This morning, as I was driving to work, I mistook a big brown box on the side of the road for a deer. It was dark, and I swerved at the last second, and even though it wasn’t a deer, I still managed to nail that son of a bitch.
I don’t want to ever see her again, because I want to always remember her as she was—young and beautiful. She won't remember, because she was 88 when we met and suffering from dementia.
Some people work to live, and other people live to work. Then some people, like me, are both unemployed and alive (at least at the time of this writing).
I thought you were her because she wasn’t here yesterday and neither were you. What would I do without you? Probably the same thing I didn’t do yesterday—nothing.
If anger were money, only a fool would greedily save it up. And a wise man would let it slip out of his heart like change slips out of his pants pockets.
She told me she might not be there when I get back, and I got so angry I said something stupid. I told her I might not be there when I get back either.
When I get angry I tend to raise my voice—with a forklift. Hang on to my handlebar mustache if you want me to peddle faster.
Somebody once asked me where I come up with my stuff. I replied, "Who knows? Where does yellow snow come from? It's just a gift from God I guess.
I’d love to try to sell a blank white canvas to an art dealer. And when he asks what it is, I’d tell him, “It’s a landscape painting of Key West, from the perspective of an optimistic blind man.
I collect hair. I keep most of it on my floor, but my most valuable patches I display on the bodies of a few cats I have roaming my house like walking art displays that meow.
I’m an artist. I’m a cave painter. Archaeologists and art critics of the future are going to call me a genius. They’re going to say I was so far ahead of my time that I was way behind my time.
I wish art was like money in that the more I made, the more interest it developed and plentiful it became. Money makes money, and if art made art, there’s no prison in this country that could hold my creations.
An ice sculpture in the Sahara makes about as much sense as donkey left open gaping wagon, Sergeant (add cream cheese sparingly).
If you see me sitting at a dining room table with a clean plate and bowl in front of me, you’ll know it’s because I’m a starving artist. I’m also thirsty, as my cup is also empty.
My baseball team is called the I Ams. Just me and my clones on the roster. We’re devastating. Well, at least I am.
I fell in love with a beautiful girl, got her pregnant, and then I got married. I wonder whatever happened to that beautiful girl I got pregnant.
She was a tall drink of water, and I was a glass half full kind of guy—half full of lust. Actually, my glass was half full of Kool-Aid powder, which is why I lusted for her.
When all the birds and all the fish join forces, the politicians will be forced to chew on and swallow their own slimy, wormlike words. But until the time that the sky and the sea blend into one, I’ll leave my fishing pole in a tree, disguised as a...
Ah, the good ol’ days. I remember those days. That was before your time. It was before my time too, because I didn’t have a watch, and I hadn’t been born yet.
I like to call in sick to work at places where I’ve never held a job. Then when the manager tells me I don’t work there, I tell them I’d like to. But not today, as I’m sick.
I didn’t have time to bury the money. All my precious time was taken up burying the body. I should have left the body and hid the cash. Damn! Now I’ve got no body, but no money, and nobody to blame but myself.
