Bowling is not a sport because you have to rent the shoes.
I think the warning labels on alcoholic beverages are too bland. They should be more vivid. Here is one I would suggest: "Alcohol will turn you into the same asshole your father was.
People who see life as anything more than pure entertainment are missing the point.
I have a Kenwood charcoal grill. In our house, if anybody is cooking, it's me. I love making burgers. I love making pork tenderloin. Lamb chops I do on the grill a lot. But you just can't beat brats.
He who cannot eat horsemeat need not do so. Let him eat pork. But he who cannot eat pork, let him eat horsemeat. It's simply a question of taste.
A peasant becomes fond of his pig and is glad to salt away its pork. What is significant, and is so difficult for the urban stranger to understand, is that the two statements are connected by an and not by a but.
There is poetry in a pork chop to a hungry man.
First the pork chops, then morality
I'm such a foodie. If I see a pork chop, I'm eating it.
I like pork chops and country ham, creamed potatoes, stuff like that. Redeye gravy. It comes from ham, bacon, stuff like that. It's the grease that you fry it in. I eat a lot of Jell-O. Fruit Jell-O.
My dog keeps looking at me as if he knows my secret, as if he and he alone can see my soul. That or he wants this pork chop.
It was my pork chop. But that's ok. I ate his dog food.
Left me here to cry alone with a bottle of juice and pork chop bone.
I like good food. People want a certain taste, but when they're offered something else, they'll overeat. If they really are looking for chicken and someone gives them pork chops, they'll say, "I will have another." And that's because their satisfaction is not reached. So I thought I would make great food, but eat less of it. I tried it and I've taken off over 40 pounds.
The factory farm is . . . an obvious moral evil so sickening and horrendous. . . All this so we can have our accustomed veal or lamb or fried chicken or pork chop or hot dog.
I went to the juice isle, I learned something. Cranberries are taking over everything. What do you got, apples? Put some cranberrise in there, make it 50/50. Cran-apple. Grapes? Cran-grape. Mangos? Cran-mango. Pork chops? Cran-chop!
When are we left-wingers going to learn that we are losing the cultural and political battle with conservatives because we are fractured into narcissistic special-interest groups? Why should an antiwar protestor be so concerned about her dietary identity? The political opinions of vegetarians and meat-eaters are, after all, equally important. And what does it tell us about vegetarians that it would never occur to meat-eaters to carry a sign that reads "Pacifist Pork Chop Lover for Peace" or "Backyard Rib Barbecuer for International Nuclear Disarmament"?
Cold morning on Aztec Peak Fire Lookout. First, build fire in old stove. Second, start coffee. Then, heat up last night's pork chops and spinach for breakfast. Why not? And why the hell not?
Bowling is not a sport because you have to rent the shoes. When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops? This title offends all three major religions, and even vegetarians!
I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber,poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys. I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?
I never met a pig I didn't like. All pigs are intelligent, emotional, and sensitive souls. They all love company. They all crave contact and comfort. Pigs have a delightful sense of mischief; most of them seem to enjoy a good joke and appreciate music. And that is something you would certainly never suspect from your relationship with a pork chop.
As for meat, I'm not going to become vegetarian. I'm telling you that right now. I want me a steak. I want me a pork chop. I want me a lamb chop, even a piece of duck every once in awhile. We used to have ham and salami, all that crazy stuff.
I was so ugly my parents had to hang a pork chop around my neck to get the dog to play with me.
My husband cooks fancier food for himself than I've ever cooked on-air. I call him from the road, and he's making champagne-vanilla salmon or black-cherry pork chop. Half of me is feeling unworthy. Not only am I not a chef, I'm not a better cook than my own husband!
Some marriages are made in heaven, Mine was made in Hong Kong, by the same people who make those little rubber pork chops they sell in the pet department at Kmart.
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