I feel like the boy who cried wolf, even though I know even less about politics.
It’s still masturbation if your clone gives you a hand job. It’s also a lot like being a member of Congress.
I used to think that Satan and all the fallen angels were the most evil beings in the universe. Now I think it’s absurd and naïve to think that. Oh, Satan exists, but he’s a puppy dog compared to politicians and lobbyists.
Nobody is either honest or dishonest. Life is a gradient, and a saint might be an 8.7, and a dirtbag politician might be a 1.2. Interestingly, piss and shit are numerically represented by 1 and 2, so I think it’s a perfect number to represent a pol...
I love public speakers who give moving speeches—particularly if they bring boxes, packing tape, and dollies. The last local politician I heard speak was so moving that I took up residence in a new county.
I could rant about political corruption until I’m blue in the face, but most people would just call me a Smurf and move on. My balls are also blue, but that is another subject, and not entirely related to politics.
If I typed out positive words, printed them out, blended them together with fruit and ice, and spoke all those words into my drink before chugging, would I absorb those positive attributes faster?
His first name is Brooks, but his last name isn’t. His last name is Wrinkled, unlike his shirt (he isn’t wearing one).
I want to find myself as a person, and I’ve enlisted the help of my clone to aid me in this. It’s like finding Waldo, except I’m only half wearing the red and white sweater, because I’m only half-finished knitting it.
I’ll watch the Final Four when there are three teams playing at once for two titles and one large bag of regrets. That bag is mostly full of air, like a bag of potato chips, only harder to chew.
I run my household like a marathon. That’s 26.2 miles of me taking orders from my significant other, who has significantly more control over the relationship than I do.
I won't discuss non-discussable things with her, like the sound of silence or the vertical dimensions of an awkward moment. Those sorts of things are best left unsaid, like the last time I told her I loved her.
You’re as likely to see me sleeping on the job as a snooze is liable to grow legs 26.2 miles long and run a larm. What’s a larm? A buzzing sound the length of a marathon, but I always sleep through them—including the one in Boston.
She must have said wear flip-flops, but I heard flippers. I might not have been able to run fast, but oh could I swim. Like a dolphin. Mahi-mahi yum!
50% of sales are going to come from women buying it for men, but where are the other 50% in sales going to come from? Mars. The thing I’m selling? Love. Supplies are unlimited, and free, so hurry and buy today.
I went to school to be a comedian. I was always cracking jokes in class. And after they were cracked, the teacher would try to put them back together.
L and V, both angular. O and E, both vowels. Coupled together, like a couple of couples coupling and copulating, and you have love. All this talk of sex makes me nostalgic for the Rasputin era.
The worst part about working in a hotel is when I’m tired, I know I can’t sample the very thing I sell: sleep. I also sell sex, but I must be discreet in the sheets.
If love tasted like pork, and you were allergic to Francis Bacon, could I be your Shakespeare? We could make love on a pizza and make much ado about nothing, everything, anything, something.
Love is two smiles shared between two people. Or two smiles and a smirk, shared between one couple and a jerk. Or maybe three smiles and a frown, shared between two parents, their child, and a clown.
I can’t work well when I am under stress. It reduces me to normalcy. Stress is my kryptonite. And I usually don’t change in phone booths, though I do take long distance showers there.
