A Quote by Meat Loaf

There ain't no Coupe Deville hiding at the bottom of a Cracker Jacks box. — © Meat Loaf
There ain't no Coupe Deville hiding at the bottom of a Cracker Jacks box.
I know you're looking for a ruby in a mountain of rocks, but there ain't no Coupe de Ville hiding at the bottom of a Cracker Jack Box.
Finding a really good weblog is like finding the peanuts in a box of Cracker Jacks. They are in there, but you have to hunt for them. And when you find one, you savor it.
Oh, I got a beautiful 1959 Cadillac Coupe DeVille four-door. No one will ride in it with me.
My happiest memory of childhood was my first birthday in reform school. This teacher took an interest in me. In fact, he gave me the first birthday presents I ever got: a box of Cracker Jacks and a can of ABC shoe polish.
Sonya Deville was originally supposed to be NJ Deville to help me keep my MMA nickname of 'The Jersey Devil' after debating back and forth we agreed on Sonya Deville.
Cracker Jacks don't count as junk food because they're corn and peanuts, which we know to be high in nutrition. And they have a prize inside.
I don't know what the big deal about Cracker Jack is. Did you ever go buy a pack of Cracker Jack, thinking you'd get a prize and find no prize in the box? (pause) Here's the pitch.
Jumping jacks are easier to do than crawling jacks.
I'm an insomniac lately. It's one of the many prizes you find in the Cracker Jack box of a crumbling [relationship].
Years ago, children helped my brother search for his lost ball at Jackson Park Golf Course in Chicago - and even offered to sell it back to him on the next tee. That entrepreneurial spirit, on the site of the 1893 World's Fair - which introduced Cracker Jacks to the United States - exemplifies America, to say nothing of American public golf.
The library is the biggest cracker box factory in the world. The more you eat, the more you want.
I don't want it to be Sonya Deville, the gay wrestler. I want it to be Sonya Deville, the awesome performer who happens to be gay.
As a child, I spent a lot of time alone. I used to sit in my closet with one cracker. I'd pretend that I was on the North Pole freezing to death, and I had to somehow survive on this one tiny cracker.
I started hiding my paintings in certain ways, like behind panes of glass for example. Then, instead of hiding them I did something quite cold and clinical: I built a wooden box, filled it with enamel paint and dunked the painting in so you could only see a suggestion of it from a controlled point of view.
They are born, put in a box; they go home to live in a box; they study by ticking boxes; they go to what is called "work" in a box, where they sit in their cubicle box; they drive to the grocery store in a box to buy food in a box; they talk about thinking "outside the box"; and when they die they are put in a box.
So many of us had been armed that there were holsters and weapons scattered among the passed-out bodies like mercenary prizes in a fleshy Cracker Jack box.
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