Vienna Sausage Quotes

So, standing here looking at you, all grown up, the question I ask is simple. In the long run, how different is a goddam hot dog from a Vienna sausage?

We'd like to take a look at the adoptable dogs. Please." "... if you have any thoughts of feeding the dogs, you leave that thought with me." "This is serious. You can't feed them... You feed them something you think is no big deal ... like a Slim Jim or a Vienna Sausage, and we're cleaning up a shitstorm at two AM." "Shitstorm," Mark said. " Is that the clinical term, Dr. Peterman?" " We call it a code brown at the hospital.

I’d come across a strap-on penis. It seemed pretty old and was Band-Aid colored, about three inches long and not much bigger around than a Vienna sausage, which was interesting to me. You’d think that if someone wanted a sex toy she’d go for the gold, sizewise. But this was just the bare minimum, like getting AAA breast implants. Who had this person been hoping to satisfy, her Cabbage Patch doll? I thought about taking the penis home and mailing it to one of my sisters for Christmas but knew that the moment I put it in my knapsack, I’d get hit by a car and killed. That’s just my luck. Medics would come and scrape me off the pavement, then, later, at the hospital, they’d rifle through my pack and record its contents: four garbage bags, some wet wipes, two flashlights, and a strap-on penis.

Sorry, but I'd rather sit home eating Vienna sausage straight from the can watching Andy Griffith reruns than be forced to dine with that Oompa-Loompa!

I always wondered why they called them Vienna Sausages. I assume it’s because “Carcass Paste” wouldn’t sell.

Jump to how life was when you were a baby and you could only eat baby food. You’d stagger over to the coffee table. You’re up on your feet and you have to keep waddling along on those Vienna sausage legs or fall down. Then you get to the coffee table and bounce your big soft baby head on the sharp corner. You’re down, and man, oh, man, it hurts. Still it isn’t anything tragic until Mom and Dad run over. Oh, you poor, brave thing. Only then do you cry.

If this is the Big One, he thought while the window rattled, will I be buried with Greg and Les, and will we end up drawing straws to see who eats who? Will Greg’s porky arm taste good, or will it taste as bad as he looks? Will I have to eat my toes one by one, like Vienna sausages?

Tonight, Nellie had put on quite a spread: a vegetable platter to start things off, with radish roses and olives pierced with embellished toothpicks and fresh tomatoes from her garden; canapés and shrimp cocktail and Vienna sausages and deviled eggs; then her Chicken à la King, and when they were all nearly too full to eat another thing, Baked Alaska for dessert. The conversation had been pleasant, the men discussing the upcoming election and General Electric-Telechron's new "revolutionary" snooze alarm clock, the women swooning about Elvis Presley and gossiping about Marilyn Monroe's recent wedding to Arthur Miller, which everyone agreed was an odd pairing.

Hennie leaned back in his chair, making his black tee stretch taut across his chest. “There’s always porn. I’ve seen the way you handle two Vienna sausages. There’s gotta be a market for that.

Neely Kate lowered her arm, her chest heaving from her exertion. “That man tried to steal my purse!” “You should have just let him have it. You could have gotten hurt.” “He’s the one who got hurt. I have three cans of Vienna sausages in here.

That man tried to steal my purse!” “You should have just let him have it. You could have gotten hurt.” “He’s the one who got hurt. I have three cans of Vienna sausages in here.” Rose started to ask her friend why she had Vienna sausages in her purse, then shook her head. “Never mind. Let’s go get you some lunch.

Optimizing efficiency is not always a priority. One glaring example is that classic holiday event: the canned food drive. Such events help people feel involved, especially children. They raise awareness about hunger. But these are their only benefits. They are a terrible way to feed the hungry. Cans are heavy and hard to ship. Some canned, boxed and jarred food is healthy, but much is not. According to Feeding America, 58 percent of families who use food pantries nationwide have someone with hypertension, and more than 30 percent have someone with diabetes. Beefaroni, Kraft mac and cheese, and Vienna sausages are not part of the solution.

If you check this box, $3 of your taxes will be earmarked for a special fund to pay for presidential campaigns. Notice that the government does not permit you to earmark money for poor people, or sick people, or national defense. No, the government permits you to earmark money only for the purpose of enabling politicians to produce TV commercials designed to appeal to voters who have the IQ of a Vienna sausage.

Incidentally,” he said with a smirk, “you ate sardines and Vienna sausages in the sand. I dined on surf and turf with an ocean view.” He slapped me on the back. “It's all about perspective.

That morning, inside the cabin below, they’d found the body of Roger Tokely, fifty-eight, slouched forward in a straight-back chair, head bent, as if examining something on the floor between his feet. His beer belly prevented the body from falling forward to the floor. He faced a big-screen television mounted on the eastern wall in front of him. His arms hung on either side of his body, palms out. He wore baggy gray sweatpants and a yellow T-shirt. His feet were bare and swelled grotesquely, the thick toes looking like stubby purple Vienna sausages. There was a large pool of blood on the floor beneath Tokely’s chair. Cody guessed it was thirty inches across. The outside four inches of the pool was clear and the inside was dark and oval-shaped. Next to the pool on the right side of the body was a stainless-steel revolver.

Batu said, “The All-Night is a great place to raise a family. Everything you need, right here. Diapers, Vienna sausages, grape-scented Magic Markers, Moon Pies—kids like Moon Pies—and then one day, when they’re tall enough, we teach them how to operate the register.

Mitsi had never eaten a Vienna sausage before, but in the first three days at Camp Harmony, they were served three times.

privates being referred to as a Vienna sausage, a schnauzer tail, a schmeckle, a dinky winky, a baby carrot, a baby’s thumb and a wee nug.

Don’t act like you have to make room for that Vienna sausage,” I snarked.

Ruth revealed to one journalist that when Billy was alone at home his favourite meal consisted of baked beans, Vienna sausages and canned tomatoes.

Cheapskate The day I blurted the word out at my father I was still an in-the-dark toe-headed excuse for leaving early from the Sunday ritual - the after-church bourbon-fumed lunches of deviled eggs, Vienna sausages, and saltines at his mother’s airless La Jolla bungalow, what Purgatory must’ve smelled like in 1962. I doubt even this “intermediate state after death for expiatory purification,” according to Webster, endured as long as our visits that my own mother artfully dodged and I failed to appreciate, an annoyance that incited the battle-axe’s contempt and me to mime her derision, drawing into question the battery life of her cumbersome hearing aids. Often my father zipped a finger across his throat, though amusement danced in the lines of his brow, unlike when I burst in on them à la Soupy Sales or lurched into histrionic spasms of boredom, forcing their conversation into ellipses, usually over an envelope he set by her lipsticked tumbler. That called for banishment to the tiny courtyard where among a few droopy orange trees I could kill time and escape the weird reversal of my father no longer himself to her, but a mother to his own mother, a slow suffocation that on occasion drove him outside. During our last visit, the week of a heat wave, I’d been rolling oranges like depth-charges into her moribund pond of scabby goldfish. I had no idea anger could travel in the family when the door kicked open, and out he came cracking like ice in a glass of the bourbon hidden in her unused kitchenette oven. One of the oranges swiped his wingtips with its fetid juice, and he picked it up, a Zeus lost in a thousand-yard gaze of divine wrath, then hurled it at the pink retaining wall. Long after he returned inside I stood still, entranced by the splatter as if its tentacles of anger reached out to me, though my behavior, the orange, or even cash in an envelope - what he feared I’d one day too place beside his own drink - had less to do with his outburst than imagined. Nothing was ever so simple about him. On the drive home, the windows rolled up, we swept by 31 Flavors without slowing down while kids on tailgates slurped ice cream, and riding shotgun, I just snapped, calling him that terrible thing you can never take back - a cheapskate. Suddenly we coasted in the wake of it worse than any blasphemy or sacrilege, the tires thumping louder than ever on seamed concrete until his white knuckles flew off the wheel at me, and belted-in I ducked to cushion the blow. His legacy halted mid-air. By chance in the rearview mirror he’d caught his own father’s fist coming on fast, too late for both of us to get out of the way.