There comes a time, brothers, where history is forged like melted cheese. It sticks together as one, but it's still soft and squishy in the middle.
Age doesn't really matter... unless you're a cheese.
How can anyone govern a nation that has two hundred and forty-six different kinds of cheese?
The early bird may get the worm, but its the second mouse that gets the cheese.
Once we hit forty, women only have about four taste buds left: one for vodka, one for wine, one for cheese, and one for chocolate.
Poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese.
Only peril can bring the French together. One can't impose unity out of the blue on a country that has 265 kinds of cheese.
