I have a dream to provide every Chinese, especially children, sufficient milk each day.
The earthly power sucks shadowed milk from sleepy tears undone, from nippled skin as smooth as silk the bugles blown as one.
The land of milk and honey, they say it is the land of money.
Tired of nagging your kids to hurry up, get dressed, drink their milk and brush their teeth? Here's a radical idea: Don't.
Maybe it's a little ambitious of me to presume that no matter how big the film is, that I can always go down to the shop to buy a pint of milk.
I am a total coffee snob and bore. If anyone makes the mistake of offering me 'a coffee' they tend to regret it - I'm worse than Mariah Carey, and the hot milk rider is completely non-negotiable.
When I was a kid, I would make these incredibly bloody movies in my back yard. I was constantly making weird blood concoctions; Jell-O and milk was a good one. I was constantly ruining clothes and staining my parents' walls and stuff.
On the broad spectrum of solitude, I lean toward the extreme end: I work alone, as well as live alone, so I can pass an entire day without uttering so much as a hello to another human being. Sometimes a day's conversation consists of only five words, uttered at the local Starbucks: 'Large coffee with milk, please.
My primary school teacher once poured a bottle of curdled school milk forcefully down my throat. Then I threw it up all over her suede shoes. I'd rather have drunk from the spittoon in Barney's barber shop.
I love macaroni and cheese. I could eat it every meal of the day. It used to be sushi, but these days I cannot stop eating mac and cheese. I haven't had it from a box in a long time, but I'll make it homemade style with four types of cheeses, lots of milk, maybe a little ketchup. I don't know, I'm crazy like that.
I love chocolate. I like milk and dark chocolate, but definitely not white.
My first job was in sixth grade, sweeping the clay tennis courts at the yacht club near my house, which I was not a member of. Always had to pay my own rent. But I don't really have any concept of how money works. I don't know how much things cost. Like a BMW. Or a quart of milk. It's embarrassing.
America was the place that said, 'It doesn't matter where you come from, it doesn't matter what your last name is, it doesn't matter if you drink cortaditos, or lattes, or coffee with milk. Here, if you work hard, anything is possible.
I returned to New Orleans and my problems with pari-mutuel windows and a dark-haired, milk-skinned wife from Martinique who went home with men from the Garden District while I was passed out in a houseboat on Lake Pontchartrain, the downdraft of U.S. Army helicopters flattening a plain of elephant grass in my dreams.
I almost think of nerd brains as rattlesnake venom; like, you can milk it. You can milk the pulpy venom out of the nerd brain and use it for good if you want to.
The White Company offers its loyalists an altogether better, whiter world. The White people have edited out any colours that aren't white, off-white, milk chocolate, grey, taupe or black. They can't be doing with Johnnie Boden's cheery Sloane jokes, his spots and stripes, his occasional 'if it's me, it's U' loud colours.
I found myself face to face with a long line of people resembling extras off the set of Night of the Living Dead: shuffling along, pale and twitching, empty cups in hand -- murderous. Miserable. No matter that the air was rich with vapors of fresh-ground beans and warm muffins; no matter that the soft piped-in Vivaldi poured over us like steamed milk. These angry zombies were rushing to work, and their eyes flashed fair warning: Don't mess with us. We haven't had our coffee.
The fact is, people who don't have any misfortunes are very irritating to their neighbours. No opportunities for popping in with condolences and new-laid eggs. No visits to the afflicted. No opportunities for the milk of human kindness to flow. Naturally it doesn't.
Nay, had I pow'r, I should Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell, Uproar the universal peace, confound All unity on earth.
Milk-livered man, That bear'st a cheek for blows, a head for wrongs; Who hast not in thy brows an eye discerning Thine honor from thy suffering; [that not know'st Fools do those villains pity who are punished Ere they have done their mischief. Where's thy drum? France spreads his banners in our noiseless land, With plumed helm thy state begins to threat, Whilst thou, a moral fool, sits still and cries 'Alack, why does he so?']
blackmail. The age-old path to the land of milk and honey. The one sure way of being paid for doing nothing.
How well u treat the wicked people, they do nto give up their wickedness. They derive pleasure in hurting others. A serpent made to drink milk, it ejects poison only.
Milk in a mother's breast-that's cool. Milk in a mouth-that's cool too. But milk in my trumpet? Not so cool. I have to play that thing.
In the Seventies, women runners, developing amenorrhea and calcium-related shin splints, were the first to realize that nature is hovering over us, ready to shut down our systems if our fetus-feeding fat reserve drops below a certain percentage of body weight. In other words, in nature's eyes we are nothing but milk sacs and fat deposits.
Instead of passing blithely over into that Promised Land, flowing almost literally with milk and honey, it may be our destiny to wander a full 40 years or more in the wilderness of doubt and divided sentiments.
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