I’m too busy to chew. That’s why I blend all my meals into smoothies, and I make love as slowly as ice cream melts in the Sahara.
People always say I have hands as large as the Roman Empire. I guess it just goes with the territory. Romance, it’s all in the gloves.
If you were to ask me if I have ever loved a woman, I'd probably reply, "Two gallons of milk and a midget.
Pele popularized the bicycle kick, and I created the unicycle kick. It’s like the bicycle kick, only it requires more balance and one less wheel.
A good server knows how to be seen, yet remain invisible. I was a great server, and I achieved invisibility by never showing up for work. My boss ended up firing me, probably over petty jealousy.
My bed’s comforter is yellow. It has to be to hide all the melted butter stains. I make love like microwave popcorn—only in half the time!
I mopped up my moped off the street, and drove home on the unicycle below my handlebar mustache, while I thought about the path love might take now.
My heart is closed, but open. Closed to one woman in particular, but open to the public. Guided tours are offered Monday through Friday 9-5.
I’m into extreme sports. Well, just one—cuddling.
Pulling your head out of your ass is better than pulling your head out of a lawyer’s ass. (Limit one coupon per customer).
I steal cracker packets. I hoard them. Once my collection is large enough, I’ll take them to the flea market and try to sell them to discerning lovers.
The very thing keeping me alive is also killing me—love. No wonder the rose symbolizes both love and death. They should have a deal where if you buy a dozen roses you get a free headstone.
She grew broccoli, and I grew dentures. We were perfect for each other. Our love disappeared into each other like a box of toothpicks.
I saw a white toilet, with no plumbing, alone in a field of snow. Well, almost alone. There were two naked albinos and a polar bear sitting on it, and I felt inspired to write a love poem.
With 87 other Elvis impersonators, I’m going to take over the world. Starting with Vegas. We will gyrate our hips out of love, and to end world hunger.
I don’t like breakfast—I prefer fixslow. I eat it like I devour your love, and it may take time, but we can put our relationship back together. Just pass me the maple syrup.
Pa extended his paw as if to say, “I’m here, and I’m human.” What else could I do but say, “Meow.
I don’t like it when I have guests over and my girlfriend doesn’t wear pants and makes sock puppets with stinky socks and does impressions of my visitors with a falsetto voice. It’s embarrassing. I hate when she steals my routine.
I prefer kissing over dinner. Not that I prefer kissing to dinner, but I prefer kissing over the plate containing my dinner, especially if my dinner consists of something romantic like monkey brains.
1-12, how many Decembers does it take to sell thirteen to Mr. Fourteen and Mr. Months? Depends on how much love you throw in for free.
My mother always told me not to pick my nose, so I’m going let the plastic surgeon decide what my new nose will look like. I’m hoping he makes it look like either a Tiffany lamp, a Heckler and Koch assault rifle, or Bill Clinton’s erect cigar.
