I don’t just watch TV all day long. I also listen.
Ten years have gone by since the ten year anniversary, and I still remember it like it happened a decade ago.
Sorry I’m late. Traffic was nonexistent.
I took my pants off slowly, thinking if I did it too fast I’d possibly rip a hole in the center of the universe.
For just over my price range, I can get something way under my quality expectation level. Thanks, inflation!
I want to buy a sports car, because I like riding bicycles. Hold on to my handlebar mustache if you value your life.
Do I see value? My gut says no, but I’m willing to bet on things that may pay off big if I’m right that I’m wrong.
I’ve found the safest place to store my valuables is in a trash sack. Unless I invite a bunch of hobos over one night, who’s going to rummage through rubbish?
I object to that object that’s made of bronze and shaped like my clone. It should be made of gold, and shaped like me.
It’s easy to see what to do once it’s already been done. The difficult time is before it’s to be done, and while you’re doing it. This is the difference between writing and editing.
I’m not a bicycle. Don’t try to ride me and leave me in the garage. I’m a treadmill. Walk on me and leave me in a guest room.
Don’t step on my toes. Especially if I’m walking on my hands.
Conventional wisdom holds that water is liquid at room temperature. Well, not if that room’s temperature is 32 degrees. That also happens to be the optimal storage temperature for all the love I have for you.
It’s easier to win an argument over a dinner you’re paying for.
Her name is Denise, and she has green eyes and red hair. Well, this week. Last week her hair was dyed blonde, and she had blue eyes. Or maybe that was a different woman. I don’t know. All I know is that she is my soul mate.
His name is Randy Randy (Or is it Randy Randy?), and he probably makes women doubly horny (randy).
I want to invent a What does it do? machine. “What does it do?” you’re probably wondering. Well, I’ll tell you. What it does is makes you wonder: What does it do?
My mouth is often wounded by my sharp words, so sometimes when I’m out in public, I’ll wear a large Band Aid over my lips.
Don’t lift my words without permission. It might lead to a hernia.
I wrote a coded love note in my report for work. All the letters you need to read what I wrote are there—you just have to find them and rearrange the order until you’ve arrived at something romantic, and then you’ll have discovered what I wrote...
I want my writing to be as smooth as drinking a glass of water—pool water, with piss in it.
