With a palindrome of a name, like Bob, I’d be both right thinking and dyslexic. Would you love me more as a Bob, or as a Bob?
My boxers should require batteries, because I’m such an exceptional lover that pizza delivery people call me for carry out. 30 minutes or less—as if!
I am passionate about creating, not about procreating. My love for art is greater than my love for making love.
I’m selling a rainbow in a bowl (no spoon included). I’m calling it Love Soup, even though it’s nothing more than tap water.
There’s a marked difference between Mark Ed and Ed Mark. Same as the difference between making love and loving make—and I do both, for a very reasonable price.
I want her when she doesn’t want me, and I don’t want her when she wants me. Now that’s love in the 21st century!
I farted like a pack of crying onions. That was my response to her I love you.
I waffled over the issue like a pancake with texture similar to the bottom of a 1970s track shoe. I ran through all sides, and decided it’s love.
I drank my lava lamp to get the party started. Later on I made love like a volcano, while I watched TV alone.
The scope of my problem will easily fit in the scope of my rifle. Too bad true love has to come with a mother-in-law.
She had no legs, so I made her wear suspenders and I carried her like a backpack. True love knows no luggage.
I’m like a sexually active bumper sticker. Canned vagina is always so hard to open and eat. Honk if you’re a lover—and in a hurry.
Through my quick action, I was able to capture her mannerism and store it in a jar. It looks like mayonnaise, but it tastes like love.
A few years ago I dropped off the face of the earth. Then I came back the next day to pick it up. Unfortunately, it was stained red with love.
While they had security escort me out of the building, they couldn’t forcibly remove the trophy from my anus. If love were a competition, I’d be the winner.
I welcome all You’re Welcomes with open arms and open zippers. My love for her is sandwiched between two slices of Thank You.
I shed my clothes like a garage doesn’t shed—and a shed doesn’t garage. Then we made love like neighbors, so close, yet separated by several barriers.
The best part about falling in love with a slab of meatloaf is now I get to use my ketchup-dispensing backpack when making love.
Your leftover meatloaf makes me horny. Let us make love like the first squirt from a new bottle of ketchup.
Love is the walrus I crayon with like it’s the Eifel Tower. I know, love doesn’t make much sense to me, either.
Love is a four-letter word. So is glue, only it isn’t as sticky. And I must admit, I still eat it all the time.
