You can use the tax code to make people smoke less. You can use the tax code to make 'em smoke more. You can use the tax code to make 'em buy beer or buy less beer, more booze or less booze. You can screw the tax code around to make 'em make more charitable contributions. You think they're going to get rid of this power? Ain't no way, fool.
Bud Light....the perfect beer for marketers about to lose their job.
I usually need a can of beer to prime me.
Ask any Ferrari, Porsche or Ray-Ban salesperson about their average customer and you will very likely hear that he is not, as the adverts would have us believe, a virile young footballer with shiny hair, a rippling six pack and a trouser pouch like a new punch bag. He is, in fact, a middle-aged bloke wearing more chins than he started life with and carrying the clear evidence of forty years of beer and pies slung across his midriff.
If you think about brewing, it is biotechnology. And I would say that I was a technologist at heart. So whether I... fermented beer or whether I fermented enzymes, the base technology was the same.
...the Female Once-Over - a process by which one woman creates a detailed profile of another woman based upon about a million subtle details of clothing, jewelry, makeup, and body type, and then decides how much of a social threat she might be. Men have a parallel process, but it's binary: Does he have beer? If yes, will he share with me?
You know the law, Dresden." "He who kills the cheer springs for beer," chanted the rest of the table.
Here's to the drunken Marine
With beer in his canteen!
You've heard of the Unknown Soldier
But, never an unknown Marine!
Now, I'm mostly a beer man. When I drink hard liquor, it usually doesn't end the best, so I keep it chill with beer.
At twilight, nature is not without loveliness, though perhaps its chief use is to illustrate quotations from the poets.
Moderation is a fatal thing. Nothing succeeds like excess.
Why was I born with such contemporaries?
All the black leather she needs is the E-Z boy recliner where her love is parked with one of his hands wrapped around a remote, the other, a bottle of beer. She's right. It's kinky. The way he doesn't look away from the TV, as her head bobs in his lap like a fisherman's float on a nature program, hectic with the pace his breath sets. His crotch swells under her mouth's prowess. He's such a sweetheart he waits until the commercials to come.
It's a weird thing with accents. When I go home it gets a lot stronger, when I've had a few beers it gets a lot stronger.