crepe Quotes

Samantha: [as the family leaves their house for the last time before moving] Goodbye, yard! Goodbye, crepe myrtle! Goodbye, mailbox! Goodbye, box of stuff Mommy won't let us take with us but we don't want to throw away. Goodbye, house, I'll never like Mommy as much for making us move!
Mom: Samantha! Why don't you say goodbye to that little horseshit

attitude, okay, because we're not taking that in the car.

Jean Girard: [has Ricky in an arm lock] I will let you go, Ricky. But first, I want you to say..."I... love... crepes."
Cal Naughton, Jr.: Don't you say it, Ricky. These colors don't run.
Ricky Bobby: I'm not gonna say it.
Cal Naughton, Jr.: Good.
Ricky Bobby: Hey, look, Frenchy, I

thought about it. So why don't you go ahead and break my arm?
Jean Girard: I do not want to break your arm, Monsieur Bobby, but I am a man of my word.
Ricky Bobby: Here's the deal. He's not gonna break it because I'm gonna slip out of it right now. Houdini!
[he tries unsuccessfully to get free]
Jean Girard: Whoa! Get

down, you little pancake.
Ricky Bobby: Someone might as well get me a beer while I'm down here.
Jean Girard: But you have forced me to do this. You are now mocking me and making me look ridiculous. Just say, "I love crepes."
Cal Naughton, Jr.: You know, just to put this in there, I had a whole mess of crepes this morning.

They're just like pancakes, maybe even better.
Ricky Bobby: Wait, are they the really thin pancakes?
Cal Naughton, Jr.: Yeah.
Jean Girard: Yes they are. They are the really thin pancakes. It's just a French word for them.
Ricky Bobby: Oh, my god, I love those.
Cal Naughton, Jr.:

Put any syrups you want on them. I'm just saying, think about it.
Ricky Bobby: They come with cheese sometimes?
Jean Girard: Yes, of course, a fromage-crepe.
Ricky Bobby: Well, why didn't someone yell that right-right away?
Jean Girard: Do you know what's in the crepe suzette?
Ricky

Bobby: Oh, I love the crepe suzette.
Jean Girard: With the sugar and lemon juice...
Ricky Bobby: Yeah, the sugar and the lemon juice. Sure.
Jean Girard: Grand Marnier.
Ricky Bobby: I wo - I wish I could crawl into one of those right now. I'd eat my way out from the inside.

[at Gareth's funeral]
Matthew: Gareth used to prefer funerals to weddings. He said it was easier to get enthusiastic about a ceremony one had an outside chance of eventually being involved in. In order to prepare this speech, I rang a few people, to get a general picture of how Gareth was regarded by those who met him: 'Fat' seems to have been a word people most connected

with him. 'Terribly rude' also rang a lot of bells. So very 'fat' and very 'rude' seems to have been a stranger's viewpoint. On the other hand, some of you have been kind enough to ring me and let me know that you loved him, which I know he would have been thrilled to hear. You remember his fabulous hospitality, his strange experimental cooking: the recipe for "Duck à la Banana" fortunately goes

with him to his grave. Most of all, you tell me of his enormous capacity for joy. When joyful, when joyful for highly vocal drunkenness. But I hope joyful is how you will remember him, not stuck in a box in a church. Pick your favourite of his waistcoats and remember him that way. The most splendid, replete, big-hearted, weak-hearted as it turned out, and jolly bugger most of us ever met. As for

me, you may ask how I will remember him, what I thought of him. Unfortunately, there I run out of words. Perhaps you will forgive me if I turn from my own feelings to the words of another splendid bugger: W.H. Auden. This is actually what I want to say: "Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone. Silence the pianos and with muffled drum, Bring out

the coffin, let the mourners come. Let the aeroplanes circle, moaning overhead, Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'. Put crepe bows 'round the white necks of the public doves, Let traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest; My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song. I thought that love would last forever; I

was wrong. The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood, For nothing now can ever come to any good."