Umpiring is best described as the profession of standing between two seven-year olds with one ice cream cone.
Like cats and ice cream, showers were among life's simple, uncomplicated pleasures.
If I'm making a movie and get hungry, I call time-out and eat some crackers.
I compose with bells a lot. Bells and breath. Both things you react to without thinking about it. Bells traditionally give us orders: come to the desk, the truck is backing up, the ice cream is here, it's time to go to church. They're sounds our brains are already associated with.
I spent my summers in Connecticut scooping ice cream and babysitting.
I am not a nurse escorting six lunatics to the ice cream parlor.
On a very rough-and-ready basis we might define an eccentric as a man who is a law unto himself, and a crank as one who, having determined what the law is, insists on laying it down to others. An eccentric puts ice cream on steak simply because he likes it; should a crank do so, he would endow the act with moral grandeur and straightaway denounce as sinners (or reactionaries) all who failed to follow suit. . . . Cranks, at their most familiar, are a sort of peevish prophets, and it's not enough that they should be in the right; others must also be in the wrong.
I never felt that getting angry would do you any good other than hurt your own digestion- keep you from eating, which I liked to do.
If I have a weakness, it's probably ice cream. That's where I get lax, sloppy. I'll sneak into the refrigerator at night and take two or three bites and put it back. Butter pecan. Only two or three bites, but it shows.
The sun would come up over the ocean, and we'd be eating scrambled eggs before we shot some stuff. It was a vacation in the sense that it was the best working conditions.
Nothing in life is fun for the whole family. There are no massage parlors with ice cream and free jewelry.
White pants should be worn on two occasions: One, never. And two, if you're selling ice cream.
If anything’s going on in our lives, we have each other. One time, I was having a bad day, and I called Chris Colfer. He came over with a pint of ice cream and Madea Goes to Jail, and it was, like, the best night of my life.
In my films, all the great things are put together. It's not like one kind of ice cream but rather a very big Sundae.
My first job was scooping ice cream at Friendly's in Albany, New York. I hated the work, most of my colleagues, and the uniform, and I more or less lost my taste for ice cream permanently.
You can tell by the applause: There's perfunctory applause, there's light applause, and then there's real applause. When it's right, applause sounds like vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce.
It's changed throughout the years, but at one time I was a really big bubble gum ice cream fan. I'd spit the bubble gum pieces in a cup and then collect them.
Now I know that that is just the phenomena of eating this way. Most all of my letters say I hit a plateau and then one morning I woke up and the melt had happened.
Thinking about the fathomless cruelty with which man has treated his fellow man, but also ice cream.
I love dessert. All kinds. But there's something about ice cream that makes me happy. I am drawn to its simplicity. I am perplexed by the endless supply of constantly growing flavor options. And I am always in the mood for sprinkles and a sugar cone.