Don’t sell yourself short—sell yourself medium, because it’s taller. Did you know my love is refillable? For just .99 cents.
His name was Skip, but I didn’t. I waited patiently in line behind him. But do not be confused. I am not the kind of lover who lets other men go first.
With gift giving, if it’s the thought that counts, then a picture of a Mercedes is just as good as an actual Mercedes. With my new camera, I can’t wait to show you how much I love you!
You know what’s a chain reaction? The direct relationship between how fast I pedal, and how fast my bicycle travels. I’m the kind of lover who notices the small details, like the fact that my bike has no brakes and I’m rapidly approaching a cli...
The love doctor, Orafoura, says there are two things that a guy can do to promote a healthy relationship: One, grow out a handlebar mustache, and two, grow a mullet. I don’t know, will radiating lust make me a better lover?
I’m a one-man show. I need to start a band. You wanna join? Too bad! What about one-man band don’t you understand?
If love were a color, it'd be orange. Not because that's a romantic color, but because it's the sweetest. If you want to know how I feel about you, I just made some juice out of it. Grab a glass—a tall one.
My closet’s so full of memories and fearful homosexuals that I have nowhere to hang my clothes. Well, that and I don’t know how to tie a noose. I’m making meatloaf on a stick if you want to come over later and help me prosecute my entire wardro...
As early as 1,000 BC, man had to wait nearly 3,000 years to talk to me. And my first words to the world right out of the womb were: “Love is timeless, but man is not. I think I’m early.” It’s true. I was a premature baby. I was born generatio...
My bathtub is big enough for two people to fit comfortably in separate showers. I’m the kind of lover that Lowe’s home improvement salesmen who are working for commission dream about.
I’m writing a book, one letter at a time. After thirteen days, I just finished writing “Once upon a time.” Since it’s a fairy tale, it’s obviously a romance novel, along the lines of “All Quiet on the Western Front.
I got my girlfriend knocked up. Next time I’ll ring the doorbell before I enter. I think we’re about to witness the birth of a new me.
Despite being named Scott, I really like not being named Scott. I make love like I have no idea what my name is or where I’m at or why there’s always one guy in the audience who’s heckling.
My hands fell asleep, so I washed them with hot coffee. Then I had donuts for breakfast, by way of spinning circles in my car and burning rubber in the parking garage of my office building.
I eat overcast skies for breakfast, because sunlight isn’t filling enough. As a lover, I’m a bring-my-own-umbrella kind of guy, because a soup bowl doesn’t offer enough space or protection.
I’m wearing my End of the Dance Underwear. They’re soggy. It seems these days everything is saturated with my love for you.
We made love like flamingoes are pink. The lights were off, so I couldn’t actually see what color the flamingoes were, but they sounded pink.
We made love like two meows having their tails stepped on. There were three of us there, and I’ve always wondered: Who were those two other people?
