I had a dream about you. We almost made love in the produce section of your local grocery store, but when I asked if you brought protection, you told me you’d forgotten the coupons at home.
Nine times out of ten I left one out. But the one I leave out is never love. I always put love in—even when I put it in your butt.
My toothpaste tastes like baloney, so I brush my teeth with wheat bread. Guess what flavor my love is, and what kind of mechanical apparatus I use to make it.
My love is meatloaf flavored. I just wish my meatloaf was also meatloaf flavored.
My wooden love is being eaten my termites. Romance in action.
Whiskey burns—my throat, not a forest. Love burns—my heart, not a forest. As for the forest, it burnt itself. At least that’s what I told the police during their interrogation.
Love is two spirits occupying one bottle of spirit. You’ve got to be 21 to drink of me.
My love was green—new and alive. Her love was red—full stop. Occasionally and cautiously we’d meet in the middle at yellow.
I figured out why I have such big hands. It’s to hold all the love I have to offer the world. So don’t get mad at me when I make you bring in all the groceries, because my hands are already full.
I shaved my pubic hair, glued it on a wig, and declared it art. No museum was willing to exhibit it. I should have sprinkled cheddar cheese on top and called it An Ode To Love.
I am the Fruit Basket of Love. You should do a painting of how I feel.
Statues look like people, but people shouldn’t act like statues—you know, be set in their ways like stone. I make love like a sculptor paints, minus the wine, plus the grape juice. Suck me like a straw, rubber band legs.
Love is on the move like a picture of a statue. I should know, because I painfully painted it.
Love is a bronze statue sinking in quicksand. But if I hand you a lasso, will you try to save the statue—or use the lasso to hang yourself? If you need me, I’ll be here to kick the chair out from under your feet.
Like a statue, I’m hairless. Also like a statue, I have hair. Let’s make love like a dandelion goes bald in the breeze.
Love sounds like a trumpet mimicking a trombone. That’s one of my hobbies, when I’m not impersonating statues of mimes.
I can throw an orange like a baseball, but I can't eat a baseball like an orange. It's like that with love too, only with less velocity and fruiticism.
Love is shapeless and colorless and tasteless and odorless. But so is God, so how can you believe in one and not the other?
I make love like you wouldn’t believe. Seriously, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you, so why don’t I show you?
Everything can be used as a weapon, including love. My love looks like a butter knife, but I assure you, it is quite deadly. I would demonstrate, but I’m right in the middle of making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, so you’ll just have to bel...
I’m unreliable, admittedly, so you can’t believe me when I say I’m unreliable. I’m also in love, so that may contribute to my unreliability.
