The very thing keeping me alive is also killing me—love. No wonder the rose symbolizes both love and death. They should have a deal where if you buy a dozen roses you get a free headstone.
She grew broccoli, and I grew dentures. We were perfect for each other. Our love disappeared into each other like a box of toothpicks.
I saw a white toilet, with no plumbing, alone in a field of snow. Well, almost alone. There were two naked albinos and a polar bear sitting on it, and I felt inspired to write a love poem.
With 87 other Elvis impersonators, I’m going to take over the world. Starting with Vegas. We will gyrate our hips out of love, and to end world hunger.
I don’t like breakfast—I prefer fixslow. I eat it like I devour your love, and it may take time, but we can put our relationship back together. Just pass me the maple syrup.
Pa extended his paw as if to say, “I’m here, and I’m human.” What else could I do but say, “Meow.
I don’t like it when I have guests over and my girlfriend doesn’t wear pants and makes sock puppets with stinky socks and does impressions of my visitors with a falsetto voice. It’s embarrassing. I hate when she steals my routine.
I prefer kissing over dinner. Not that I prefer kissing to dinner, but I prefer kissing over the plate containing my dinner, especially if my dinner consists of something romantic like monkey brains.
1-12, how many Decembers does it take to sell thirteen to Mr. Fourteen and Mr. Months? Depends on how much love you throw in for free.
My mother always told me not to pick my nose, so I’m going let the plastic surgeon decide what my new nose will look like. I’m hoping he makes it look like either a Tiffany lamp, a Heckler and Koch assault rifle, or Bill Clinton’s erect cigar.
I sometimes lie awake at night wishing I had all the answers. But I guess only God has all of them, while I only have one answer: I do. Now I just have to wait for the perfect question to use it on.
I painted my walls yellow, with melted butter, because I recently discovered that I had a popcorn ceiling. It’s this kind of reasoning that leads me to think I might make a great politician. Vote for me because hey, I can’t be worse than the othe...
If radios and microwaves merged, then the ideal pop song would be three minutes, or the length of time a bag of popcorn takes to finish popping. That’s about twice the length of my marriage, though in my defense the reason my marriage was so short ...
They should make suitcases shaped like human bodies, for discretely transporting dead cadavers. And I should get a friends and family discount.
I like TV shows that motivate me to want to improve my life, as I sit listless on the sofa hour after hour, night after night. My desire to self-actualize grows with my waistline. If I keep eating junk food alone on my couch, maybe my true love will ...
She said she loved me, and I didn’t believe it for a minute. Maybe 59 seconds, but not a whole minute. I may be gullible, but I’m not without an accurate way to measure time.
She doesn’t want me to leave, and she doesn’t want me to stay. That’s a double helping of Doesn’t Want Me, and one big I’m Not Hungry back at her.
Myth, mist, and mystery all add to the illusion of love. If you need me I’ll be by the fog machine wearing a tunic and writing an epic poem in Greek.
