No more than two to a tricycle, please. When I said family fun, I didn’t mean this is a place to start a family. (Children over 65 eat free.)
If you’re getting up to cross the Sahara, I could sure go for a bottle of water. My thirst to love you will never be quenched.
Reginald “If” Ifa IV died today. His last words were, “Death, the great What if.” I dreamt this, but that doesn’t make it any less what iffier.
His voice is like 999 one-winged vultures, all flapping in unison, while 333 horned frogs croak in protest. My love must sound better to her.
I have a protective coating, like a tank. It’s called Love. And when I get you naked, I’ll want to make war to you.
I am the Secretary of Secrecy. I’ve got filing cabinets and safes full of Shh! That’s also where I store all my love for you.
Give me a bouncy ball. I’ve got some ideas I want to throw at you. Put on your squeaky shoes—we’ve got work to do!
A picture with one word on it is like a thousand-and-one-word piece of literature. At this rate, I should be done with my million-word novel in about 999 minutes.
The word “Word” is too long to be short, like a 4” tall non-midget. My favorite word is love, and though it’s not long, it’s by far the tallest word.
I am an orange construction cone, and I say to you, “Caution.” This is my advice for love—and for driving while blindfolded, which is safer than love.
I’m like a praying mantis, except not so devout. And I make love like a monk in meditation, which can often be confused with being asleep.
My sheep pants don’t make me one of them. However, 37 Brantleys made an appeal on my behalf, but I still have to take off my pants.
It is Father’s Day today. I should probably call all three of mine and say Hello, and thanks for possibly pumping my mom with the winning batch of semen.
I have an Unexplained Flying Erection. I also have a floating picture of my dead grandma. The two are unrelated. Long live the queen!
Don’t sell yourself short—sell yourself medium, because it’s taller. Did you know my love is refillable? For just .99 cents.
I’m a one-man show. I need to start a band. You wanna join? Too bad! What about one-man band don’t you understand?
We made love like two meows having their tails stepped on. There were three of us there, and I’ve always wondered: Who were those two other people?
What if a statue of me walked past my clone frozen in thought? Which one of the two would make a better quarterback than Geno Smith?
I make cuddles the way I make clam chowder—without complaining and without jelly. If you assume the position, I’ll put the biscuits in the oven.
What I did I can’t undo. But I can address it, and undress you.” This is the chorus in a new song I’m writing called “Mannequin Love.
We shouldn’t eat raw food. In fact, we probably shouldn’t even be listening to the radio. Too much nudity soaking in through our ears.
