I need love. Here’s a list of other things I need: eggs, butter, flour, and sugar. I’m making a cake for the woman I love—and another one for my lover.
I have two hands so I can provide companionship to myself by holding one hand with the other. As a lover, I am self-sufficient.
This morning my car wouldn’t start. I guess that’s better than if my car wouldn’t stop. As a lover I’m a bring-my-own-bicycle kind of guy.
I built a Name Machine. It’s a vending machine that dispenses monikers. For 50 cents, now you can be called Don G. Lover, just like your mom.
I’m not a firefighter—I’m a firefly fighter. My bravery may come in small flashes, but I am sure it doesn’t go unnoticed by lustful women and campers everywhere.
Why spend ten dollars to buy one item that does two things, when for five dollars a piece I can sell you two items that each does one thing?
I tried to knock my wife up, but she’d only let me ring the doorbell. And she made me dress up like the pizza delivery boy while I rang.
There’s only one way you can appreciate me in the bedroom—call my wife and get permission for me.
Pineapple juice doesn’t come in a can—it comes in a hard, spiky shell called a pineapple. Pineapples are great and all, but of all things to grow, up is the most profitable.
Men will tolerate what they are used to, even if it’s intolerance. That’s why I still drink milk, even though I’m lactose intolerant. Mamma didn’t raise no bigot.
There’s bacon in my bed. Extra crispy, like the fresh dollar bills stuffed in the mattress. I make love like I make sure I’m prepared for the next financial crisis.
She asked for all my love, and I said, “Sure, let me just go to the nearest ATM.” I wonder if she knows it’s all fake and inflated.
I’m two quarters the way to having 50 cents. That’s right, I have one quarter. But I’m also one quarter in love, and I feel rich!
I rearranged the letters of the word “neologism” to make the word neologism itself a neologism, as well as an anagram. The new word I made? It happens to be the name of the spaceship I’m building: Moon Legs I.
At five in the morning, I was half asleep. The whole left side of my body was taking a nap. Seems I’m also always half in love, from my waist down.
While I was there, the song reminded me of here. But now that I’m here, the song reminds me of there. But that’s neither here nor there.
If you were to ask me what kind of musical sound I aspire to produce, that noise would be a wet nipple sliding across a cheese grater. I’m a sucker for love songs.
If I had my clone take a test for me, it’s likely I’d misspell my own name. And I’m terrible at remembering people’s names—even if that person is me.
It’s hard to maintain dignity while wearing a coat made out of peacock feathers and pants made out of geriatric human flesh. Still, every other weekend, I have to try.
If God had wanted men to swim, he would have taught fish to fish. But fish don’t fish, and neither do I, but it’s also the reason I don’t swim.
I sneezed into the wind, and closed my eyes and imagined my face was barraged by cool ocean spray.
