I ran a few miles, Davis, and they were musical. Then I made love like the sound of a trumpet, as heard by Helen Keller.
If I knew sign language, and I saw someone rocking an air guitar solo, I’d shout, “Stop talking to me!” An I love you disguised as "Stairway to Heaven" isn’t more romantic. Not unless you're Helen Keller and I'm a slinky.
I’m trying to be a better gangsta, so I’m learning how to play the ukulele. I'm also trying to figure out how to rap a romance novel, like The Notebook.
You can’t compare the taste of organic and non organic fruits and vegetables. Organic tastes like a ten-minute trumpet solo in your mouth, and non organic tastes like a thirty second tape recording that’s been listened to a thousand times.
I always thought I’d make a great backup singer. I don’t practice. It’s just pure talent.
If you were to ask me what kind of musical sound I aspire to produce, that noise would be a wet nipple sliding across a cheese grater. I’m a sucker for love songs.
Cher and share alike. At least in sound. Most of the decisions I make are sound, exactly like Beethoven when he wrote and discarded his 10th symphony.
I want to write a song based on my own childbirth. Of course, this is all a bit premature.
I want to name my son Justin Case. You know, just in case.
If I had my clone take a test for me, it’s likely I’d misspell my own name. And I’m terrible at remembering people’s names—even if that person is me.
I want to name one of my kids “I’ll-Have-A-Large-Cheeseburger.” That way, when I show up at McDonald's with my kids and the person behind the counter asks me what I want I’ll say, “I’ll-Have-A-Large-Cheeseburger, what do you want?” And ...
Her name is Shelen, and I think she probably has a brother named Helen. He is Helen, a male with a female’s name, but life could be worse. He could be a liar, a thief, and immoral. In other words, Helen could be a politician. And without knowing an...
I think trees should bloom earlier in the spring. They act like they are on a schedule. It’s not like they have anywhere to go.
I love nature. It beats having to flush.
If Twinkies grew on trees, as nature intended, then I would like to irrigate your fertile valley. When we make love, bring your own knitting equipment.
Guacamole makes an excellent facial cream. It won’t reduce wrinkles, but I’d sure enjoy scraping it off your skin while you sleep, as I munch on nachos as quietly as I can.
My legs are so skinny they’re like arms on a clock. And the stars are like 1-12, if you subtract infinity from the sky first.
It’s important that my socks match. I don’t want anything that distracts from my sock puppet show. Quiet, now! Show starts in ten seconds.
