Women are like convertibles: They should be topless. Also, they should stay in the garage. I mean kitchen. No, I mean bedroom. Damnit, I guess they can roam freely about the house.
Women are called the fairer sex. Are they just not as tan, or are they actually more reasonable?
I type as fast as a ten-legged man who just had eight legs chopped off runs.
My advice is to write in the nude. Unless you do your writing in a public restroom, and in that case, I’d recommend wearing flip flops.
If my name were Mark Twain, I’d write under the pseudonym “Samuel Clemens.
My new book is going well. It’s practically writing itself! Actually, what I mean is I’m not writing it, my clone is.
What’s with the zombie craze? Zombies are half alive, half dead, right? Sounds like my wife in bed.
I’m not a very good sleeper. But you know what? I’m willing to put in a few extra hours every day to get better. That’s just the kind of hard worker I am.
People put bars on their windows to keep themselves safe, and I say why not just commit a felony and go to prison? Plenty of bars there.
I wash my hands in the blood of grapefruit. Come, drink with me.
Couples should be able to share their dreams with one another. That’s why for just $69.69, you’ll like what I have to sell you. It’s not just one tube and two suction cups you each attach to your foreheads—it’s the Dream Tunnel.
I dance like I make love—in a group, while wearing a bag on my head.
I watched the rain fall, and I thought, “That water supply is lost revenue for my city’s utility company. The rain that falls on my neighbor’s land is city water, and whether they collect it in barrels or wastefully let it seep into the land, t...
Success breeds slackery. And I breed in the backery of the bakery.
Celebrate your disability at Handicapped Parking Spot Day. (Spaces are limited, so reserve your spot today.)
Relationships are built on trust. If you don’t trust me, how can I ever hope to get close enough to steal your heart and sell it on eBay?
In a toast, I’ll raise my glass like I’d raise a child—through orphanages.
Chew on this fact: nine out of ten people step on bubblegum left by either me or my associates. The tenth person couldn’t step on it because he’s handicapped. But he most assuredly rolled over it in his wheelchair.
I can smell a whisper from two secret admirers away. Of all the Men’s rooms, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into this one.
I was very close to kissing her. The timing was right, and the mood was right, but the distance of two inches between our two mouths was just too far to traverse in the end.
I don’t like ice in my whiskey. I like bullets. Why? Because for every ice cube I don’t use, an Eskimo gets to keep one square inch of his igloo. So I’m saving twice the lives by using bullets and not using ice.
