I joined PETA for minks and dogs. I need my beef, my chicken, my seafood.
She 's no chicken; she 's on the wrong side of thirty, if she be a day.
My mother, for example, told the German officer not to kill her. She'd make it worth his while. And then, when they were doing it, she pulled a knife out of her belt and sliced open his chest, just like she used to open chicken breasts to stuff with rice for the Sabbath meal.
One day the President and Mrs. Coolidge were visiting a government farm. Soon after their arrival they were taken off on separate tours. When Mrs. Coolidge passed the chicken pens she paused to ask the man in charge if the rooster copulates more than once each day. "Dozens of times, was the reply." "Please tell that to the President," Mrs. Coolidge requested. When the President passed the pens and was told about the roosters, he asked "Same hen every time?" "Oh no, Mr. President, a different one each time." The President nodded slowly, then said, "Tell that to Mrs. Coolidge."
Eating chicken without skin is like riding a bike without wheels
I love to cook; I cook every day. Chicken features a lot in our lives.
Chicken fizz! O Lord, protect all of us who toil in the vineyards of experimental chemistry!
Everybody's talking about the new democratic world and whether high fashion is relevant. But without high there is no low. I don't like to intellectualize. I've always said fashion is like roast chicken: You don't have to think about it to know it's delicious.
Maybe you’ll marry, maybe you won’t, maybe you’ll have children, maybe you won’t, maybe you’ll divorce at 40, maybe you’ll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary…what ever you do, don’t congratulate yourself too much or berate yourself either – your choices are half chance, so are everybody else’s.
All I ever wanted was a Virginia farm, no end of cream and fresh butter and fried chicken - not one fried chicken, or two, but unlimited fried chicken.
I was once on a mission, on a cruise I was wishin, that my mom was in the kitchen, eatin chicken, finger lickin.
I think that one of the problems that exists in the United States and in many places in the world is that people don't believe that they can make a difference. So a lot of times we're defeated before we even start. We've become consumers of a world vision, of Kentucky Fried Chicken, of McDonalds.
Go on, try weasel, try squirrel; it tastes like chicken, it tastes just like chicken! If it tastes just like chicken, why don't you gimme some damn chicken?
Leo drummed his fingers. “Great. I should have installed a smoke screen that makes the ship smell like a giant chicken nugget. Remind me to invent that, next time.” Hazel frowned. “What is a chicken nugget?” “Oh, man…” Leo shook his head in amazement. “That's right. You’ve missed the last, like, seventy years. Well, my apprentice, a chicken nugget—” “Doesn’t matter,” Annabeth interrupted.
Was the Buffalo chicken wing invented when Teressa Bellissimo thought of splitting it in half and deep frying it and serving it with celery and blue-cheese dressing? Was it invented when John Young started using mambo sauce and thought of elevating wings into a specialty?
Who doesn’t want an exploding wicker chicken?
When we found out Blackburn's owners wanted us to do a chicken advert for Venky's, we didn't really know what to think. I had to pretend to love it, but the truth is, one bite and my stomach was in knots.
How, given the canine teeth and close-set eyes that declare the human animal to be a predator, had we come up with the notion that oat bran is more natural to eat than chicken?
Later when I thought of the chickens, one of those rare pale blue eggs rose up into my throat. The chickens had been part of our family, and the egg in my throat was the feeling of something missing. It was hard and smooth and heavy, but also so fragile it might break and make me cry. It was the feeling of growing out of a favorite shirt, milk spilled on the floor, the last bit of honey in the jar, falling apple blossoms. It was the lump in the throat behind everything beautiful in life.
So familiar are eggs to us, however, that in the eighteenth century they were referred to as cackling farts, on the basis that chickens cackled all the time and eggs came out of the back of them.
Zig Ziglar may be the master motivator, Mark Victor Hansen and Jack Canfield of Chicken Soup for the Soul, the master story tellers; Anthony Robbins may be the guru of personal development, but Bob Proctor is a master thinker. When it comes to systemizing life, no one can touch him.
Chicken exits are self-sabotage. They give you a false explanation for why you don't have something you want.
When we accept bad art because it's good politics, we're killing the swan to feed the chickens.
Is this chicken or is this fish?
You white folks have long been eating the white meat of the chicken. We Negroes are now ready for some of the white meat instead of the dark meat.
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