A picture with one word on it is like a thousand-and-one-word piece of literature. At this rate, I should be done with my million-word novel in about 999 minutes.
I called Phil up, but I didn’t call Phillip. He hung up on me, and I’m still hung up about that. To make things right I might just call Phillip and hang up.
I use two toothbrushes. One is for my anus, though I can never remember which one. Both toothbrushes belong to my mother-in-law, so I’m incentivized to be forgetful.
My friend fell in a pool, so I brought him to the hospital in a bucket. Half of him splashed out when I peed in it. I tried to save him, but I’m no Ryan Lochte.
I don’t just love you, I love you a 9.7. I would love you a 10, but who do you think you are, Greg Louganis?
If you bulk order enough sound, you get a discount by volume. The guys in the warehouse know me by the codename Helen Keller.
If we were both standing beside Niagara Falls, the only thing you’d be able to hear is the sound of me urinating in a pitcher of lemonade. Gorgeous scenery is great and all, but I’ve got a roadside vending business to run.
The word “Word” is too long to be short, like a 4” tall non-midget. My favorite word is love, and though it’s not long, it’s by far the tallest word.
Like a boxer on a treadmill, I hit the ground running. It was my first time being in love, and if enthusiasm were a sport, I’d have been sponsored by Nike. Or Adidas, whichever offered me more money.
I wish I listened through my urethra, because imagine how euphoric and orgasmic music would be. One love song might get you pregnant.
I buy my clothes large, so I feel comfortable gaining weight. When I love, I do it in two sizes—extra large, and refill.
I make love in the rain, alone, under an umbrella, because people in phone booths cannot be trusted. I hang my clothes up like I hang up a phone—long distance.
I’d hang a walrus on my wall, and I’d name him Russ. But I’m not a hunter—I’m a lover and a fisherman. Dinner will be ready in ten minutes, if you want to take off your pants and wash up.
A road that’s narrower than the width of my car’s wheels could only be lover’s lane. Hitchhikers make the best lovers.
I am an orange construction cone, and I say to you, “Caution.” This is my advice for love—and for driving while blindfolded, which is safer than love.
At my bachelor party I had Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer” play on repeat, while I enjoyed the spectacle of a midget stripper dressed like jet fuel (Rocket Man).
I think they should combine the Summer and Winter Olympics and call it the Fall Olympics. They could host it in the spring, when all the lovers will flock to see me preform live for the chance to win their affection.
I want to meet and marry a girl with the same last name as me, so I can show how modern and feminist I am by taking on her last name after marriage.
