Cookie

a little girl was eating a cookie and spitting. “Do you have hair on your cookie?” “Don't be silly. I'm only eleven.”

Her legs hung over the edge and the large towel covered just enough of her lap to hide her 'cookie'.

If she wanted to compete in this dog-eat-pussy world, she had to keep up her personal grooming, even if it meant spreading her legs and letting some Vietnamese woman rip the hair off her cookie every other week.

Cookie put his butt to sleep, now he callin' me Nyquil.

I lost my cookies after that roller coaster ride.

I feel sick, like I'm about to toss my cookies.

We have already discussed the benefits — even the necessity — of cookieing visitors so that we can track their return visits to our Website.

At Oracle, they cookie you before and after you register.

More than a little apprehensive myself, I went out to the kitchen. Cookie, deep in a murder story, rocked peacefully beside the glowing range.

"You must show cookie here how grateful you are for all the trouble she's taken." The boy didn't move. "Go on, get on with it," the Trunchbull said. "Cut a slice and taste it. We haven't got all day."

Anyway, I went into the house and before I could get passed the bedroom, he called me. I hated him for calling me. He would say, “Come here, Cookie,” and for some reason, I was stupid and scared and I listened to this man.

Fry: Robot Devil? I get your hands? Zam! Robot Devil: Oh, what an appallingly ironic outcome. Bender: It's not ironic, it's just coincidental. Now fork over those lady-fingers, Cookie!