Best 1015 quotes in «beer quotes» category

Bburke used to, whenever he went to the city to catch a Yankees game, throw his money around to every homeless man on the street, feeling it was the right thing to do; except one time he did that and he got to the stadium and realized he didn’t have enough money for the Bud Light tall boy he always got during the third inning. And in him he felt an unyielding rise of contempt for the himself of only hours ago, that he was something and now is something and that they aren’t the same somethings. But that the change was Barmecidal and it was just him, this moneyless and beerless man in the bleachers. Man made in God’s image, yet some men are homeless and some are beerless, and there must be this big bearded guy miles and miles in the sky who doesn’t have a home and can’t even catch a buzz.

Beer: All real men drink a specific brand of cheap beer. While I was growing up, my stepfather, who was the manliness man on the planet, drank Schlitz tall boys. There was no room in the fridge, so he just left them on the counter and drank them warm. One day I asked him why he drank Schlitz, and he said, “It’s only 3.1 cents per ounce. Beer is an acquired taste, so you might as well acquire a taste for cheap beer.” That’s some manly shit.

Beer, brewed in cauldrons the size of houses by machines and then served cold. It has no soul. It isn't worthy of the name.

Beer is a good family drink.

Beer is man's drink. Water is God's drink. Wine is everyone's drink. Whiskey is the Devil's soup.

Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy. [misquote of a letter about wine, see quotes/831031]

Beer. There’s nothing I don’t like about it. I love the smell, the taste—even the sound of it. The cool thunk of the cap coming off the bottle, the silvery crack of the pop-top can. You need to sip a whiskey. And I was never a sipper. I was a guzzler. I loved the feeling of it: to open wide the mouth of the soul and pour a cold one down my throat, with my mind racing ever-forward toward the next. Beer was kind and faithful, like an old friend. Every drinker has their poison. I am a beer man.

Beer: Aurdwynn's favourite source of sterile, portable calories.

Beer. There’s nothing I don’t like about it. I love the smell, the taste—even the sound of it. The cool thunk of the cap coming off the bottle, the silvery crack of the pop-top can. The cold sweat of the container against the fingers on a sultry afternoon. Every drinker has their poison. I am a beer man. You need to sip a whiskey. And I was never a sipper. I was a guzzler. I loved the feeling of it: to open wide the mouth of the soul and pour a cold one down my throat, with my mind racing ever-forward toward the next. Beer was kind and faithful, like an old friend.

Beer culture is a part of the world of food and drink. It's not just a commodity in cans and bottles, but has a value as an agricultural product with good ingredients.

Beer is a lady without any friends

Brewing is mentioned rarely in accounts of the Industrial Revolution. Temperance pressures meant it was impolitic for brewers to boast of their achievements and innovations, and few accurate records exist of exactly how it performed in the 19th Century compared to those glamorous, sexy industries like coal mining and steel making.

Bier is een kalmeringsmiddel; het verdooft je gedachten en strijkt elke neiging tot opstandigheid glad. Totalitaire staten blussen sociale branden met de bierspuit. Nietzsche haatte dit piskleurige vocht omdat het de 'geest van de logheid' voedde.

Can you still want something you already have? Absolutely. Everyday.

By drinking, a boy acts like a man. After drinking, many a man acts like a boy.

But no matter how good the beer, how many honors or awards, how innovative Goose Island would ever be again, someone deep in the crowd would always boo.

Do you remember your first sip of beer? Terrible! How could anyone like that stuff? But beer, you reflect, is an acquired taste; one gradually trains oneself—or just comes—to enjoy that flavor. What flavor? The flavor of that first sip? No one could like that flavor! Beer tastes different to the experienced beer drinker. Then beer isn't an acquired tast; one doesn't learn to like that first taste; one gradually comes to experience a different, and likable, taste. Had the first sip tasted that way, you would have liked beer wholeheartedly from the beginning!

Don't be scared, I'm a vegetarian.

From the book, "Just because you can't see them, doesn't mean they are not there.

During the first millennium BCE, even the beer-loving Mesopotamians turned their backs on beer, which was dethroned as the most cultured and civilized of drinks, and the age of wine began.

Eugene's got a fake ID, and he actually gets away with using it because he looks like he's thirty-six, thanks to his devotion to tasseled shoes and his ridiculous carpet of chest hair.

Farewell, Timothy Riley’s Bar," Lane said softly. "Home of the nickel beer. Snooker emporium. Repository of Bluebird records, three for a dime. We honor you and your passing. Farewell. Farewell, Timothy Riley—and terraplanes and rumbleseats and saddle shoes and Helen Forrest and the Triple-C camps and Andy Hardy and Lum ‘n’ Abner and the world-champion New York Yankees! Rest in peace, you age of innocence—you beautiful, serene, carefree, pre-Pearl Harbor, long summer night. We’ll never see your likes again.

Gareth Miller grabbed the beer first, then the hotdog, because if there’s one thing you don’t want to be caught dead without at these sorts of events it’s beer. The hotdog was strictly for show, a prop, a way of blending in. Burst of static in his right ear: “G-man, you read me? What’s yo’ twenty, dawg?” Gareth departed the concession stand, stopped, looked down at his hands, and tossed the hotdog into the first trash receptacle he saw. Raising his wrist to his mouth, he spoke into the cuff of his long-sleeved tee. “Concession stand, Section B. Over.” Allowing his hand to linger by his chin, he gingerly scratched his cheek as if he had meant to do it all along. The same voice: “Yo, I’m in position. Ready when you is.” Gareth cringed while crossing the wide concourse, checking both directions. The giant hallway was the main drag of a ghost town, its only residents a solitary custodian sweeping debris into a portable waste bin and the concession crew to his rear.

Driving down deserted early morning roads. Round and round. Round downtown. Through naked streets. Lips pursed on two litre bottles of beer, but pursuing the lips of freedom's night. Swapping cars. Winding up at karaoke bars or Bolsi- the best place in town. For the food. For the folk. For the service. For the crema de papaya. And for that late night dawn's whiskey coffee.

For some reason, possibly known only to my therapist, I decided that Dippy looked so adorable this morning, as she lay gently snoozing on my jacket, that she just had to allow me to cuddle her. This was an error of a magnitude found somewhere between "invade Poland in the winter" and "hold my beer and watch this.

Gentlemen, consider: of course the ancient Egyptians made beer cans; where else would they have kept their beer?

From the book - "Just because you can't see them, doesn't mean their are not there!

Hartnell's was for drinking. And you could get any drink you wanted, as long as it was beer.

He thought to himself now that if ever he went into the brewing business his posters would have written across the top "Bowen's Beer", and then underneath that in the middle a picture of Mrs. Knowles driniking a lot of it and falling about, and then across the bottom in bold or salient lettering the words "Makes You Drunk".

He smacked his lips, tasting the fifth brand, and holding up the glass looked through the amber at the light. "This is a pleasant surprise, Archie. I would not have believed it. That of course is the advantage of being a pessimist; a pessimist gets nothing but pleasant surprises, an optimist nothing but unpleasant. So far, none of this is sewage.

He drank as though his beer was medicine, without pleasure, intent on the result.

Here's the beautiful lady with the beer.

He seemed to be having trouble remembering the steps, for he was pumping my arm and counting under his breath (one, two, three), and his breath smelled like the open maws of the pub cellars that grapes on Whitchurch pavements on delivery day. Beer.

I also liked they Belgian brewers are notoriously rebellious and mock Americans’ obsession with categorizing beers by style; I saw them as arrogant expressionists ensnared with creation, not categorization.

Hit the bottom and get back up; or hit the bottle and stay down.

If a cigarette butt in the bottom of a beer bottle had a voice it would be the voice of Phil Tufnell.

I drink beer not to get drunk or because i have stress, i drink beer just because i want to share good ideas with the real men, real people. you cannot be real and wise man, if you don't take alcohol.

I am designing the future on beer mats, like Churchill and Stalin at Yalta.

I could feel her breasts up against my stomach. I wanted a beer real bad.

If I only drink beer, nothing stronger, then by the end of the night I can generally recognize myself as a reasonable human being, and more importantly, wake up that way.

If circumstances dictate that your disposable income has to come from eating ramen alongside your vintage Cantillon gueuze, so be it.

If I show up on your doorstep don't worry I'm just there to party.

I have a conflicted view on beer styles. As historical artifacts, they're endlessly fascinating to study. And I think that they generally represent confluences -- and compromises -- of technology, agriculture, cuisine, and geology that make the most of what a region has to offer. That means existing styles are usually quite wonderful to drink, and I'm all for that.

I had made an early policy decision to drink the native beer despite the undoubted horrors of the process of fabrication. On my very first visit to a Dowayo beer party, this was put severely to the test. "Will you have beer?" I was asked. "Beer is furrowed," I replied, having got the tones wrong. "He said 'yes' ", my assistant replied in a tired voice. They were amazed. No white man, at this time, had ever been known to touch beer. Seizing a calabash, they proceeded to wash it out in deference to my exotic sensibilities. They did this by offering it to a dog to lick out. Dowayo dogs are not beautiful at the best of times; this one was particularly loathsome, emaciated, open wounds on its ears where flies feasted, huge distended ticks hanging from its belly. It licked the calabash with relish. It was refilled and passed to me. Everyone regarded me, beaming expectantly. There was nothing to be done; I drained it and gasped out my enjoyment. Several more calabashes followed.

If you can make it down to the pub, the pub will make it up to you.

[I]f you want to learn kung fu, you must learn to break bricks with your head. If you want to be a fiction writer, you must learn to stare at a blank page with nothing but your name on the top without flinching, without weeping, without getting up to get a beer to fortify your faltering courage.

I had hit on the most positive solution to the world’s most negative problems. What we needed were a bunch of little, hairy Hobbits! Not large armies of Gondoreans and Rohirrim, just beer drinking, song-singing, riddle-solving, barrel-riding, pipe-weed-smokin’, second-breakfast-eatin’, long-walkin’ Hobbits!

I had come out of a messy workplace along a messy street to a messy room and did not like it and within me was the beer that made me bold.

In an age when mass pleasures like television are becoming more feeble and homogeneous, the very act of discrimination becomes a form of protest. At a time when mass marketing of food produces a product so disgusting that it has to be wrapped in distracting gimmicks to be sold, the mere fact of paying attention to what you eat and drink and telling the truth about taste is a revolutionary act.

I’m just a simple guy. I love beer, sex, and hockey. I hate liars, Sting, and art that doesn’t have people in it. - Luke Almeida