And it’ll be bumping our way late Saturday.
Bumped during the calm before the storm.
Another bump, for no particular reason.
Nicely done.
Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this sun of Bump.
“There’s no crying in bumpball!”
I have always depended on the bumping of strangers.
“Today, I consider myself the bumpiest man on the face of the Earth.”
A martini. Bumped, not stirred.
“That’s not flying, that’s bumping with grace!”
“I’m bumpin’ here! I’m bumpin’ here!”
You bumpin’ to me? You bumpin’ to me?
“You can’t handle the bumps!”
“Mrs Robinson. You’re trying to bump me - aren’t you?”
“Bumps? We ain’t got no bumps! We don’t need no bumps! I don’t have to show you any stinking bumps!”
“All right, Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my bump-up.”
“You’ve got to ask yourself one question: ‘Do I feel lucky?’ Well, do ya, bump?”
“If you bump it, he will come.”
“Make my Bump”
“Gentlemen, you can’t bump in here! This is the War Room!"
“Houston, we have a bump.”