I’d like to see a forklift lift a crate of forks. It’d be so damn literal! You are using that machine to it’s exact purpose!
A broken spoon may be a fork in disguise.
Scientists have determined that the most irritating sound to the human ear is the sound of a knife cutting a glass bottle. And the second-worst sound is a fork scratching a glass bottle. Evidently they did all their research at the Picnic for Morons.
I was forced to go to Cotillion when I was in seventh grade. So I learned what fork is what and dance steps.
The practice of diplomacy, I have found, is sometimes like eating soup with a fork: much activity yielding little nourishment.
It's really crucial to achieve that balance with a film like this, cause it is unique and witty and then there's the tendency to force that. It becomes contrived and I know the feeling like, give me a fork that I can stab in my eye in those kinds of movies.
When I try to analyze my own cravings, motives, actions and so forth, I surrender to a sort of retrospective imagination which feeds the analytic faculty with boundless alternatives and which causes each visualized route to fork and re-fork without end in the maddeningly complex prospect of my past.
Eating soup with a fork: slow and messy.
Valerie was crying, too. She was laughing and sniffling back sobs. “I’m going to marry my snuggy wuggums,” she said. Morelli paused, his fork halfway to the roast chicken platter. He slid his eyes to me and leaned close. “If you ever call me snuggy wuggums in public I’ll lock you in the cellar and chain you to the furnace.
Reading and writing, arithmetic and grammar do not constitute education, any more than a knife, fork and spoon constitute a dinner.
The only exercise I got as a kid was fork to mouth. Food was equated with love in my household. I thought you left the table when the zipper was down and you'd explode if you took another bite. I'd eat my plate and then everyone else's leftovers.
This brief century of ours is arguably the most significant one in the history of our universe. We'll have the technology either to self-destruct, or [to] seed our cosmos with life. The situation is so unstable that I doubt we can dwell at this fork in the road for more than another hundred years. But if we end up going the life route instead of the death route, then in a distant future our cosmos will be teaming with life, all of which can be traced back to what we do-here and now. I don't know how we'll be thought of, but I'm sure that we won't be remembered as insignificant.
She would walk through the kitchen at any hour, whenever she was hungry, and put her fork in the pots and eat a little of everything without placing anything on a plate, standing in front of the stove, talking to the serving women, who were the only ones with whom she felt comfortable, the ones she got along with best.
It's possible, in a poem or short story, to write about commonplace things and objects using commonplace but precise language, and to endow those things—a chair, a window curtain, a fork, a stone, a woman's earring—with immense, even startling power.
It was my friend Frank, a writer in San Francisco, who finally set me straight. When asked about my new look he put down his fork and stared at me for a few moments. "A bow tie announces to the world you can no longer get an erection."
So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star.
A digging fork is a stout, short-handled tool with four flat tines about a foot long.... for weeding I use it delicately to nudge the soil loose from roots without breaking them.
Never trust machinery more complicated than a knife and fork.
Blaming guns for murder is like blaming forks for obesity.
Some women chasing men, and some - for dreams. If you are at a fork, remember, your career will not wake up one morning to say that more does not love you.
The road to anywhere is the road to nowhere, and the road to nowhere leads to dreams sacrificed, opportunities squandered, and a life unfulfilled. In our journey we will encounter forks and turnings in the road.
Zerts' are what I call desserts. 'Trée-trées' are entrées. I call sandwiches 'sammies,' 'sandoozles,' or 'Adam Sandlers.' Air conditioners are 'cool blasterz' with a 'z' - I don't know where that came from. I call cakes 'big ol' cookies.' I call noodles 'long-ass rice.' Fried chicken is 'fry-fry chicky-chick.' Chicken parm is 'chicky-chicky-parm-parm.' Chicken cacciatore? 'Chicky-cacc.' I call eggs 'pre-birds,' or 'future birds.' Root beer is 'super water.' Tortillas are 'bean blankets.' And I call forks 'food rakes.'
He'd felt like a jack-o-lantern for the past few days, as if his guts had been yanked out with a fork and dumped in a heap while a grinning smile stayed plastered on his face.
A man must know his destiny… if he does not recognize it, then he is lost. By this I mean, once, twice, or at the very most, three times, fate will reach out and tap a man on the shoulder… if he has the imagination, he will turn around and fate will point out to him what fork in the road he should take, if he has the guts, he will take it.
Jealousy always has been my cross, the weakness and woundedness in me that has most often caused me to feel ugly and unlovable, like the Bad Seed. I’ve had many years of recovery and therapy, years filled with intimate and devoted friendships, yet I still struggle. I know that when someone gets a big slice of pie, it doesn’t mean there’s less for me. In fact, I know that there isn’t even a pie, that there’s plenty to go around, enough food and love and air. But I don’t believe it for a second. I secretly believe there’s a pie. I will go to my grave brandishing my fork.
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