If I were a shovel salesman, my biggest customers would be murderers. Oh, and spurned lovers trying to bury the past.
2 out of 4 numbers prefer being in the bottom 50 percent. Half of all lovers also prefer being on the bottom.
I love petting trees. Especially if they are fir trees. Single lovers should be good with their hands. I admire Bigfoot.
I’ve long suspected myself of being a suspicious person. But that’s OK, because suspicious people make better lovers, right?
If anybody ever tells me to face them like a man, I’ll get offended, because my face can’t grow a beard.
Maturity doesn’t advance linearly, like you steadily and readily becoming more profound in your thinking. No, it staggers and stumbles like a drunk.
An empty room holds nothing but memories. At least it would, if I didn’t just finish packing up the last of the sadness.
The scent of your asshole smells like childhood memories. I mean it would, if I grew up in New Jersey.
I didn’t make two mistakes all day yesterday. I just made one long one that lasted 24 hours.
For most Americans, money and calories are always on their minds, although they burn too much of one, and not enough of the other.
Love is the thing that holds life together. Sort of like rind to a melon, cloth to a stuffed animal, or money to the time spent with a stripper.
The Nike Swoosh looks like a crowbar used to pry apart tight wallets. In other words, it looks like a politician’s smile.
I don’t like breakfast, because I like things fixed and slow. Let’s just take our relationship morning by morning.
Don’t kill animals! Kill people who kill animals! Those animals must understand that murder will not be tolerated! Also, the animals must understand that murder will not be tolerated!
If anybody can appreciate fine music, it's me. I mean who else can hit multiple octaves with their armpits?
I ran a few miles, Davis, and they were musical. Then I made love like the sound of a trumpet, as heard by Helen Keller.
I always thought I’d make a great backup singer. I don’t practice. It’s just pure talent.
I think trees should bloom earlier in the spring. They act like they are on a schedule. It’s not like they have anywhere to go.
My legs are so skinny they’re like arms on a clock. And the stars are like 1-12, if you subtract infinity from the sky first.
Her name was Janice, but I called her Jan because she was born in December—just like Chris T.
My nostrils smell, but not to you. Oh, they have no odor, unless you count the scent of nostalgia, which is what they always smell like.
