Whiskey Sour Quotes

I need to ask myself, 'What would an Apollo astronaut do?' He'd drink three whiskey sours, drive his Corvette to the launchpad, then fly to the moon in a command module smaller than my Rover. Man those guys were cool.

Sorry to hear about your Dad." He shrugged. "He was seventy, and we always told him fast food would kill him." "Heart attack?" "He was hit by a Pizza Express truck.

The room stank of semen and smoke and sweat and whiskey, of old carpet and sour hay, saddle leather, shit and cheap soap.

I need some encouragement. I need to ask myself, “What would an Apollo astronaut do?” He’d drink three whiskey sours, drive his Corvette to the launchpad, then fly to the moon in a command module smaller than my Rover. Man those guys were cool.

The privileged classes can afford psychoanalysis and whiskey. Whereas all we get is sermons and sour wine. This is manifestly unfair. I protest, silently.

I wish I was like that. More carefree." "Anyone can be. People aren't carved out of marble. We're all works in progress. The trick is to define ourselves, rather than let outside influences define us.

I need to ask myself, “What would an Apollo astronaut do?” He’d drink three whiskey sours, drive his Corvette to the launchpad, then fly to the moon in a command module smaller than my Rover. Man those guys were cool.

What would an Apollo astronaut do?” He’d drink three whiskey sours, drive his Corvette to the launchpad, then fly to the moon in a command module smaller than my Rover. Man those guys were cool.

He’d drink three whiskey sours, drive his Corvette to the launchpad, then fly to the moon in a command module smaller than my Rover. Man those guys were cool.

Since Sol 6 all I’ve wanted to do was get the hell out of here. Now the prospect of leaving the Hab behind scares the shit out of me. I need some encouragement. I need to ask myself, “What would an Apollo astronaut do?” He’d drink three whiskey sours, drive his Corvette to the launchpad, then fly to the moon in a command module smaller than my Rover. Man those guys were cool.

So where does the name Adam's apple come from? Most people say that it is from the notion that this bump was caused by the forbidden fruit getting stuck in the throat of Adam in the Garden of Eden. There is a problem with this theory because some Hebrew scholars believe that the forbidden fruit was the pomegranate. The Koran claims that the forbidden fruit was a banana. So take your pick---Adam's apple, Adam's pomegranate, Adam's banana. Eve clearly chewed before swallowing.

need some encouragement. I need to ask myself, “What would an Apollo astronaut do?” He’d drink three whiskey sours, drive his Corvette to the launchpad, then fly to the moon in a command module smaller than my Rover. Man those guys were cool.

I need some encouragement. I need to ask myself, "What would an Apollo astronaut do?" He'd drink three whiskey sours, drive his Corvette to the launchpad, then fly to the moon in a command module smaller than my rover. Man those guys were cool.

Lucy preferred gin and tonics during the summer and switched over to whiskey sours in the winter. At dinner, a sit-down affair with the family, Lucy drank whatever the Temerlins drank, including expensive French wines. "She never gets obnoxious, even when smashed to the brink of unconsciousness," wrote Maurice, revealing more about the chimp's alcoholism than perhaps he intended. At one point, he tried to wean Lucy off the good stuff and onto Boone's Farm apple wine. Assuming she would delight in the fruity swill, he purchased a case and filled her glass one night at dinner. Lucy took a sip of the apple wine, noticed her parents were drinking something else, and put her glass down. She then graabbed Maurice's glass of Chablis and polished it off. She finished Jane's next. Not another sip of Boone's farm ever touched her lips.

Mothers shouldn’t be allowed to get old and fragile.

People aren’t carved out of marble. We’re all works in progress. The trick is to define ourselves, rather than let outside influences define us.

Big Titty Ho on a Motorcycle’. Darcy insisted that I'd love it. It was tequila, Pepsi, amaretto, and whiskey-sour mix. I had to admit, they were growing on me.

I come without warning. Spurt after spurt leaves me breathless, moaning, wriggling in his lap as I try to chase that high. I never thought I’d be one for degradation, but Knox hit the nail on the head.

Jeff and Amy were part of this, though never in the sense that the natives were. They were not indigenous: they were outlanders, ‘foreigners,’ distinguished by a sort of upcountry cosmopolitan glaze which permitted them to mingle but not merge. Even their drinking habits set them apart. Deltans drank only corn and Coca-Cola; gin was perfume, scotch had a burnt-stick taste. They would watch with wry expressions while Amy blended her weird concoctions, pink ladies and Collinses and whiskey sours, and those who tried one, finally persuaded, would sip and shudder and set the glass aside: “Thanks”—mildly outraged, smirking—“I’ll stick to burrbon.

I could have warned her. If we were back home, and Mirabella had come under attack by territorial beavers or snow-blind bears, I would have warned her. But the truth is that by Stage 3 I wanted her gone. Mirabella's inability to adapt was taking a visible toll. Her teeth were ground down to nubbins; her hair was falling out. ... her ribs were poking through her uniform. Her bright eyes had dulled to a sour whiskey color. But you couldn't show Mirabella the slightest kindness anymore-she'd never leave you alone!

Leaving Forever My son can look me level in the eyes now, and does, hard, when I tell him he cannot watch chainsaw murders at the midnight movie, that he must bend his mind to Biology, under this roof, in the clear light of a Tensor lamp. Outside, his friends throb with horsepower under the moon. He stands close, milk sour on his breath, gauging the heat of my conviction, eye-whites pink from his new contacts. He can see me better than before. And I can see myself in those insolent eyes, mostly head in the pupil's curve, closed in by the contours of his unwrinkled flesh. At the window he waves a thin arm and his buddies squall away in a glare of tail lights. I reach out my arm to his shoulder, but he shrugs free and shows me my father's narrow eyes, the trembling hand at my throat, the hard wall at the back of my skull, the raised fist framed in the bedroom window I had climbed through at three A.M. "If you hit me I'll leave forever," I said. But everything was fine in a few days, fine. "I would have come back," I said, "false teeth and all." Now, twice a year after the long drive, in the yellow light of the front porch, I breathe in my father's whiskey, ask for a shot, and see myself distorted in his thick glasses, the two of us grinning, as he holds me with both hands at arm's length.

2/3 cup milk 1 cup frozen corn, divided 1 cup shredded cheddar cheese 1 (16 oz.) can kidney beans, drained Optional toppings: Fresh salsa, fresh chopped green onion, sour cream, shredded cheddar cheese 1. Preheat the oven to 375°F. 2. In a 9- or 10-inch cast-iron skillet or sauté pan, heat the olive oil over medium-high heat until it shimmers. Add the onion and sauté for 1 minute before adding the garlic. Sauté for another minute and add the ground beef and pork, breaking up the meat with a wooden spoon and stirring until the meat is brown. 3. Drain off any excess fat and stir in the chili seasoning, diced tomatoes, and tomato paste. Mix over medium heat for 1 minute, then pour in the chicken broth. Reduce the heat to low and simmer for 5 minutes, stirring occasionally. 4. While the meat simmers, make the corn bread mixture: Stir together the Jiffy mix, eggs, and milk in a mixing bowl until just combined (do not overmix). Stir 1/2 cup of the frozen corn and the cheese into the corn bread batter and set aside.

She gulped her whiskey sour. The bar was hot tonight. CJ circled back to check on them. "You ladies doing okay?" "Define okay." Natalie's whiskey seemed to be talking. Because the whiskey was the only thing that could've put that husky, suggestive tone in her voice. Yep, that was all the whiskey. He propped his elbows on the bar, which put his face level with hers, and fixed his undivided attention on her. There went her lady bits fanning themselves. With a few added whimpers. They remembered what his hands and body and lips felt like too. "Content." His voice was low and raw, his gaze penetrating and unwavering. "Happy. Completely, one hundred percent satisfied." Her mouth went dry while the rest of her went up in needy flames that made her want to scratch the all-but-gone rash he'd tended so well on Monday. "Nope," Natalie squeaked. "Not okay then.

On hot days you could smell the pungent stink of sour whiskey baking through the wooden slats like an infection, the same foul odor that seeped from his pores like a thick cologne. The

Before dinner each night the two leaders, Hopkins, and various other members of the president’s official family gathered for cocktails in the Red Room. Roosevelt sat by a tray of bottles and mixed the cocktails himself. This was a cherished part of the president’s daily routine, his “children’s hour,” as he sometimes called it, when he let the day’s tensions and stresses slip away. “He loved the ceremony of making the drinks,” said Churchill’s daughter Mary Soames; “it was rather like, ‘Look, I can do it.’ It was formidable. And you knew you were supposed to just hand him your glass, and not reach for anything else. It was a lovely performance.” Roosevelt did not take drink orders, but improvised new and eccentric concoctions, variations on the whiskey sour, Tom Collins, or old-fashioned. The drinks he identified as “martinis” were mixed with too much vermouth, and sometimes contaminated with foreign ingredients such as fruit juice or rum. Churchill, who preferred straight whiskey or brandy, accepted Roosevelt’s mysterious potions gracefully and usually drank them without complaint, though Alistair Cooke reported that the prime minister sometimes took them into the bathroom and poured them down the sink.

Life is sweet when the whisky's sour.

I was overworked, underpaid, and socially retarded. But

She is so good, your wife.” “Yes,” said Alexander. “So fresh and young. So lovely to look at.” “Yes,” said Alexander, closing his eyes. “And she doesn’t yell at you.” “No. Though I reckon she sometimes wants to.” “Oh, to have such restraint in my Bessie. She used to be a fine woman. And the girl was such a loving girl.” More drink, more smoke. “But have you noticed since coming back,” said Nick, “that there are things that women just don’t know? Won’t know. They don’t understand what it was like. They see me like this, they think this is the worst. They don’t know. That’s the chasm. You go through something that changes you. You see things you can’t unsee. Then you are sleepwalking through your actual life, shell-shocked. Do you know, when I think of myself, I have legs? In my dreams I’m always marching. And when I wake up, I’m on the floor, I’ve fallen out of bed. I now sleep on the floor because I kept rolling over and falling while dreaming. When I dream of myself, I’m carrying my weapons, and I’m in the back of a battalion. I’m in a tank, I’m yelling, I’m always screaming in my dreams. This way! That way! Fire! Cease! Forward! March! Fire, fire, fire!” Alexander lowered his head, his arms drooping on the table. “I wake up and I don’t know where I am. And Bessie is saying, what’s the matter? You’re not paying attention to me. You haven’t said anything about my new dress. You end up living with someone who cooks your food for you and who used to open her legs for you, but you don’t know them at all. You don’t understand them, nor they you. You’re two strangers thrown together. In my dreams, with legs, after marching, I’m always leaving, wandering off, long gone. I don’t know where I am but I’m never here, never with them. Is it like that with you, too?” Alexander quietly smoked, downing another glass of whiskey, and another. “No,” he finally said. “My wife and I have the opposite problem. She carried weapons and shot at men who came to kill her. She was in hospitals, on battlefields, on frontlines. She was in DP camps and concentration camps. She starved through a frozen, blockaded city. She lost everyone she ever loved.” Alexander took half a glass of sour mash into his throat and still couldn’t keep himself from groaning. “She knows, sees, and understands everything. Perhaps less now, but that’s my fault. I haven’t been much of a—” he broke off. “Much of anything. Our problem isn’t that we don’t understand each other. Our problem is that we do. We can’t look at each other, can’t speak one innocent word, can’t touch each other without touching the cross on our backs. There is simply never any peace.” Another stiff drink went into Alexander’s throat.

acronyms.

hundred-plus

To satisfy McIlhenny Co.’s need for a steady supply of casks, E.A. signed a deal with Jack Daniels, the Lynchburg, Tennesseee–based whiskey distiller whose roots date back to 1866, a year before Tabasco sauce debuted. Under the agreement, still in existence today, McIlhenny Co. has bought tens of thousands of Jack Daniels’s used barrels, which arrive at Avery Island smelling of hard liquor and charred from years of storing sour mash whiskey.

Orafoura, The Mythical Mr. Boo, and Love made flesh walk into a bar, and the bartender asks, “What’ll it be, fellas?” Orafoura replies, “Love.” The Mythical Mr. Boo says, “Hate.” And Love made flesh says, “I agree with both these guys. Better make it a whiskey sour.

Men got all the comfortable clothing trends.

That’s why I refused. But after the media

You’re the total of all the choices you’ve made in your life, Jack. This is what you have because this is what you chose.

Benedict nodded, finishing his coffee. “You look like a bowl of crap, Jack.” “That’s the poet in you, fighting to get out.

Melissa Booster answered after the first knock, apparently having seen our approach. She was robust—add a hundred pounds to Rubenesque and you’d have her figure. I suppose the PC term would be glandularly imbalanced or calorically challenged. She wore a red housedress that hung on her like a set of drapes. Her makeup was simple and expertly applied, and her brown eyes crinkled at us through the layers of doughy skin that made up her face. Her three chins waggled in a cheerful smile and she invited us in.

I’m a grown woman, and I can fend for myself. Now help me put on my pants.

The order, for completists, is WHISKEY SOUR, BLOODY MARY, RUSTY NAIL, DIRTY MARTINI, FUZZY NAVEL, CHERRY BOMB, SHAKEN, and STIRRED. She’s been the subject of many shorts (JACK DANIELS STORIES, BURNERS, FLOATERS) and has appeared as a supporting character in many of my other novels (SHOT OF TEQUILLA, THE LIST, SERIAL KILLERS UNCUT, BANANA HAMMOCK, FLEE, SPREE, THREE, TIMECASTER SUPERSYMMETRY). Due to popular demand, she’ll be back again in another novel, LAST CALL, being co-written with Blake Crouch.

And wasn't that a whiskey sour of an emotional cocktail? Being smug and hopeful and bitter and sad all at the same time. Which so wasn't me. I was a strawberry daiquiri boy, through and through.

I tried counting backward from ten thousand. I tried deep breathing and relaxation exercises. I tried to imagine myself asleep. Nothing worked. Time marched forward, taking me with it. By the time I was feeling the slightest bit drowsy, the sun peeked in through the blinds and I had to get up to go to work.

I can’t explain why, but a whiskey sour is a drink for a man whose mother made him practice piano a lot when he was a kid. A man who drinks whiskey sours also probably throws a baseball like a girl—limp wristed. A man who drinks whiskey sours and then eats that silly little cherry they put in the bottom probably has a cat or a poodle for a pet. In other words, I wouldn’t go on a camping trip with a man who drinks whiskey sours. Scotch drinkers are aggressive. They order like they’re Charles Bronson trying to have a quick shot before returning to the subway to kill a few punks and thugs. “What’ll you have, sir?” asks the bartender. “Cutty. Water. Rocks. Twist,” growls the Scotch drinker. I think maybe Scotch drinkers wear their underwear too tight. You have to watch people who drink vodka or gin. “Anybody who drinks see-through whiskey,” an old philosopher once said, “will get crazy.” Indeed. Vodka and gin drinkers are the type who leave the house to get a loaf of bread, drop by the bar for just one, and return home six weeks later. With the bread. I wouldn’t go on a camping trip with anyone who drinks vodka or gin, either. They’re the types who would invite snakes, raccoons and bears over for cocktails and then wind up getting into an argument about tree frogs. Bourbon drinkers never grow up. Eight out of ten started drinking bourbon with Coke in school and still have a pair of saddle oxfords in the closet. Bourbon drinkers don’t think they’ve had a good time unless they get sick and pass out under a coffee table. Then there are the white wine drinkers. Never get involved in any way with them. They either want to get married, sell you a piece of real estate or redecorate your house.

Freeze Frame, with Forsynthia You will bind me in my aquarelle, my skin blue as Canterbury bells. Call me mademoiselle before you execute, like the hand- tinted photo of the dancer, Margarete Gertrude Zelle, arms scissoring the air, fending bullets and flowers as she pirouettes. You will find me in the zero hour sipping a whiskey sour with a cherry, my hair yellow, not sallowed or frizzed like the Bishop's flower. In a bell-shaped dress trimmed in snow-white florets, I smell of fever, soil as I pose in the doorcase. You refer to me as daughter of gnawed bones I am property of _______. A profile in the slanted rain. I am versatile. You call me Lily of the Nile, fingering umbels as you scour the floor in search of my shadow. Hours sift and flow and form a canted frame where you lean one elbow statuesque as a window sash. You've captured me, you say, mid-bloom, in your eye frame, in the process of photograph and pose and polyphonic prose, the kitchen lit by my ante- bellum skirt, the yellow spikes of forsythia going up in flame. Simone Muench, Notebook. Knife. Mentholatum. (New Michigan Press 2003)

When I was twelve, my mother taught me the two skills essential to my adult life: how to use a liner pencil to make my thin lips look fuller, and how to group my shots from forty feet away with a .38.

I grab onto him so hard he winces, but he seems to like it because he starts to fucking maul me. It’s all teeth and tongue and masculine groans that I never dreamed of liking.

Tell me no now and I’ll go find some other fat dick tonight, but if you stay, you’re going to let me fuck myself until I come all over your fancy suit.” He gasps. “This is Armani!” “Yes, and it’s going to look so hot covered in my cum,” I retort, wincing when I slide a finger in.

On the living room floor, I fuck him dirty—just like the slut he wants to be—but make it sweet, because he’s my Elton, my sun. And he’s special to me.

You do my kink and I do yours.

I think I’ve felt this way for a while, but I was just too stubborn to admit it. Elton manages to cast everyone under his spell, and I never thought that would work on me, but apparently it has.

Nobody has ever stood up for me. Nobody has ever cared. Nobody has ever thought I was worth it. He does.

I think Knox’s eyes might be my favorite color.

And you want to take care of me?” My heart softens, and my rage dims. I squeeze his hand back, pulling him closer, because it’s sheer magnetism that draws us together. I can’t help it. It’s inevitable to cave to Elton. He’s the sun I’m compelled to revolve around. “Always.

Because you’re fucking incredible!” I yell, my own frustration growing as I shoot up to my feet. “Because you’re hot and funny and so smart! Because you see all the good in the world and aren’t afraid of being yourself! Because you’ve made me fall for you!

Everest has become nothing but a distant memory in the wake of Elton. Everest was just a little ripple in the water, whereas Elton is the whole damn wave. He swept me away, forcing the feelings I had for his brother to dissolve in the sand, almost like it was never there in the first place.

Deep down, I wonder, if my feelings really are what I think, how long until Knox realizes that I’ve broken one of our rules? Because falling for him was never a part of the plan.

I tell myself that it’s not what I want, but what I need right now. As I finish getting dressed and leave his apartment, I remind myself that I’m not searching for love, just for some fun. And, while Knox is the prickliest asshole I’ve ever met, I can’t deny that he made me come harder than I ever have in my life. I’m definitely coming back again.

Your tongue is pierced,” he gasps, digging his fingers into my hair as I start to bob my head. “Fuck, man. Your tongue is pierced.

Just get them off and come and sit on my face.” I choke on my own spit. “What?” “I’m in the mood to eat some ass,” he explains casually, like we’re not talking about him licking me…there. “I’m going to eat you out while you learn to suck my dick.

It was fun—it can be fun—but I’m not going to let Knox treat me like trash just because I’m not the one he really wants.

He closes his eyes and blows, snuffs out the candle, and makes a wish. And I wonder if he knows he was smiling the entire time.

There you go. So good, sweetheart,” I coo, then bite down on his bottom lip. “Come in that fancy suit of yours like a dirty slut. Make yourself all wet for me, Elton.