I want to merge a Phoenix with a Camel to create the world's first everlasting cigarette. It'll be a cigarette that rises from its own ashes, so you can keep smoking it indefinitely.
I want to be more like James Bond, and less like Ian Fleming.
I want to make pants out of tuna fish, to accompany my cottage cheese thighs.
I want to create a seventeen-syllable word that encompasses the human condition, and then use that word to form the world’s most perfect haiku.
I want my words to illuminate like the sun, as I give my daily lecture on photosynthesis to my houseplants.
This guy’s got a mustache that’s made for TV. I’ve got a mustache that’s made for radio. I keep it zipped up quiet in my pants, next to my cigar.
This guy was a class act. And that class was Acting 101. If I were the professor, I’d have given him an F—for murder.
If we could all drink ourselves to innocence, I’d be guilty. And I mean that in a way that I don’t mean that.
Alcohol makes you do some crazy things, like speak openly of your love, fornicate with strangers, and occasionally commit murder. That’s why I stopped drinking. Been sober now for over three days.
There’s nothing like a good murder to remind us all how much love there is in the world. That’s what this guy’s probably thinking, as he stands alone and naked—emotionally, not physically—as he’s obviously wearing clothes made for another...
Two women passing off a note. I find it disgusting! I’ll bet it’s the love letter I wrote to one of them. Well, if she didn’t appreciate it, maybe she’s right to give it to someone who will.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. I don’t trust a beautiful woman. One minute she’s smiling at you seductively, and the next she’s trying to stab you with the pen you wouldn’t use to sign a large check made out to her. That was h...
Ms. Payne brought my heart much pain. To think that such a beautiful woman could possibly do something so ugly as murder made my heart dry up—as all the blood rushed to my aroused nether region.
The woman in this photo can’t believe what she’s hearing. And since it’s a photo, I can’t hear what she’s not believing. I’ll bet she doesn’t believe she’s not the killer.
If I were a betting man, and Thank Vegas I’m not, I’d say this bartender looks guilty of murder. Or maybe he just looks drunk. Possibly the two looks are identical.
Love is a blur. So is this picture. But what do you expect? Murder is fuzzy, like a peach. Yummy!
This guy has a look on his face like he’s just realized that one day he will most assuredly die. Killing someone has a way of focusing our minds on our own mortality. I mean I imagine it does, and not that I’d know from personal experience.
Ruby has eyes that sparkle like emeralds. Or sapphires. Not too sure what color her eyes are, because I try to avoid eye contact with murder suspects—especially if they are sexy.
This dame might take the phrase “If looks could kill” too literally. The French have a word for sexy murderesses. Well, they probably have such a word, but since I don’t speak French, I can’t tell you what it is.
This couple thought they were as smooth as crunchy peanut butter. But they didn’t fool me with their Bonnie and Clyde act. I knew they were guilty of being innocent the moment I saw them.
This picture has a lot of motion and features one person being forcibly removed. Reminds me of the commotion of my heart. Love is a lot like a crime scene.
