Shotgun Beer Quotes

5:16 I shotgun two beers, piss out the bedroom window, catcall passing girls, burp violently, put cage fighting on tv, play with myself. I feel manly again.

Anytime," Tad all but slurred. God, he felt drunk. Like he'd just freaking shot-gunned a sex-pack of beer. Six pack! Like he'd just shot-gunned a six-pack of beer.

Think of all the requirements writers imagine for themselves: A cabin in the woods A plain wooden table Absolute silence A favorite pen A favorite ink A favorite blank book A favorite typewriter A favorite laptop A favorite writing program A large advance A yellow pad A wastebasket A shotgun The early light of morning The moon at night A rainy afternoon A thunderstorm with high winds The first snow of winter A cup of coffee in just the right cup A beer A mug of green tea A bourbon Solitude Sooner or later the need for any one of these will prevent you from writing. Anything you think you need in order to write— Or be “inspired” to write or “get in the mood” to write— Becomes a prohibition when it’s lacking. Learn to write anywhere, at any time, in any conditions, With anything, starting from nowhere. All you really need is your head, the one indispensable

When I was nine, my father sliced his knee with a chainsaw. But he let himself bleed and finished cutting down one more tree before his boss drove him to EMERGENCY. Late that night, stoned on morphine and beer, my father needed my help to steer his pickup into the woods. “Watch for deer,” My father said. “Those things just appear like magic.” It was an Indian summer and we drove through warm rain and thunder, until we found that chainsaw, lying under the fallen pine. Then I watched, with wonder, as my father, shotgun-rich and impulse-poor, blasted that chainsaw dead. “What was that for?” I asked. “Son,” my father said. “Here’s the score. Once a thing tastes blood, it will come for more.

When I was nine, my father sliced his knee with a chainsaw. But he let himself bleed and finished cutting down one more tree Before his boss drove him to EMERGENCY. Late that night, stoned on morphine and beer, My father needed my help to steer his pickup into the woods. “Watch for deer,” My father said. “Those things just appear like magic.” It was an Indian summer and we drove through warm rain and thunder, Until we found that chainsaw, lying under the fallen pine. Then I watched, with wonder, as my father, shotgun-rich and impulse-poor, blasted that chainsaw dead. “What was that for?” I asked. “Son,” my father said. “Here’s the score. Once a thing tastes blood, it will come for more.

The instruments of murder are as manifold as the unlimited human imagination. Apart from the obvious—shotguns, rifles, pistols, knives, hatchets and axes—I have seen meat cleavers, machetes, ice picks, bayonets, hammers, wrenches, screwdrivers, crowbars, pry bars, two-by-fours, tree limbs, jack handles (which are not “tire irons;” nobody carries tire irons anymore), building blocks, crutches, artificial legs, brass bedposts, pipes, bricks, belts, neckties, pantyhose, ropes, bootlaces, towels and chains—all these things and more, used by human beings to dispatch their fellow human beings into eternity. I have never seen a butler use a candelabrum. I have never seen anyone use a candelabrum! Such recherché elegance is apparently confined to England. I did see a pair of sneakers used to kill a woman, and they left distinctive tread marks where the murderer stepped on her throat and crushed the life from her. I have not seen an icicle used to stab someone, though it is said to be the perfect weapon, because it melts afterward. But I do know of a case in which a man was bludgeoned to death with a frozen ham. Murderers generally do not enjoy heavy lifting—though of course they end up doing quite a bit of it after the fact, when it is necessary to dispose of the body—so the weapons they use tend to be light and maneuverable. You would be surprised how frequently glass bottles are used to beat people to death. Unlike the “candy-glass” props used in the movies, real glass bottles stand up very well to blows. Long-necked beer bottles, along with the heavy old Coca-Cola and Pepsi bottles, make formidable weapons, powerful enough to leave a dent in a wooden two-by-four without breaking. I recall one case in which a woman was beaten to death with a Pepsi bottle, and the distinctive spiral fluting of the bottle was still visible on the broken margins of her skull. The proverbial “lead pipe” is a thing of the past, as a murder weapon. Lead is no longer used to make pipes.

What is that?" Isabella asked him. "Courage," he said. "I'm with you – we kill the damn thing, whatever the hell it is, but I'm not going in there unprepared." "You have weapons? You have something to give you strength?" "I got beer, lady. I got a shotgun, and I got beer.

Licorice tattoo turned a gun metal blue Scrawled across the shoulders of a dying town Took the one eyed-jacks across the railroad tracks And the scar on its belly pulled a stranger passing through He's a juvenile delinquent, never learned how to behave But the cops would never think to look in Burma-Shave And the road was like a ribbon and the moon was like a bone He didn't seem to be like any guy she'd ever known He kind of looked like Farley Granger with his hair slicked back She says, I'm a sucker for a fella in a cowboy hat How far are you going? Said depends on what you mean He says I'm only stopping here to get some gasoline I guess I'm going thataway just as long as it's paved And I guess you'd say I'm on my way to Burma Shave And with her knees up on the glove compartment She took out her barrettes and her hair spilled out like root beer And she popped her gum and arched her back Hell, Marysville ain't nothing but a wide spot in the road Some nights my heart pounds like thunder Don't know why it don't explode 'Cause everyone in this stinking town's got one foot in the grave And I'd rather take my chances out in Burma Shave Presley's what I go by, why don't you change the stations? Count the grain elevators in the rearview mirror She said mister, anywhere you point this thing It got to beat the hell out of the sting Of going to bed with every dream that dies here every mornin' And so drill me a hole with a barber pole And I'm jumping my parole just like a fugitive tonight Why don't you have another swig and pass that car if you're so brave I wanna get there before the sun comes up in Burma Shave And the spiderweb crack and the mustang screamed The smoke from the tires and the twisted machine Just a nickel's worth of dreams and every wishbone that they saved Lie swindled from them on the way to Burma Shave And the sun hit the derrick and cast a batwing shadow Up against the car door on the shotgun side And when they pulled her from the wreck You know she still had on her shades They say that dreams are growing wild Just this side Of Burma Shave

It’s sage advice from the idiot who was shotgunning beers the morning of the parade, but he’s got a point.