers up the blood ............ She lays in her wine She forgot about the time Clock on the wall Footsteps in the hall Pounding in her head She rushes to the bed ......... She lays motionless ... but her head is racing Her heart is pacing Her lungs are gasping - air, she needs air Rolls to her side, brings her self to sit up She gags and gags until She throws it all up- ........... Wakes up the next morning Dazed and confused She's laying in a bed That she's not used to She moves slowly, where did everyone go? She checks the time- it's a quarter pass 4 sounds on the other side of the door Are Muffled by the sound of a knock at the door ........... Looks around for her little red dress Notices a blotch - a red stain on her breast Lipstick smeared an accessory to her mess She reached for her clothes and saw a note on the desk. .......... Dearly beloved, I want to see you again I'd love to have to back I think we make a great blend I tried to wake you Because I had to go And Oh by the way, my name is merlot "Little Black Bird

and ah . . . pop my cork, so to speak.

Watching porn is a lot like opening a bottle of wine. Once you’ve popped that cork, you have to just see it through and drink the whole thing. Can’t let it go to waste. Or at least that’s the justification in my mind when I return to my couch.

Perfect, it was wine-thirty. She rose and popped the cork on a bottle of merlot, then carried a full glass back to the couch and resumed her prone position, only lifting her head now and again to take a sip. Life is good.

The cork had come out with a ghost of a pop; it was a beautiful sound, regretful, grateful, kind. "There,

Over a century timescale, a kilogram of methane is about 30 times as powerful as a kilogram of carbon dioxide. Now get this. There are billions of tons of methane in molecular cages of water ice, called “clathrates,” held tight in the permafrost soil of Earth’s northern regions and at the cold bottom of the ocean. As Siberia warms, and as the water that circulates along the seafloor warms, the clathrates in the sediments both on land and deep in the sea will release the trapped methane molecules. Once liberated, they’ll come bubbling up. The methane gas will come out in the same fashion that bubbles are released by opening a bottle of soda, or when you pop the cork on a bottle of champagne. Scientists don’t know yet how much methane clathrates will add to the warming process. But intuitively, when one considers how much permafrost there is, or used to be, it seems likely that there’s a lot of methane and a lot of potential for a lot of trouble. More important, the recent research into the possible impact of clathrates makes a crucial point: Yes, there are uncertainties in the climate projections, but many of those uncertainties are things that would make the warming much worse than restrained scientists are forecasting.

a real sport.” The waiter popped the cork and

Given the situation, this may seem odd. But champagne became my drink of choice after my divorce, when I decided every day without my ex is a day worth celebrating. Even days with dead bodies in them. I popped the cork. Make that, especially days with dead bodies.

February 4 An Invitation to the Feast Jesus spoke to them again in parables, saying: “The kingdom of heaven is like a king who prepared a wedding banquet for his son.”—Matthew 22:1-2 One ordinary day my doorbell rang. I answered the door to find no one there. Someone is laughing because I fell for this, I thought. I was just about to close the door and return to my chores when I noticed a small bottle sitting on the doorstep. I was suspicious of the package, but when I noticed a neatly typed label that bore my name and address, I felt a little better. Finally, curiosity got the best of me and I popped the cork. Imagine my surprise when I looked inside and found an invitation to a banquet! Jesus says in Matthew 22 that God’s kingdom is like a wedding feast. He, too, delivers a personal invitation. Although we probably will not see or hear anything with our physical senses, He has an undeniable way of speaking to each of us. Are you suspicious because God’s invitation seems too good to be true? If you’re like me, you wonder why He would even ask you to come to the feast if He really knows you. But God does not make mistakes. Your name is on the invitation. Maybe, like me, you don’t deserve to come to God’s feast. My friend, He loves us so much that He invites us anyway. Jesus says that the Master invites everyone he can find, both the good and the bad (Matthew 22:8-10). That’s my favorite part! We all come to a moment of decision. We must respond, and we have only two choices: we can refuse because we’re busy, prideful, angry, ashamed, or scared; or we can graciously accept His offer. Lord, thank You for who You are. You invite each of us to Your feast just because You want our company, and when we accept Your invitation, You make us worthy to be there by clothing us in Your Son (Galatians 3:26-27). You are amazing!

You don't have to drink this," I said, handing him the champagne. "But Sandy might like it". "No,no. Come on, let's have some," he grinned, popping the cork, taking a swig from the bottle and passing it back. He [HST] rarely failed to show his appreciation of someone appreciating him, which is an admirable trait.

Change is a beautiful thing. Just ask a butterfly. Or the owner of a new car. Or an infant with a dirty diaper. Jimmy Buffet was right: Changes in latitudes spark changes in attitudes. New Year’s Eve is a global cultural celebration. Though nothing truly changes when the clock strikes midnight (except the year’s number), we still kiss loved ones, pop champagne corks, and watch various objects drop like there’s no tomorrow. The old is gone. The new is here. Deep down we all hunger for change, yet we also know there’s a price for transformation.

Watching porn is a lot like opening a bottle of wine. Once you’ve popped that cork, you have to just see it through and drink the whole thing. Can’t let it go to waste.

The champagne cork popped. I was blank. Back to where I had been before Devon. A blank canvas, which was now slightly soiled, like one that once held a vibrant picture but had been wiped clean with white spirit, leaving only a faint outline of what could have been

When people have depended on their partner’s exclusivity for their own self-confidence, going nonmonogamous can pop the cork on all of their personal insecurities, making it painfully difficult to manage the fears and threats that surface in relation to what it means for them or their partner to be dating again.

No wine in the world brings to mind so many immediate associations as champagne. The pop of a cork and the bright sparkle of bubbles mean celebration and glamour and, more often than not, the distinct possibility of romance. It is the wine of weddings and New Year’s kisses. It is beautiful and delicate, and above all, it is a wine associated with women.

I closed my eyes before his head went under the tire, but I heard it pop like the cork of a champagne bottle.

Fury lived in me under pressure. Now it all started going off inside my body like popped corks; the rage champagne and feral glee were foaming out.

I can have the paperwork sent over to you first thing in the morning. I gotta tell you. I never thought that you would do it, but you surprised me, I knew you could do it. Congratulations,” he said as he reached into his miniature fridge behind him, pulling out a bottle of champagne. He popped the cork, and it ruptured all over the carpet.

Do you like it?' he repeated, and his lips tugged into a smile. I took an uneven breath and stared at the glen again. 'Yes.' He chuckled. 'That's it? 'Yes'?' 'Would you like me to grovel with gratitude for bringing me here, High Lord?' 'Ah. The Suriel told you nothing important, did it?' That smile of his sparked something bold in my chest. 'He also said that you like being brushed, and if I'm a clever girl, I might train you with treats.' Tamlin tipped his head to the sky and roared with laughter. Despite myself, I let out a soft laugh. 'I might die of surprise,' Lucien said behind me. 'You made a joke, Feyre.' I turned to look at him with a cool smile. 'You don't want to know what the Suriel said about you.' I flicked my brows up, and Lucien lifted his hands in defeat. 'I'd pay good money to hear what the Suriel thinks of Lucien,' Tamlin said. A cork popped, followed by the sounds of Lucien chugging the bottle's contents and chuckling with a muttered. 'Brushed.

Like the pop of a champagne cork, bursting shapes suggest the release of energy under pressure, which mirrors the sudden outpouring of joy that happens during a celebration. So it’s not surprising that we often find bursting elements used to create a celebratory atmosphere. Chief among these are fireworks, which historians believe have been used since 200 B.C. in China.

Writing a novel is hard work but it feels great to have the printed copy in my hand. Tonight I celebrate with the Laneway Press team who have helped me so very much. Prepare for the popping of corks!

At the Post, we received a lot of unpleasant phone calls, many readers expressing the sentiment that they imagined we were all popping champagne corks to celebrate the result we had wanted from the beginning—in short, the “I-hope-you’re-satisfied” school of thought.

Let me put it another way. There is a “stupid peace” and then there is a “smart peace.” The stupid peace comes from refusing to think about your overall situation. If you go that way, you can pop a cork, sit under a tree or on the beach, and try not to think about the grand scheme of things.

WHAT—” He shot upright, flinging her off-balance. She teetered for a moment, before keeling over and landing with her bottom solidly wedged in the waste paper basket. “Lisa! Are you alright? I’m so sorry.” Awkwardly, brain still sleep-numb, he tried to pull her up and overbalanced himself. He landed on top of her, sending them both rolling. As she rolled on top of him, the bin popped off her rear like a cork.

Kitty was torn when it came to their arrival in Cork. The only way they could stay on schedule was by splitting up. While Ambrose and Eugene went to the butterfly symposium at Cork University, Achar and Jedrek went to Cork English Market where the Irish food board, Bord Bia, had arranged a corporate adjudicator from Guinness World Records to recognise the largest number of people dressed as eggs ever to gather in the same place. This was part of a scheme to promote the local organic egg farmers. Kitty knew that she needed to be at both events, and that Steve needed to be too, and so she quickly hopped off the bus on a mission to push her way through the people dressed as eggs, their faces popping out of holes in the egg costumes, their legs in gold spandex leggings, to find the adjudicator. Jedrek and Achar were searching just as anxiously

When we walk in, everybody turns to look at us. Pres looks down at our joined hands and then looks to Knox. I open my mouth to say something, but he beats me to it. Of course he does. “Yo. Little announcement here. Violent Violet and I are together. She’s my old lady and I’m her old man. Yada yada yada, we’re getting married. So there’s that.” I look at him, and I feel my jaw pop open. “Did you just yada yada your proposal to me?” Knox shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Wasn’t going to let you tell me no.” The big scarred-up guy comes over and gives him a high five. “Best way to do it,” he says and pats Knox on the back. “About time you made an honest man out of him,” Pres says, walking over and giving me a hug. I feel Knox’s hand tighten, and he doesn’t let it go while I awkwardly try to hug the guy back. “We’re all a family here now, and it’s going to stay that way. We agreed that you’re patched in, regardless if you marry this nerd or not.” I lean into Knox and laugh. “Thank you.” “Welcome to the Ghost Riders,” Pres says, and suddenly I hear a champagne cork pop and we’re all being sprayed with suds. I try to turn into Knox’s chest, but he holds me in front of him so I get covered. As more champagne is popped and more bottles get poured, Knox spins me in his arms and raises me up so we are at eye level. “I love you, baby,” he says, kissing me on the lips. ‘Love you, too,” I mumble as I wrap myself around him. I’m finally at peace with myself and my life, and I’ve got someone to always make me feel safe. It was a long time coming, but it was worth the wait. And now we’ve got the rest of our lives to do this thing we call love.

The loud pop of the champagne cork sounded like a claxon and Tory shrugged as she filled two glasses. “Everyone hates us for this anyway,” she murmured to me. “So we might as well have a drink.

Imagine you're on a boat that's bobbing under a bright sun. There's not a cloud in the sky above you, not even a wisp, and everywhere you look, clear water's dancing with light. You fill your lungs with air, as much as they'll hold, and then you draw a little more -- then you dive. You break into cool water and the sound of bubbles fills your ears as the heat of the day vanishes from your skin. Then quiet rushes in and your thoughts grow louder, louder, louder, till all you hear is yourself and the deep hum of the sea. If you stretch out like an arrow and kick, the first fathom's over quick. Now you're in the second fathom and your body wants to pop up like a cork. Kick with all your might down to the third. The water feels a little colder, and your ears ache like they'll burst. It's best to push the pressure out or it'll only hurt worse as you go deeper. The fourth and fifth's just kicking and swimming and letting go of some of the sunlight behind you. The sixth, you might panic a bit, thinking you need to breathe, but you don't. There's more breath in you than you think, so keep swimming 'cause you're almost there. Then, suddenly, you are. In the seventh fathom the sea's no longer wanting to spit you out. It wraps you up like a blanket, and you can relax and float now 'cause it's got you. It's holding you and you can just stay there, nothing pulling at you. Nothing pushing. Your heart beats real slow and you feel so calm, like you're drifting in a wakeful sleep. Now you can do your best daydreaming, 'cause it feels a little like you already are.