Sausage Machine Quotes

A party is like a sausage machine, it grinds up all sorts of heads together into the same baloney ...

Litigation – A machine which you go into as a pig and come out of as a sausage.

Several sellers of hot meat pies and sausages in a bun had appeared from nowhere and were doing a brisk trade. [Footnote: They always do, everywhere. No-one sees them arrive. The logical explaination is that the franchise includes the stall, the paper hat and a small gas-powered time machine.]

Oskar knew people would catch that trolley anyhow. Doors closed, no stops, machine guns on walls—it wouldn’t matter. Humans were incurable that way. People would try to get off it, someone’s loyal Polish maid with a parcel of sausage. And people would try to get on, some fast-moving athletic young man like Leopold Pfefferberg with a pocketful of diamonds or Occupation złoty or a message in code for the partisans. People responded to any slim chance, even if it was an outside one, its doors locked shut, moving fast between mute walls.

Our metaphors for the operation of the brain are frequently drawn from the production line. We think of the brain as a glorified sausage machine, taking in information from the senses, processing it and regurgitating it in a different form, as thoughts or actions. The digital computer reinforces this idea because it is quite explicitly a machine that does to information what a sausage machine does to pork. Indeed, the brain was the original inspiration and metaphor for the development of the digital computer, and early computers were often described as 'giant brains'. Unfortunately, neuroscientists have sometimes turned this analogy on its head, and based their models of brain function on the workings of the digital computer (for example by assuming that memory is separate and distinct from processing, as it is in a computer). This makes the whole metaphor dangerously self-reinforcing.

Bludgeoning, but the puppy is only to be hit exactly 7 times, and once this is completed, exactly 33.55 kg of Kingsford brand charcoal is to be placed on the puppy. 3 Samsung Galaxy s6 mobile phones are to placed around the puppy in a triangular formation, and each phone is to have both "Premium Tetris" and "Dog Barking Translator" installed on them. Once this is done, put a thermonuclear bomb inside the machine that is exactly 3 cm in width and 10 cm in height, and it is to be placed on the second Samsung Galaxy s6 placed in there. It is to be detonated using a functioning remote control made entirely out of sausages.

LITIGANT, n. A person about to give up his skin for the hope of retaining his bones. LITIGATION, n. A machine which you go into as a pig and come out of as a sausage.

Two days earlier, the United States of America had successfully launched its first Space Hotel, a gigantic sausage-shaped capsule no less than one thousand feet long. It was called Space Hotel “U.S.A.” and it was the marvel of the space age. It had inside it a tennis court, a swimming pool, a gymnasium, a children’s playroom and five hundred luxury bedrooms, each with a private bath. It was fully air-conditioned. It was also equipped with a gravity-making machine so that you didn’t float about inside it. You could walk normally.

Marvin: Look, look, no, just think. They left me - an ordinary, menial robot - to stop you - a gigantic, heavy-duty battle machine - whilst they ran off to save themselves... What do you think they would leave me with? Frogstar Robot: Well, er, something pretty damn devastating I would expect. Marvin: Expect? Oh yes, expect. I'll tell you what they gave me to protect myself with, shall I? Frogstar Robot: Yes all right. Marvin: Nothing. Frogstar Robot: What? Marvin: Nothing at all. Not an electronic sausage. Frogstar Robot: Well, doesn't that just take the biscuit!

Sis rolls her eyes and leads the elderly lady over to the S-shaped tables crammed with silver trays of ham biscuits, pickled shrimp, stuffed mushrooms, venison pate, fruit and cheese in ornately carved-out watermelons, smoked salmon with all the trimmings, sausage balls, and pimento cheese garnished with little cocktail pickles. Sis's mama gets a nibble of shrimp and a ham biscuit and points to another corner of the tent where Richadene's brother, Melvin, is carving a beef tenderloin and serving it on rolls with horseradish and mayonnaise. Next to Melvin, R.L.'s chef friend from Savannah is serving up shrimp and grits in large martini glasses.

The way you see the change in a person you've been away from for a long time, where somebody who sees him every day, day in, day out, wouldn't notice because the change is gradual. All up the coast I could see the signs of what the Combine had accomplished since I was last through this country, things like, for example a train stopping at a station and laying a string of full-grown men in mirrored suits and machined hats, laying them like a hatch of identical insects, half-life things coming pht-pht-pht out of the last car, then hooting its electric whistle and moving on down the spoiled land to deposit another hatch. Or things like five thousand houses punched out identical by a machine and strung across the hills outside of town, so fresh from the factory theyre still linked together like sausages, a sign saying NEST IN THE WEST HOMES NO DWN. PAYMENT FOR VETS, a playground down the hill from the houses, behind a checker-wire fence and another sign that read ST. LUKE'S SCHOOL FOR BOYS there were five thousand kids in green corduroy pants and white shirts under green pullover sweaters playing crack-the-whip across an acre of crushed gravel. The line popped and twisted and jerked like a snake, and every crack popped a little kid off the end, sent him rolling up against the fence like a tumbleweed. Every crack. And it was always the same little kid, over and over. All that five thousand kids lived in those five thousand houses, owned by those guys that got off the train. The houses looked so much alike that, time and time again, the kids went home by mistake to different houses and different families. Nobody ever noticed. They ate and went to bed. The only one they noticed was the little kid at the end of the whip. He'd always be so scuffed and bruised that he'd show up out of place wherever he went. He wasn't able to open up and laugh either. It's a hard thing to laugh if you can feel the pressure of those beams coming from every new car that passes, or every new house you pass.

Everyone jumps to their stations and I meet Richard and Amanda at ours. We're in charge of assembling spoonfuls of sweet-potato casserole but with a Spanish twist. That was my idea, a Southern holiday meal meets a twist of southern Spain. Most of the hors d'oeuvres were prepared beforehand so we just need to get them in the oven and put on the finishing garnishes. I begin scooping sweet-potato casserole onto ceramic serving spoons while Richard garnishes them with sugared walnuts and Spanish sausage. Three months ago, most of us had never even tried Spanish cuisine, and today we're hosting a semi-Spanish-themed banquet. We work like machines. I spoon and pass the bite to my left. Richard adds walnuts and sausage, and passes the plate. Amanda adds parsley and cleans the plate. Chili aioli would make this bomb. A sweet and savory bite. I almost walk to the spice cabinet, then stop myself. That's not the recipe. We make trays and trays of food; some are set forward for the students who will begin serving. These are the skewers of winter veggies and single-serve portions of herbed stuffing with jamón ibérico- the less hearty bites. While the first course is being distributed the rest of us begin wiping down our stations. Our mini bites of sweet potato and mac and cheese will be going out next.

Fifty miles out of Prague, the halved carcass of a freshly killed hog hangs, still steaming in the cold, from what looks like a child’s swing set. It’s a wet, drizzling morning and your feet are sopping and you’ve been warming yourself against the chill by huddling around the small fire over which a pot of pig parts boils. The butcher’s family and friends are drinking slivovitz and beer, and though noon is still a few hours off, you’ve had quite a few of both. Someone calls you inside to the tiled workspace, where the butcher has mixed the pig’s blood with cooked onions and spices and crumbs of country bread, and he’s ready to fill the casings. Usually, they slip the casing over a metal tube, turn on the grinding machine, cram in the forcemeat or filling, and the sausages fill like magic. This guy does it differently. He chops everything by hand. A wet mesa of black filling covers his cutting board, barely retaining its shape—yet he grabs the casing in one hand, puts two fingers in one open end, makes the “V” sign, stretching it disturbingly, and reaches with the other—then buries both his hands in the mix. A whirlwind of movement as he squeezes with his right hand, using his palm like a funnel, somehow squirting the bloody, barely containable stuff straight into the opening. He does this again and again with breathtaking speed, mowing his way across the wooden table, like a thresher cutting a row through a cornfield, a long, plump, rapidly growing, glistening, fully filled length of sausage engorging to his left as he moves. It’s a dark, purplish color through the translucent membrane. An assistant pinches off links, pins them with broken bits of wooden skewer. In moments, they are done.

FAT-BURNING BREAKFAST MENUS Fat-Burning Breakfast 1 HEARTY OMELET 2 whole eggs, or 1 egg with 2 egg whites 1 ounce shredded cheese 1/4 cup chopped tomatoes and onions Cook in 1 tablespoon olive oil Carb options: 1 slice whole-wheat toast or English muffin General options: Replace chopped tomatoes and onions with 1 grilled tomato Replace chopped tomatoes and onions with 1/2 avocado Replace cheese with 1 slice ham or 1 sausage Replace cheese with 1 tablespoon butter for toast or English muffin Fat-Burning Breakfast 2 *SALMON BREAKFAST SOUFFLÉ Carb options: 1/2 cup berries or apple slices, or 1/2 cup oatmeal, or 1/2 cup high-fiber cereal Fat-Burning Breakfast 3 OMEGA-3 FISH BREAKFAST 4–6 ounces fish (cod, salmon, tuna, trout, or tilapia), grilled, baked, or sautéed 1 tablespoon olive oil 1 cup fresh vegetables (such as mushrooms, broccoli, bell peppers, or onions) 1 cup whole-fat or 2% cottage cheese Carb options: 1 apple or 1 cup cantaloupe slices, or 1/2 cup rice Fat-Burning Breakfast 4 GREEK YOGURT DELIGHT 1 cup whole-fat or 2% Greek yogurt, topped with cinnamon and 1/4 cup raw, unsalted nuts (almonds, walnuts, cashews, macadamias, or pecans) Carb options: 1/2 cup fresh berries (blueberries, raspberries, blackberries, strawberries) or 1/2 cup cooked steel-cut or 5-minute oatmeal Fat-Burning Breakfast 5 VEGGIE-EGG SCRAMBLE 2 eggs with 1 tablespoon butter or olive oil, scrambled with tomato, zucchini, onion, and green pepper Carb options: 1 slice whole-wheat toast or 1/2 cup fresh berries (blueberries, raspberries, blackberries, strawberries) General options: Choose other vegetables, such as mushrooms, spinach, or kale Add 1 tablespoon butter for toast Fat-Burning Breakfast 6 TRADITIONAL EGGS 2 eggs scrambled or pan-fried in 1 tablespoon olive oil 1 slice lean deli ham or Canadian bacon 1/2 sliced avocado Carb options: 1 slice whole-wheat toast, 1/2 English muffin, 1/2 cup cooked quinoa, or 1/2 cup long-grain brown rice General options: Replace avocado with sliced tomatoes Replace avocado with roasted sweet potato Add 1 tablespoon butter for toast or English muffin Fat-Burning Breakfast 7 *STEVE’S EASY EGG WHITE SOUFFLÉ 5 roasted asparagus spears 1/2 sliced tomato Carb options: 1 slice toast or 1/2 English muffin

Marvin stood there. ‘Out of my way little robot,’ growled the tank. ‘I’m afraid,’ said Marvin, ‘that I’ve been left here to stop you.’ The probe extended again for a quick recheck. It withdrew again. ‘You? Stop me?’ roared the tank, ‘Go on!’ ‘No, really I have,’ said Marvin simply. ‘What are you armed with?’ roared the tank in disbelief. ‘Guess,’ said Marvin. The tank’s engines rumbled, its gears ground. Molecule-sized electronic relays deep in its micro-brain flipped backwards and forwards in consternation. ‘Guess?’ said the tank. ‘Yes, go on,’ said Marvin to the huge battle machine, ‘you’ll never guess.’ ‘Errrmmm …’ said the machine, vibrating with unaccustomed thought, ‘laser beams?’ Marvin shook his head solemnly. ‘No,’ muttered the machine in its deep gutteral rumble, ‘Too obvious. Anti-matter ray?’ it hazarded. ‘Far too obvious,’ admonished Marvin. ‘Yes,’ grumbled the machine, somewhat abashed, ‘Er … how about an electron ram?’ This was new to Marvin. ‘What’s that?’ he said. ‘One of these,’ said the machine with enthusiasm. From its turret emerged a sharp prong which spat a single lethal blaze of light. Behind Marvin a wall roared and collapsed as a heap of dust. The dust billowed briefly, then settled. ‘No,’ said Marvin, ‘not one of those.’ ‘Good though, isn’t it?’ ‘Very good,’ agreed Marvin. ‘I know,’ said the Frogstar battle machine, after another moment’s consideration, ‘you must have one of those new Xanthic Re-Structron Destabilized Zenon Emitters!’ 'Nice, aren’t they?’ agreed Marvin. ‘That’s what you’ve got?’ said the machine in condiderable awe. ‘No,’ said Marvin. ‘Oh,’ said the machine, disappointed, ‘then it must be …’ ‘You’re thinking along the wrong lines,’ said Marvin, ‘You’re failing to take into account something fairly basic in the relationship between men and robots.’ ‘Er, I know,’ said the battle machine, 'is it … ’ it tailed off into thought again. ‘Just think,’ urged Marvin, ‘they left me, an ordinary, menial robot, to stop you, a gigantic heavy-duty battle machine, whilst they ran off to save themselves. What do you think they would leave me with?’ ‘Oooh er,’ muttered the machine in alarm, ‘something pretty damn devastating I should expect.’ ‘Expect!’ said Marvin. ‘Oh yes, expect. I’ll tell you what they gave me to protect myself with shall I?’ ‘Yes, alright,’ said the battle machine, bracing itself. ‘Nothing,’ said Marvin. There was a dangerous pause. 'Nothing?’ roared the battle machine. ‘Nothing at all,’ intoned Marvin dismally, ‘not an electronic sausage.’ The machine heaved about with fury. ‘Well doesn’t that just take the biscuit!’ it roared, ‘Nothing, eh?’ Just don’t think, do they?’ ‘And me,’ said Marvin in a soft low voice, ‘with this terrible pain in all the diodes down my left side.’ ‘Makes you spit, doesn’t it?’ ‘Yes,’ agreed Marvin with feeling. ‘Hell that makes me angry,’ bellowed the machine, ‘think I’ll smash that wall down!’ The electron ram stabbed out another searing blaze of light and took out the wall next to the machine. ‘How do you think I feel?’ said Marvin bitterly. ‘Just ran off and left you did they?’ the Machine thundered. ‘Yes,’ said Marvin. ‘I think I’ll shoot down their bloody ceiling as well!’ raged the tank. It took out the ceiling of the bridge. ‘That’s very impressive,’ murmured Marvin. ‘You ain’t seen nothing yet,’ promised the machine, ‘I can take out this floor too, no trouble!’ It took out the floor too. ‘Hells bells!’ the machine roared as it plummeted fifteen storeys and smashed itself to bits on the ground below. ‘What a depressingly stupid machine,’ said Marvin and trudged away.

there’s a silver lining. The Van Rapists are still on the loose. I’m going to look for them. Not yet, but soon. I’m going to take the cleaver. Been itching to try it out. I wonder if it’s brought down hard enough on a limb whether it will sever completely or just in half. Depends how much force is applied, I suppose. There are some things I remember from school science class. Also, Dan Wells’s mother, in conjunction with the police, has put up a £20,000 reward for information into the circumstances of his death (i.e. who cut his cock off). No one has come forward thus far but this is a trifle worrying. Not a full cause for concern yet but it has definitely put me back in the woods. AJ wanted to go to The Basement for lunch, which is a student hang-out with a sticky floor, tub-thumping house music and where they serve smoothies, tuna melts and syphillis. I suggested The Roast House – an independent coffee shop in Periwinkle Lane, more befitting to my sensitive tastes. They play soft jazz, have comfy seat cushions and, if you can handle the constant gnashing of dentures on stale fruit cake, it’s a nice place to just sit and watch the world. They don’t have fancy barista machines so there isn’t the incessant clanking or pissing steam that you get in the chains. It was a nice day so we sat and had a coffee then grabbed some sausage and caramelised onion ‘sangers’, and took them over to the churchyard. I told him about the tramp

Orlaith asks as we return to the tree. Germany. You know they have sausages in vending machines there?

This was Scotland in 1950: coast to coast Jock Tamson's bairns stood or sat, lugs cocked to the wireless for news from home and abroad, from Borlanslogie, from Korea, or tuned in for The McFlannels on a Saturday night, or It's All Yours on a Monday with young Jimmy Logan doing the daft laddie Sammy Dreep, sluttering 'Sausages is the boys!' This was Scotland in 1950: land of 250 pits and 80,000 colliers, 100,000 farmworkers and four universities: land of Singer sewing machines in Clydebank, the Saxone Shoe Company in Kilmarnock, Cox Brothers jute mills in Dundee and the North British Locomotive Company in Springburn, every town and city and every part of every city with it own industries and hard-won skills... This was the land of Leyland Tiger buses from Thurso to Dalbeattie, and double-deckers crowding the city trams towards oblivion, or grandiose department stores and miserable slums, tearooms and single-ends, savage sectarianism and gloomy gentility, no-quarter football and stultifying Sundays.

Just feed your criminal into the machine and his cremated ashes fall out the other end in a plastic Chimu Funeral Urn. Infallible electronic jurisprudence prevent miscarriages and Suburbia is spared screams for mercy or some nausea artist strip on the gallows with a hard-on, scream, 'I'm ready for a meet with my maker!' and leer at the doctor so nasty or roll around the gas chamber floor shitting and ejaculating, while the sheriff whimpers at the witness slot - and who want to see the prick turn red like an old blood sausage and burst open when the switch goes home? The machine does it all, folks.