I could do more pull-ups with a midget on my back, than a midget could do with me on his back. This makes me the superior land animal.
Love is so stressful. I just want to wear a toga and be a shepherd. If I looked more like Jesus, I’ll bet I’d get more followers on Twitter.
I wish I could climb the corporate ladder like I could climb a tree, but I can’t, because I’m afraid of heights. And bark.
Love is like a beautiful summer day in the middle of winter. I’ve got shorts on, so it seems like a good time to invade Russia.
I’ve just begun to scratch the surface of my talent, and boy does my talent itch. It’s like a red mosquito bite the size of Mars.
I am greedy with water. I made your apology tea dry. I’m sorry. You might try snorting it out of the bag.
You haven’t lived until you’ve wiped your ass with a pile of sand. Toilet paper doesn’t measure eternity the way the sands of time do.
Her name is Today. I told her I’d call her tomorrow. That was yesterday. I’m confused about the time, but not about the fact that I’m in love.
Why have you left me, Yesterday? Was it because I slept with Today? I have a routine. Every day I do something different.
Time is a manmade concept, introduced just to sell more clocks. And I haven’t bought into the idea, which is why I am late for love.
Last night I stayed up late talking about tomorrow, and today I regret it because I was way off (by about 24 hours).
I’m looking for a full-time portable heat generator. Must be willing to travel. If you don’t snuggle, you must cuddle—at a world champion level.
Those who seek the Truth are logically in the dark. Therefore, if I aspire to be anything in the world, it's to be a lighthouse. And you, my midget sidekick, you can be my flashlight.
If you insist on digging for the truth, you can start at the cemetery. But not the one on the wealthy side of town, because I already dug up everything of value.
Stop a drunk driver and you stop a murderer—even if he hasn’t killed anyone yet. In all the alternate universes, the odds are he’s already killed—and will kill again.
My hair isn’t turning gray. It’s actually silver, and it’s going up in value, so you’d better buy it before the currency is completely devalued.
I’m not rich in paper money, I’m rich in packets of sugar. Actually, I’m richer, because at least the packets of sugar have some real value.
A bird was shot. I suspect fowl play. The next man to be shot is the man who wrote that pun. Excuse me while I load my gun and shoot myself.
You don’t need brass knuckles to discover if a man has a glass jaw. All you need to do is stick his face in a dishwasher, and then check for water spots.
I’ll stab you with a pointy thingy. Not a sword, a knife, or even a mountaintop. No, I’ll use my index finger—and just to make a point about violence.
I want to pour your voice into a goldfish bowl before flushing it down the toilet.
