If I were deaf, I’d wear loud clothing. My clothes would also be covered in coffee stains, because Helen Keller is my hero.
Her clothes were half off—a sale, not a strip tease. Watching her shop was as hot as a fresh cup of coffee, and that’s why I had a wad of dollar bills.
Karate, I get a real kick out of it. I would get a kick out of coffee, but I’ve got better ways of stirring, like renting Michael Phelps’ 400 IM time.
A swimming pool full of coffee would be great to jump in first thing in the morning. After all, people often call me the Molly Brown of the Brown-water Bathtub. Also, I hate ice in my coffee—and ice in the ocean.
I asked for the time, and she sold me a way to divide my attention into 12 equal parts. I asked her out to coffee, but she hinted there wasn’t a watch big enough to fit time with me in.
Your fork is my shovel. I eat real estate and I drink coffee.
A car is a couch with wheels. My windshield wipers don’t work, so I’ve decided to stop watering my living room carpet. Honk if you want coffee, and I’ll pour you an umbrellaful.
The only woman I’d want to go on a blind date with is Helen Keller. Maybe we could meet for coffee and I could listen while she doesn’t all the talking.
I’m currently drinking a coffee cup full of yesterday and thinking about tomorrow. My past is so dark it makes me think my future could use some cream.
Coffee is the anti-sleep, and I drink it like I eat ice, because I’m thirsty—and hungry for alertness.
I couldn't be a doctor. I have no patience for patients, like I do silly puns. But I could be a barista, because I love coffee like I love sex—and that’s why I pay for it.
