Two things in life are certain: uncertainty, and I’m not sure about the second thing.
Behind the waterfall of love you’ll find me, hiding in a barrel.
To me love is like a cup of soapy dishwater. Sure, I’ll drink it, but I won’t swish it around in my mouth while you try to stuff filthy silverware down my throat.
I want to take all the pain of humanity, ball it up into a compressed, black 16-pound sphere, add three holes in a triangular formation to it, and use it to bowl a strike.
I’m an organic kind of guy. To paraphrase Fight Club, The food you eat, ends up eating you. It’s true! Just think of all the chemicals found in modern foods. Take bleach, for instance. There’s bleach in everything we eat from breads to pastas. ...
You don’t love me!” Agatha shouted. When she said that, I said I couldn’t agree more. Of course I completely disagreed with her, and that is why I simply could not agree more. It took all my effort to agree to the degree that it took to even be...
I want to be a man of mountaintops: to scale the heights, achieve a sublime transcendence, and breathe in the thin air. Transcendence requires suffocation.
When those lips engulfed my head, I said to myself later, ‘nothing else will ever touch this scalp again’. I couldn’t help it, though. I lathered sunscreen on it unthinkingly the next day before I went out. But it was the first time in the subu...
I Google myself to find out who I am as a person.
I have alchemised my love for Agatha, and turned it into gold, which is the embodiment of Orafoura. I am the Elixir of Love--hot, cold, dry, and moist, I am the quintessential element: Jell-O. Agatha makes me yummy like John Wayne rides horse radish.
It’s been said that 1 in 4 people have herpes, and everyone has 4 grandparents, so let’s be honest, your grandmother is probably a dirty skank.
Agatha had rose-colored cheeks, and thorn-like warts all over her slender neck. When we’d make love, I’d pretend I was Helen Keller and her neck was the Book of Love. I like to think I wrote that book, but I didn’t. Orafoura did.
I know how to tell a woman I love her in seventeen syllables or less. I’m not talking about a haiku, I’m talking about grunts from an orgasm.
Courtiers never look like fools, or engage in hard work if they can’t make it look easy. Conquering the world is a sweaty business, and perspiration always betrays.
A customer facing crucial decisions: What should I wipe myself with? What should I brush with? His personal hygiene was deteriorating rapidly as he stared at the rows of possibilities, sweating profusely. Would he ever bathe again?
Starting tomorrow, I will stop procrastinating. Or, of I’m too busy putting things off, I’ll start the following day.
If I could convert my love into clay, and then shape it, I wonder if Agatha would expect a Rodin or a Branscusi. In reality it would be neither, as my love sculpture would look exactly like the Grand Canyon.
Remember Stalingrad. Remember the crash of 1929. Remember the Industrial Revolution. Now remember that I am the proletariat cog in the machine that causes the meltdown of the aristocratic assembly line. Ben Franklin was a man of vision. Ben wore bifo...
I left my phone number on a napkin, along with trace amounts of spaghetti sauce and garlic bread grease, hoping she’d call me. And when she didn’t, I panicked and filed a missing person’s report with the police.
Your pants are unseasonably bitch. I beg your pardon. Excuse me, madam, but you are sitting on my erection.
I wish I could play up my sexual awkwardness as autism, and insinuate myself into the realm of genius. But I’m not a genius. I’m merely a humble sex god and virtual love machine.
