I had a dream about you. You were the voice of Michael Phelps, and I was an Olympic swimming pool. You speak sexier when your words are wearing Speedos.
I had a dream about you. I was tall in years but short in inches. I was 75 years old and 31 inches tall, which is the reverse of what I am in real life. Still, I have to say I enjoyed the ability to look under women’s skirts without having to bend ...
I had a dream about you. The leaves were falling off the trees, and clothes were falling off the mannequins. Machines have been replacing manual laborers for years, so I shed my clothes and stood naked on the street corner picketing big department st...
I’m 32 years old and I’m tired. It’s because I haven’t drank enough coffee. If I had, I’d probably only be 29.
When I saw a murder taking place, I almost didn’t have time to make coffee before stopping it. But thank God I did, because otherwise somebody would have died—and even worse, I’d be tired.
If there are #coffee stains on my @Harvard application, it’s because I was up all night Photoshopping a high school diploma. Please accept my apology, and please accept me.
I drink coffee like steam is the ghost of dead water. Ever tried inhaling the afterlife?
I’m not the same person I was when I wasn’t. I’m different now, in that now I’m drinking coffee.
I drink coffee like an alcoholic drinks gasoline. You wouldn’t believe how many gallons my little car can hold.
My favorite salad dressing is vodka. And my favorite ice cream flavor is coffee, though I prefer it melted and hot enough to burn flesh.
I think coffee is the best drink known to man. I also think that wine is the best drink known to woman.
People think coffee can be drunk with or without cream and sugar, but coffee can be drunk more ways than that. Coffee can be drunk awake or asleep, and coffee can be drunk by the cup, by the gallon, or by yourself.
When searching for a missing person, I’ll canvas the area. Like a painter. I make love like Bob Ross, only your happy tree is happier, and I’ll keep your coffee warm—in my stomach.
Good days are ahead of me. But so is the worst day of my life—my last day. I need a cup of coffee large enough to take a bath in.
A guitar is not a baseball bat, despite me being known as the Babe Ruth of music. And if some have called me the Beethoven of coffee, I haven’t heard it because I’m deaf to their praise.
Quiet night. Silence at full capacity. Noiselessness is spilling over like a coffee cup full of jock cock. In a contact sport I’ve got to protect my genitals.
Blood is like water, to a vampire. And coffee is like blood, to a tired mosquito. And my love is like an itch—and a scratch.
The bottom of a cup of coffee is not as good as the bottom of her body—which is actually in the middle of her body.
My TV’s remote control didn’t have a source of energy, so I poured coffee in it. Now I can read any book I want.
I sell sex by the coffee cup. I don’t go by small, medium, or large, I go by deep, deeper, and deepest.
The more coffee you drink, the less sleep you need. I just had a great business idea. I could rent out your bed, and with the money you’d make off it, you could buy enough coffee from me so you’d never have to sleep.
