With my big 80s hair, my cut off jean shorts, and my roller skates, I’m going to look sexy on my way to work in the snow this winter. And I just got sled dogs, though I plan on pulling them without putting them on the sled first.
We have a love so pure that it makes snow seem yellow. (Don’t eat it!)
What I thought was a black hole turned out to be nothing more than a splatter of ink on my tie. And I assumed I was wearing the most astrological outfit of the century.
Love is a roundness, like a hole—a black hole. If what she wants is space, I’ll give her space—enough to fill an auditorium that has ample seating for a lecture by Stephen Hawking.
You stare down your opponent, lights twinkle, but you don’t blink. This is all you and that’s all him, and it ain’t all that much. An instant later you wake up in a hospital. Your anus hurts. Long live sports.
He’s not my son, but his last name is Myson. Same spelling, big difference.
I wish I could bottle up my penis and sell it at a garage sale. But first I need to get a garage.
I could do more pull-ups with a midget on my back, than a midget could do with me on his back. This makes me the superior land animal.
I can’t work well when I am under stress. It reduces me to normalcy. Stress is my kryptonite. And I usually don’t change in phone booths, though I do take long distance showers there.
Love is so stressful. I just want to wear a toga and be a shepherd. If I looked more like Jesus, I’ll bet I’d get more followers on Twitter.
I want to be so successful that my secretary needs a secretary.
There’s nothing more important than literary merit, and that’s why I not only created an award—the Julius Caesar Author of the Year Award—but I nominated myself as the first recipient. You can’t always wait for success to come to you. Somet...
I wish I could climb the corporate ladder like I could climb a tree, but I can’t, because I’m afraid of heights. And bark.
If you own the most profitable manure distribution warehouse in the world, you might not like the smell of success.
The scent of success, it smells like body odor.
According to me I have hypochondria. So if I say I suffer from a condition where a person thinks they suffer from everything, it’s a giant loop! Nobody can say I don’t suffer from it because just by saying I suffer from it I am showing the sympto...
Any advice I might give a depressed person comes in the form of cyanide, and usually is a bit hard for them to swallow.
Writing is hard, but I don’t want to kill myself trying to write. Not unless I’m writing a suicide note.
