Whiskey claims to itself alone the exclusive office of sot-making.
Whiskey don't make liars it just makes fools.
Whisky is liquid sunshine.
Politicians and music don't mix. It's like whiskey and wine.
It is a great paradox and a great injustice that writers write because we fear death and want to leave something indestructible in our wake and, at the same time, are drawn to all the things that kill: whiskey and cigarettes, unprotected sex, and deep-fried burritos.
I like whiskey. I always did, and that is why I never drink it.
Drown in a cold vat of whiskey? Death, where is thy sting?
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, if the women don't get you then the whiskey must.
It was a place of sin, loose women, whiskey and gambling. It was no place for a good Presbyterian, and I did not long remain one.
Everything was a trap: women, drugs, whiskey, wine, scotch, beer - even beer - cigars, and cigarettes. Traps: Work or no work. Traps: Artistry or no artistry; everything sucked you into some spiderweb. I disdained the use of the needle for the same reason that I disdained some so-called beautiful women - the price was far beyond the measure of the worth. I didn't want to hustle that hard.
As a cure for worrying, work is far better than whiskey. I always found that, if I began to worry, the best thing I could do was focus upon doing something useful and then work very hard at it. Soon, I would forget what was troubling me.
Whiskey is all right in its place - but its place is hell.
What else could I tell them? I like my women like I like my whiskey: 12 years old and mixed up with coke.
Boy, a drive-through liquor store. God bless America! A place where you can drive through and buy whiskey, beer. . . just the thing for that drunk driver who's constantly on the go. Cant stop now! I've got places to go, people to hit!
Did the Warwickshire militia, who were chiefly artisans, teach the Irish to drink beer, or did they learn from the Irish how to drink whiskey?
You can steal my women but don't play with my whiskey.
Moonshiners put more time, energy, thought, and love into their cars than any racer ever will. Lose on the track, and you go home. Lose with a load of whiskey, and you go to jail.
Seventeen whiskeys. A record, I think.
Crooked cards and straight whiskey, Slow horses and fast women.
Stories, like whiskey, must be allowed to mature in the cask.