My hand inside a glove is like a painting in a frame, and should be insured as such. The things my hand makes have immense value, so how much more valuable is the thing that makes the things?
I’m stoic like a statue of Stonewall Jackson. I’d make a great U.S. President, but I’d make an even better chiseled piece of marble—and that’s what makes me such an amazing lover.
Making art can be a mystical, spiritual experience. Sort of like golfing on water, which I haven’t done, because I’m more Michael Phelps and less Michael Phelps.
I make art and I make love, and I almost always do both at the same time. If the cops ask, I’ll tell them I was framed. Same goes for the museum.
I wanted to observe how a genuine people person, who happens to also be a salesman, handles himself in the presence of a stranger. And few people are stranger than me, so I was paying close attention.
I don’t have any inkling what to do with all the ink in this digital age. Maybe I’ll write a bunch of love letters to a dead author. Who moved my mayonnaise?
As a fiction writer, let me make it up, and let me make it up to you. I’ll pen our love story, if you’ll be my co-author.
I love like a leaf in the wind. Please, hold your applause until the end of the performance (the last day of fall).
What if leaves changed shape as well as color? You can teach a man to fish, or you can introduce him to a woman named Fish who happens to look like a trout.
Growing up, I used to use and apple instead of a baseball. It was just more fun to hit, and a healthier and better tasting snack than America’s favorite pastime.
Her name was Penny, and she was good looking. She wasn’t a dime, but she wasn’t a nickel either. If there were a coin worth 7.5 cents, she’d be that. And I’d be the vending machine that accepts those coins.
I celebrate my birthday in ways not seen this side of the Old Testament. I celebrate my life like the Dead Sea, and my party is a BYOP (bring your own plague) event.
Columbus was born around 1492. I say around because before that the world was flat. My stomach also used to be flat, but now it looks like a globe is about to be born.
Don’t point your accusatory finger at me, unless you want me to wrap my hand around it, grip it tight, and jerk it off. That’s how a real politician defers blame.
My sheets are so white they look like Google’s homepage. They even have a touch of red on them, from that double homicide back in December.
I’m hypoglycemic and squeamish and liable to pass out at the first sign of blood. That happened this morning. I came into the kitchen and found blood on the floor, right next to a few dead hookers.
I want to grow a tan and an accent, then dig it out of my garden and staple it to my naked body. I like Salmon Rushdie like a bear would. Especially with a honey glaze.
When I have children I want an even number of boys and girls, and that’s why I want 15 kids—7 boys, 7 girls, and one hermaphrodite named Sam.
He was thoughtless, not because he was insensitive, but because I had just eaten his brain and his skull was empty.
Though my skull is the size of a soup bowl, everything in the universe—and more—can fit inside my imagination. And guess what? My imagination tastes like chicken noodle soup.
What I lack in courage I more than make up for in underwear. I am possibly the bravest coward to ever go commando.
