Sweepstakes Quotes

You have to study and learn so that you can make up your own mind. Stock your mind, stock your mind. It is your house of treasure and no one in the world can interfere with it. If you won the Irish Sweepstakes and bought a house that needed furniture would you fill it with bits and pieces of rubbish? Your mind is your house and if you fill it with rubbish from the cinemas, it will rot in your head. You might be poor, your shoes might be broken, but your mind is a palace.

He says, you have to study and learn so that you can make up your own mind about history and everything else but you can’t make up an empty mind. Stock your mind, stock your mind. It is your house of treasure and no one in the world can interfere with it. If you won the Irish Sweepstakes and bought a house that needed furniture would you fill it with bits and pieces of rubbish? Your mind is your house and if you fill it with rubbish from the cinemas it will rot in your head. You might be poor, your shoes might be broken, but your mind is a palace.

It means that your birth, with all your particulars, is a wildly improbable event, and hence precious. You won the sweepstakes by being born at all. Think of all the wallflower sperm and egg cells. You made it, buddy. Whew! What a staggering wonder! What a thing to rejoice in! The lottery wasn't fixed! God didn't rig it! You won fair and square! What a miracle!

So it's true, then, being in love is like hitting the sweepstakes. It doesn't happen to everyone, and there's no way of saying who's going to win, but it changes your life when it does.

How many asses can I fuck before I pass the threshold of sexual acceptability and destroy my chances for being a contender in the sweepstakes of romance?

See here, son, if a deputy sheriff beats a prisoner to death, it’s sweepstakes odds that the county commissioners didn’t order it, didn’t know it, and wouldn’t have permitted it had they known. At worst they shut their eyes to it—afterwards—rather than upset their own applecarts. But assassination has never been an accepted policy in this country.

God’s decision to flood the entire earth and kill everybody and everything is without a doubt far and away the greatest single act of genocide in the history of the world. It makes you wonder what God thought of the pathetic attempts of Hitler, Stalin and Mao to compete in the genocidal sweepstakes. They may have slaughtered millions, but there were still plenty of people left when they were done.

If you are a self-possessed man with a healthy sense of detachment from your bank account and someone writes you a cheque for tens of millions of dollars you probably behave as if you have won a sweepstake, kicking your feet in the air and laughing yourself to sleep at night at the miracle of your good fortune. But if your sense of self-worth is morbidly wrapped up in your financial success you probably believe you deserve everything you get. You take it as a reflection of something grand inside you. You acquire gravitas,

Humbling as it may be, for all our vaunted brain power, humans emerge as nothing special in the sensory sweepstakes. Our senses of vision, hearing, smell, taste, and touch are middling, at best.

Tragedies, I was coming to realize through my daily studies in humanities both in and out of the classroom, were a luxury. They were constructions of an affluent society, full of sorrow and truth but without moral function. Stories of the vanquishing of the spirit expressed and underscored a certain societal spirit to spare. The weakening of the soul, the story of the downfall and the failed overcoming - trains missed, letters not received, pride flaring, the demolition of one's own offspring, who were then served up in stews - this was awe-inspiring, wounding entertainment told uselessly and in comfort at tables full of love and money. Where life was meagerer, where the tables were only half full, the comic triumph of the poor was the useful demi-lie. Jokes were needed. And then the baby feel down the stairs. This could be funny! Especially in a place and time where worse things happened. It wasn't that suffering was a sweepstakes, but it certainly was relative. For understanding and for perspective, suffering required a butcher's weighing. And to ease the suffering of the listener, things had better be funny. Though they weren't always. And this is how, sometimes, stories failed us: Not that funny. Or worse, not funny in the least.

We are above all things loved--that is the good news of the gospel--and loved not just the way we turn up on Sundays in our best clothes and on our best behavior and with our best feet forward, but loved as we alone know ourselves to be, the weakest and shabbiest of what we are along with the strongest and gladdest. To come together as people who believe that just maybe this gospel is actually true should be to come together like people who have just won the Irish Sweepstakes. It should have us throwing our arms around each other like people who have just discovered that every single man and woman in those pews is not just another familiar or unfamiliar face but is our long-lost brother and our long-lost sister because despite the fact that we have all walked in different gardens and knelt at different graves, we have all, humanly speaking, come from the same place and are heading out into the same blessed mystery that awaits us all. This is the joy that is so apt to be missing, and missing not just from church but from our own lives--the joy of not just managing to believe at least part of the time that it is true that life is holy, but of actually running into that holiness head-on.

You have to study and learn so that you can make up your own mind about history and everything else but you can’t make up an empty mind. Stock your mind, stock your mind. It is your house of treasure and no one in the world can interfere with it. If you won the Irish Sweepstakes and bought a house that needed furniture would you fill it with bits and pieces of rubbish? Your mind is your house and if you fill it with rubbish from the cinemas it will rot in your head. You might be poor, your shoes might be broken, but your mind is a palace.

Google had a built-in disadvantage in the social networking sweepstakes. It was happy to gather information about the intricate web of personal and professional connections known as the “social graph” (a term favored by Facebook’s Mark Zuckerberg) and integrate that data as signals in its search engine. But the basic premise of social networking—that a personal recommendation from a friend was more valuable than all of human wisdom, as represented by Google Search—was viewed with horror at Google. Page and Brin had started Google on the premise that the algorithm would provide the only answer. Yet there was evidence to the contrary. One day a Googler, Joe Kraus, was looking for an anniversary gift for his wife. He typed “Sixth Wedding Anniversary Gift Ideas” into Google, but beyond learning that the traditional gift involved either candy or iron, he didn’t see anything creative or inspired. So he decided to change his status message on Google Talk, a line of text seen by his contacts who used Gmail, to “Need ideas for sixth anniversary gift—candy ideas anyone?” Within a few hours, he got several amazing suggestions, including one from a colleague in Europe who pointed him to an artist and baker whose medium was cake and candy. (It turned out that Marissa Mayer was an investor in the company.) It was a sobering revelation for Kraus that sometimes your friends could trump algorithmic search.

Eddie: (into the speaker, in a plummy and completely bogus British accent) Hullo, Blaine! Cheerio, old fellow! This is Robin Leach, host of Lifestyles of the Rich and Brainless, here to tell you that YOU have won six billion dollars and a new Ford Escort in the Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes! Susannah: Eddie, stop it! STOP IT! Eddie: (smiling, eyes glittering with a mixture of fear, hysteria, and frustrated anger) You and your monorail girlfriend, Patricia, will spend a lux-yoo-rious month in scenic Jimtown, where you'll drink only the finest wine and eat only the finest virgins! You-- Little Blaine: ...shhhh... Eddie: Suze? Did you-- Little Blaine: ...shhh...don't wake him up. Eddie: What...What are you? Who are you? Little Blaine: I'm Little Blaine. The one he doesn't see.

He's no Ciro Lazzari. Honey, in the sweepstakes of the acquisition of handsome men, you got the golden ticket. The man you married is one in a million. But you know that.

...the dissemination of what is called 'news' is always an anti-social and disturbing act; that 'news' consists as to ninety per cent, of the records of human misfortune, unhappiness, and wrongdoing, as to nine per cent of personal advertisement, as to one per cent of instructive and improving matter; that the study of the newspapers is harmful to the citizen because (a) by the their insistence upon railway accidents, floods, divorces, murders, fires, successful robberies, the rates of taxation and other evils, and (b) by the prominence which they give to exceptionally good fortune, the winners of large sweepstakes, the salaries and faces of beautiful actresses, and the occasional success of what are known, it appears, as 'outsiders', [one] is led to the conclusion that industry, thrift and virtue are not worth pursuing in a world so much governed by incalculable chances; and, in general, that the conditions of mind most fostered by the news of the day are curiosity, cupidity, envy, indignation, horror, and fear.

My mom always said that the Love family is lucky. Not big luck, mind you, like lottery or sweepstakes winnings, but small luck. Like beating a rainstorm by five minutes every time, sometimes getting upgraded to business class on flights, and scoring close parking spots in crowded superstore lots. We’re lucky in the small ways that, in the end, don’t really matter. It’s a curse, really. Because you’d think we’d be lucky in our namesake, too. By all accounts, we should be.

A cough like a rake through gravel came from a man who’d taken the stool next to him. Arthur looked up to see the fiery-eyed stranger of the day before scrutinizing him closely. “I think about the past, too,” said the man, who had a disconsolate, cut-down look, as if aware of the anger in his eyes and regretted it and wanted to conceal a special power of judgment so as to conform to his surroundings. “Oh, the past,” Arthur said with a sigh. He felt as if he were speaking not with a stranger but with someone he’d known for many years. “Do you come here often?” “Two or three times a week,” Arthur admitted. “It will do until I find something better.” “There’s a lot worse places,” the stranger observed in an easy-going voice, like the whisper of a torch-singer on vacation. Arthur noticed that when they weren’t glowing like the pit of a volcano, the man’s eyes were veined and filmy and that the corners of his mouth were turned down, as if his outlook on life controlled the muscles of his face. “It’s only my second visit, but I’ve been in many places like it.” “About the newspaper you showed me yesterday,” Arthur said. “Mr. Gunderson hasn’t told us a thing about winning the sweepstakes.” “Apparently you didn’t check the date,” the man sniffed. “It’s two years in the future.” “I see,” Arthur said and tapped his teeth with the end of his pencil.

Not only did I not win the sweepstakes, but I didn’t even bother to enter. I feel discriminated against.

Sweepstakes

Run in tow heats over a 25-mile course, the race was officially named the Iditarod Trail Seppala Memorial Race, in hone of mushing legend Leonhard Seppala. Over the years, the Iditarod trail Sled Dog Race’s origins have been closely linked with the “great mercy race” to Nome. Most people believe the Iditarod was established to hone the drivers and dogs who carried the diphtheria serum, a notion the media have perpetuated. In reality, “Seppala was picked to represent all mushers, “ Page stressed. “He died in 1967 and we thought it was appropriate to name the race in his honor. But it could just as easily have been named after Scotty Allan. The race was patterned after the Sweepstakes races, not the serum run.

Stock your mind, stock your mind. It is your house of treasure and no one in the world can interfere with it. If you won the Irish Sweepstakes and bought a house that needed furniture would you fill it with bits and pieces of rubbish? Your mind is your house and if you fill it with rubbish from the cinemas it will rot in your head. You might be poor, your shoes might be broken, but your mind is a palace.

FINALLY—YOU ARE A SWEEPSTAKES WINNER! I don’t know about you, but I enter all those darned magazine company sweepstakes. I go for the Reader’s Digest sweepstakes and I buy my weekly lottery tickets—after all, as a character in the movie Let It Ride said, “You could be walking around lucky and not know it.” In a lot of years, though, I have gone winless. The guys with the balloons and the giant-sized check have not shown up at my door. So the headline FINALLY—YOU ARE A SWEEPSTAKES WINNER! got me. I read that letter. And if you send a letter to every one of your customers with that headline on it, every one of them will read it. What should the letter say? Here’s an example, courtesy of the late, great copywriter, my friend Gary Halbert: Dear Valued Customer:    I am writing to tell you that your name was entered into a drawing here at my store and you have won a valuable prize.    As you know, my store, ABC Jewelry, specializes in low-cost, top-quality diamond rings and diamond earrings. Well, guess what? The other day we got in a small shipment of fake diamonds that are made with a new process that makes them look so real they almost fooled me!    Anyway, I don’t want to sell these fakes because they could cause a lot of trouble for the pawnbrokers around town. So I’ve decided to give them away to some of my good customers whose names were selected at random by having my wife, Janet, put all the names in a jar and pull out the winners.    So, you’re one of the winners—and all you’ve got to do is drop in sometime before 5:00 P.M. Friday and you’ll have a 1-karat “diamond” that looks so good it’ll knock your eyes out! Sincerely, John Jones P.S.: After 5:00 P.M. Friday, I reserve the right to give your prize to someone else. Thank you.

There’s snow in my head, too. Wide blizzards of bad news blowing sideways. My few hopes are desperate ones. One key fantasy on the porch—no kidding—is winning the magazine sweepstakes I’ve never entered. I habitually filch sweepstakes forms from doctor’s-office magazines or shopping circulars. Sitting outside by flashlight—have to change that overhead porch bulb—I meticulously fill them out, imagining the limo pulling up with balloons and champagne. Such a good story we’ll be: two poets win a jackpot….

could write forever on the many dangers of ASI and the difficulty of reining in a superior intelligence. The arguments used in Infinity Born, such as perverse instantiation, are all real and have been used by prominent scientists (as have many other arguments that I didn’t include). For those of you interested in a very thorough, complex, and scholarly treatment of the subject matter, I would recommend the book Superintelligence: Paths, Dangers, Strategies (2014) by Nick Bostrom, a Professor at Oxford. The book I found most useful in researching this novel is entitled, Our Final Invention: Artificial Intelligence and the end of the Human Era (James Barrat, 2013). This described the “God in a box” experiment detailed in the novel, for example, and provided a fascinating, easy-to-read perspective on ASI, at least on the fear-mongering side of the debate. I’ve included a few quotes from this book that I thought were relevant to Infinity Born. Page 59—First, there are too many players in the AGI sweepstakes. Too many organizations in too many countries are working on AGI and AGI-related technology for them all to agree to mothball their projects until Friendly AI is created, or to include in their code a formal friendliness module, if one could be made. Page 61—But what if there is some kind of category shift once something becomes a thousand times smarter than we are, and we just can’t see it from here? For example, we share a lot of DNA with flatworms. But would we be invested in their goals and morals even if we discovered that many millions of years ago flatworms had created us, and given us their values? After we got over the initial surprise, wouldn’t we just do whatever we wanted? Page 86—Shall we build our robot replacement or not? On this, de Garis is clear. “Humans should not stand in the way of a higher form of evolution. These machines are godlike. It is human destiny to create them.

his loving wife, Catherine, who won the annual Kill a Friend, Maim a Buddy Sweepstakes at LisaGardner.com.

About 70% of the licences that Stanford grants generate little or no income. It’s basically very difficult to predict the winners in the new technology sweepstake.

Zoonoses by definition involve events beyond the ordinary, and the scope of their consequences can be extraordinary too. Every spillover is like a sweepstakes ticket, bought by the pathogen, for the prize of a new and more grandiose existence. It’s a long-shot chance to transcend the dead end. To go where it hasn’t gone and be what it hasn’t been. Sometimes the bettor wins big.

In their own sweepstake fashion, hippopotamuses will reach Malta, Sicily and Crete over the water, and become dwarfed to tiny forms. In many islands, dwarf elephants will roam. With a single, large nasal opening to support the trunk, and eye sockets not entirely surrounded by bone, their skulls will provide a mystery to early civilizations, who will imagine giant, one-eyed cyclops living in the caves of the Mediterranean.