This book has nothing to do with cats. Or mice. Or self-motivation. This book is 100% 50% finished. But don’t worry, I finished the good half. But don’t be mistaken—the good half isn’t good at all. In fact, it’s remarkably terrible. It’s ...
When you’re as ugly as I am, you need all the beauty sleep you can get. I’ll be in the restroom resting if you need me. Knock three times so I know it’s you and not a hooker dressed like a cop.
The last time somebody pointed out that cowboys ride horses, not tricycles, I shot him. Of course, I waited until another gunslinger gunned him down, but nevertheless, I still shot him.
He offered to pay me in agriculture, and I said I didn’t want that, I want money. I told him agriculture won’t put food on my table.
I watched the sunset from the comfort of my bathtub, which has a clear bottom so I had an unobstructed view.
An octopus has eight legs. You know what else has eight legs? My bed last night. Oh, I didn’t have a foursome, but I did sleep with six prosthetic legs (I have a bad back).
I want to drown in all the ink used to write positive things about my clone and how great he is.
When I see a poor person I think of me, and then I think, maybe I should pay my clones for all the work they do for me. Then I think, nah, they’re only slaves. Through my clones, I am a slave to myself.
I keep an outfit of my baby clothes on a hanger in my closet. It hangs there like a heretical, anorexic midget. I do this to increase my chances of getting laid (wet baloney is the key to better love making).
My brother’s a big dog guy. He’s 7’2” and half man, half man’s best friend.
I admire your mustache madam, but I wonder, what’s for dessert?
I want to move to Hollywood and audition for parts just so I can say, “I’m not an actor. I just play one on TV.
I’m willing to die for the woman I love. I just want to take 75 years to do it.
Dear 30 years old, why are you stalking me? Please leave me alone or I’ll be forced to alert the authorities.
I want to live for a very, very long time, but it’s important that I take care of my body. When I am 851 years old, I don’t want to look it. No, I want to look 158.
Everyone in the world ages at exactly the same rate and time. We’re all getting older in unison.
Whenever I drink, I always have one too many. Of course, I only ever drink one.
There’s not a person alive who is ugly. Now dead people, they disgust me.
Can America get back to a point where politicians are honest? Not unless that point is the tip of a sword.
A man with six fingers on one hand who gets his finger cutoff by the mafia probably doesn’t feel pain, fear, or anger. No, that man probably feels normal.
Love is an art. Mine could fill a museum the size of your heart.
