Short Champagne Quotes

Kilgore Trout once wrote a short story which was a dialogue between two pieces of yeast. They were discussing the possible purposes of life as they ate sugar and suffocated in their own excrement. Because of their limited intelligence, they never came close to guessing that they were making champagne.

It was love, I knew, and it tasted like champagne in my mind.

Like everybody else in the cocktail lounge, he was softening his brain with alcohol. This was a substance produced by a tiny creature called yeast. Yeast organisms ate sugar and excreted alcohol. They killed themselves by destroying their environment. Kilgore Trout once wrote a short story which was a dialogue between two pieces of yeast. They were discussing the possible purposes of life as they ate sugar and suffocated in their own excrement. Because of their limited intelligence, they never came close to guessing that they were making champagne.

Here’s to a tasty lunch,” she says, winking at me. It’s the strangest thing, but I actually feel my body respond to her. Beneath their lace prison, my nipples harden and send a jolt of arousal across my midriff and down to my thighs. I take a long sip of champagne and eye Rachel hungrily. I can’t be sure if it’s the alcohol or the company but I already feel giddy.

[The party] was held at her cousin's house and it lasted for three days. For the duration, they all slept only from dawn to noon and lived on little but oysters and champagne and pastry. Each evening there was music and dancing, and then late in the nights, under a moon growing to full, they went out on the slow water in rowing boats. It was a strange time of war fever, and even young men previously considered dull and charmless suddenly acquired an aura of glamour shimmering about them, for they all suspected that shortly many of them would be dead. During those brief days and nights, any man that wished might become somebody's darling.

In the same way it may be said that a man endowed with great mental gifts leads, apart from the individual life common to all, a second life, purely of the intellect. He devotes himself to the constant increase, rectification and extension, not of mere learning, but of real systematic knowledge and insight; and remains untouched by the fate that overtakes him personally, so long as it does not disturb him in his work. It is thus a life which raises a man and sets him above fate and its changes. Always thinking, learning, experimenting, practicing his knowledge, the man soon comes to look upon this second life as the chief mode of existence, and his merely personal life as something subordinate, serving only to advance ends higher than itself. An example of this independent, separate existence is furnished by Geothe. During the war in the Champagne, and amid all the bustle of the camp, he made observations for his theory of color; and as soon as the numberless calamities of that war allowed of his retiring for a short time to the fortress of Luxembourg, he took up the manuscript of his Farbenlehre. This is an example which we, the salt of the earth, should endeavor to follow, by never letting anything disturb us in the pursuit of our intellectual life, however much the storm of the world may invade and agitate our personal environment; always remembering that we are the songs, not of the bondwoman, but of the free.

A breakfast recorded by the Duke of Wellington consisted of ‘two pigeons and three beefsteaks, three parts of a bottle of Mozelle, a glass of champagne, two glasses of port and a glass of brandy’ – and this was when he was feeling a little under the weather.

Peter smiled as Concheetah sashayed across the ballroom floor Concheetah sashayed towards him, wriggling her hips, full lips in a pout, followed obediently by the tentative, Tapping Ted dressed in tight shorts and singlet. Tapping? Tapping because he always wore conspicuous, tap-dancing shoes in the club. Was Ted going to rip up the stage as a mincing Irish dancer or maybe perform a Gene Kelly routine or the Swan Lake ballet in taps? It was terrible to imagine. Peter bit his lip at that thought, hoping he wouldn’t burst into howls of laughter. He had noted after coming to several shows, that Ted usually stood at the side of the stage ready with a drink of champagne and an encouraging word and a dry towel to mop Her Highness’s face. And he always cried during the show’s finale, Abba’s Dancing Queen. Poor Tapping Ted.

Shortly after becoming a Christian, I counseled a woman who was in a closeted lesbian relationship and a member of a Bible-believing church. No one in her church knew. Therefore, no one in her church was praying for her. Therefore, she sought and received no counsel. There was no “bearing one with the other” for her. No confession. No repentance. No healing. No joy in Christ. Just isolation. And shame. And pretense. Someone had sold her the pack of lies that said that God can heal your lying tongue or your broken heart, even cure your cancer if he chooses, but he can’t transform your sexuality. I told her that my heart breaks for her isolation and shame and asked her why she didn’t share her struggle with anyone in her church. She said: “Rosaria, if people in my church really believed that gay people could be transformed by Christ, they wouldn’t talk about us or pray about us in the hateful way that they do.” Christian reader, is this what people say about you when they hear you talk and pray? Do your prayers rise no higher than your prejudice? I think that churches would be places of greater intimacy and growth in Christ if people stopped lying about what we need, what we fear, where we fail, and how we sin. I think that many of us have a hard time believing the God we believe in, when the going gets tough. And I suspect that, instead of seeking counsel and direction from those stronger in the Lord, we retreat into our isolation and shame and let the sin wash over us, defeating us again. Or maybe we muscle through on our pride. Do we really believe that the word of God is a double-edged sword, cutting between the spirit and the soul? Or do we use the word of God as a cue card to commandeer only our external behavior?

Getting ready on the day of launch takes much longer than you’d think it would, like so many aspects of spaceflight. First I take a final trip to the banya to relax, then go through the preflight enema ritual—our guts shut down in space initially, so the Russians encourage us to get things cleaned out ahead of time. The cosmonauts have their doctors do this, with warm water and rubber hoses, but I opt for the drugstore type in private, which lets me maintain a comfortable friendship with my flight surgeon. I savor a bath in the Jacuzzi tub, then a nap (because our launch is scheduled for 1:42 a.m. local time). When I wake, I take a shower, lingering awhile. I know how much I’ll miss the feeling of water for the next year. The Russian flight surgeon we call “Dr. No” shows up shortly after I’m out of the shower. He is called Dr. No because he gets to decide whether our families can see us once we’re in quarantine. His decisions are arbitrary, sometimes mean-spirited, and absolute. He is here to wipe down our entire bodies with alcohol wipes. The original idea behind the alcohol swab-down was to kill any germs trying to stow away with space travelers, but now it seems like just another ritual. After a champagne toast with senior management and our significant others, we sit in silence for a minute, a Russian tradition before a long trip. As we leave the building, a Russian Orthodox priest will bless us and throw holy water into each of our faces. Every cosmonaut since Yuri Gagarin has gone through each of these steps, so we will go through them, too. I’m not religious, but I always say that when you’re getting ready to be rocketed into space, a blessing can’t hurt.

started without losing any more precious time. I might have expected that my best friend getting married would require endless discussions about which florist to use and what would be the best hors d’oeuvres to serve with the champagne. There is almost none of that. Greg’s ludicrously short timescale puts paid to any gentle deliberation. Instead we both seem to be running a solo race to our own goals. More than once I regret that the whole wedding-preparation thing is not turning out the way I had imagined, but it can’t be helped. There is just no time to waste chatting. Apart from making the dress, the main event as far as I am concerned is the shopping trip to buy the bridesmaid dresses. There will be three of us: me and Greg’s two nieces, who are to be flower girls. Beth

For the billionaires, champagne baths every morning and new Lamborghinis every afternoon couldn’t deplete the fathomless amount of cash on hand. “Your entire philosophy of money changes,” writes author Richard Frank in his book, Richistan. “You realize that you can’t possibly spend all of your fortune, or even part of it, in your lifetime, and that your money will probably grow over the years even if you spend lavishly.” There are dotcom entrepreneurs who could live top 1 percent American lifestyles and not run out of cash for 4,000 years. People who Bill Simmons would call “pajama rich,” so rich they can go to a five-star restaurant or sit courtside at the NBA playoffs in their pajamas. They have so much money that they have nothing to prove to anyone. And many of them are totally depressed. You’ll remember the anecdote I shared in this book’s introduction about being too short to reach between the Olympic rings at the playground jungle gym. I had to jump to grab the first ring and then swing like a pendulum in order to reach the next ring. To get to the third ring, I had to use the momentum from the previous swing to keep going. If I held on to the previous ring too long, I’d stop and wouldn’t be able to get enough speed to reach the next ring. This is Isaac Newton’s first law of motion at work: objects in motion tend to stay in motion, unless acted on by external forces. Once you start swinging, it’s easier to keep swinging than to slow down. The problem with some rapid success, it turns out, is that lucky breaks like Bear Vasquez’s YouTube success or an entrepreneur cashing out on an Internet wave are like having someone lift you up so you can grab one of the Olympic rings. Even if you get dropped off somewhere far along the chain, you’re stuck in one spot. Financial planners say that this is why a surprisingly high percentage of the rapidly wealthy get depressed. As therapist Manfred Kets de Vries once put it in an interview with The Telegraph, “When money is available in near-limitless quantities, the victim sinks into a kind of inertia.

When I die I hope that there will be laughter. I hope that champagne will be served. I hope that people wear red. And I hope when people speak of me that this is what they will say: She hugged too hard. She laughed too loud. She felt too much. She swore too much. She talked too much. She wore heels that were too tall. She wore skirts that were too short. She had too many tattoos. She made too many inappropriate jokes. She asked too many questions. She drank too much caffeine. She drank too much wine. She made peace with being too much for too many. She was overdressed. She was never early. She couldn’t sing but that never stopped her. She couldn’t sew. She couldn’t bake. She couldn’t be contained. She never had a shortage of people in her kitchen. She made her own traditions. She stopped using her voice for apologies unearned. She loved with reckless abandon. She tried to see the whole world. She tried to save the corners that she could. She tried to give her children deep roots and wide wings. She fell. She rose. She danced. She unraveled. She let go. She evolved. She carried herself as though she was made of feathers. She never smoothed her wild edges. She never stopped writing new chapters. She never stopped chasing the light. She was a tangled mess. She was strong. She was fierce. She was brave. She was a badass. She dreamed out loud. Her friends were her soulmates. The ocean was her therapy. Grace was her religion. Imperfection was her backbone. Forgiveness was her freedom. She lived like there was magic enveloped in the every day. She lived like there would never be enough time. She lived like there was fire in her veins. She lived.

He eyed her hungrily. "Now, eat your cake or whatever it is and try to be a good girl." "It's German apple puff, for your information. Have you tried it? It's delicious. Here." She leaned slowly across the table and fed him a bite from her spoon. He helped himself to a leisurely look at her décolletage as he opened his mouth and accepted. "Mm. That is good." "Told you so." Her eyes twinkled as she leaned back in her chair in leisurely contentment. "I thought you said a while ago you had no room left for the sweets." "I'm pacing myself. Besides---" She took another dainty nibble off her dessert spoon. "There were no corsets in the trunk of goodies your servants brought me, so, you see, I'm wonderfully free to make a glutton of myself." This little fact arrested his full attention. His stare homed in on her figure--- what he could see of it over the table. "You mean...?" "Indeed, Your Grace. Tonight, I go au naturel." She laughed like she enjoyed teasing him and took another remorseless bite of German apple puff. Rohan watched her with strange sensations of delight. God, she was a maddening woman. An unpredictable blend of innocence and passion. Intelligent, mercurial. Her prickly side amused him, but he liked her even better like this, open and relaxed. Uncorseted. In her scintillating humor, she threw off light like the candle glow as it played over the cut-crystal facets of their wine goblets. In short, she enchanted him. Maybe she had inherited some of her ancestor Valerian's magic. Rohan had a feeling he was doomed. He could sense a most unforeseen bond growing between them and did not know what to make of it. "Staring again, Your Grace?" "I've just decided you are rather naughty. And I like it." She shrugged. "You said we were celebrating. Anyway, it's your fault. If you wanted me to behave, you shouldn't have made me try so many wines." "Why on earth would I want that?" he asked softly. "Hm." She caught a bead of condensation running down the shaft of her narrow champagne flute on her fingertip and brought it to her lips. Damn, but just watching her got him hard.

a bottle of champagne after establishing that she does indeed want bubbles. I’ll let her enjoy a glass before I bring up the topic I know will raise a flush to the surface of that slim, golden neck. But she beats me to it, in a roundabout way, when she asks me what I actually do for a living. ‘I know about one bit, obviously.’ She looks down at her glass. ‘But I’m sure Mummy told me you were in finance.’ ‘Yeah. I definitely didn’t tell your mum I owned a sex club,’ I deadpan, and she giggles. ‘So what else do you do?’ ‘I started out in M&A. Worked my arse off. Learnt how to model a company from scratch. Then I went to a hedge fund for a while. Ran some long-short funds.’ I take a sip of champagne. ‘A few years ago, I left with some mates and we struck out on our own. Now we run our own money and we provide leverage for other people who want to do the same.’ She scrunches up her nose. ‘You mean you lend them money?’ ‘Exactly. So they can take riskier positions. We also provide their infrastructure. Trading systems. Compliance. That sort of thing.’ ‘And what do you trade?’ ‘A bit of everything. The way my mates and I have organised things, everyone has their own expertise. Mine’s equity and corporate debt. That’s what I learnt in M&A. Some of the others

The grouches thought us wicked, an absolute disgrace to all the rules of the older generation. We threw extravagant parties to excess, laughed a little too vulgarly, traipsed about London in costume on elaborate treasure hunts, drank an unhealthy amount of champagne and showed entirely too much ankle and leg. In short, the Great War was over, and we were determined to enjoy ourselves.

The Bancroft Peach Bellini 2 ripe peaches, seeded and diced 1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice 1 teaspoon sugar 1 bottle chilled Prosecco sparkling wine Directions Place the peaches, lemon juice, and sugar in the bowl of a food processor fitted with a steel blade and process until smooth. Press the mixture through a sieve, and discard the peach solids in the sieve. Place two tablespoons of the peach puree into each champagne glass and fill with cold Prosecco. Serve immediately. Hawaiian BBQ Short Ribs 1 package pork spare ribs 4 tablespoons of your favorite brand of dry rib rub 1 cup light brown sugar 2 cups Welch’s Essentials Orange, Pineapple, Apple Juice Cocktail 1 16-ounce can chunked pineapple, with its juice 4 tablespoons light yellow mustard 1 cup Hawaiian BBQ sauce Directions Sprinkle both sides of the spare ribs with dry rib rub and light brown sugar.

We bring champagne to Franklin and Jeffrey, and I offer a final toast, 'Wishing you all good things in your life together.' Short, simple, to the point. I look at Meredith, relaxed in her ivory gown, my sister is all grown up. I'm grateful we did our growing up together.

Kilgore Trout once wrote a short story which was a dialogue between two pieces of yeast. They were discussing the possible purposes of life as they ate sugar and suffocated in their own excrement. Because of their limited intelligence, they never came close to guessing that they were making champagne

I’ve got my wife, Judy, in the car,” John said. “I’ve heard of her,“ a young man shouted from the crowd. “What you heard about her is not true,” John replied. “They never went to bed.” Smokey was astonished. John was crazy drunk, making no sense. “This guy is a killer,” John said, pointing at Smokey and throwing the problem of the stranger his way. Smokey backed away and guided John outside. “What the hell was that about Judy?” Smokey asked. “It’s between us,” John replied. In the limousine, the others were drinking champagne. “ I’m tired of you fooling around ,” John said to Judy. She threw her glass of champagne in his face. John leapt out of the car and ran toward the club. Smokey followed and grabbed John in a full body embrace, locking his arms at his side. “Let me celebrate my birthday!” John yelled. He broke loose, turned and clutched Smokey’s jacket. “You piss me off,” he said. “Don’t ever grab me again—never, never!” Smokey nodded. They walked to the car. Before they had driven the four blocks to Morton Street, John had passed out. Smokey carried him inside, undressed him and put him into bed.

When reexamining her short life from a distance of twenty years, I found lessons about a dysfunctional culture and how woman struggle to build a life within a patriarchal society. The The nineties' media morphed into a newly minted sensation factory in which the burden of leading a public existence went from tolerable to excruciating for both Carolyn and John. While one part of the culture was basking in a champagne supernova of pared-down chic, another British music invasion, and languid cool, the tabloids began a feeding frenzy that forgot the objects of their fascination were human beings.

They were drinking champagne from narrow glasses. A fat woman with very short hair was making a speech. Julie felt as if she’d travelled to a new country, as if these were exotic creatures

How does a woman like you stay single?” She grabs a glass of champagne off a tray and smiles at me. “I just haven’t found a guy that can keep me captivated. I’m not willing to settle for anything short of complete devotion. I want epic love, and I’m willing to wait for it.

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.

Pero creo que si todas las mujeres hablasen lo que piensan, como hice yo por culpa del champagne, más de cuatro y más de ocho se verían peor que esta individua".

Así es que ellos en confianza trataron y arreglaron la boda, y un día, encontrándome yo bien descuidada..., ¡a casarse!, y no vale replicar".

When we finally release from our first kiss of the day, as the sweet taste of Helena’s mouth lingers on my tongue, I am left inebriated from not only the soft touch of her lips but also the warmth of her tongue as it danced around mine. I feel as if I have been sipping on the finest of champagnes and the bubbles have gone straight to my head. I open my eyes and the vision beneath me is a true beauty to wake up to. I gaze down upon her and as she beams me the most beautiful smile a multitude of harmonious new sensations surge through my veins. At an alarming rate they flow freely and as they reach my heart and pierce my soul, without any warning, I find myself free-falling into her encompassing aura. She looks up at me and sweetly asks, “Are you alright, Darius? You seem to be somewhere else.” I roll onto my side, rest on my elbow and cradle my cheek in the palm of my hand. “I am, baby. Do you think you find me?” ... She creases a little worried frown and tells me that she’s confused and she’s not sure if she can. I smile at her, give a little chuckle and reassure, “Don’t worry, I’ll find me.” She manages a half-smile so I slowly start to trace the outline of her heart with my finger. I press lightly into the centre of the invisible template drawn and whisper to her that I am hiding somewhere inside the precious place that is nesting beneath her blood and bones. I am in fact dwelling in her heart and I always will be. ©JL Thomas 2017