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.
Before work I like to relax and collect my thoughts. That’s why I carry a wicker basket. So it’s no wonder that I fell in love with Sigourney Weaver. I often ponder aliens, working girls, and eyewitnesses.
If the word "committee" were an acronym, the two "T"s would stand for time travel. How else can a group waste so much time unless they feel they can always go back and retrieve it?
I remember the good old days. You must remember the good old days, because they were the days with the long white beards.
I would hate to see seventeen people with monosyllabic names like Mike or Ann die, but if they did, and you wrote down all their names in groups of 5-7-5, you'd have one tragic haiku.
He was a pleasant fellow, saying please and thank you as he pounded me in the face. That’s why I sent him a Get Well Soon card, since he was probably interested in my well-being.
War is not a homemade product. You make it at someone else’s house. If you’ve got the eggs, flour, milk, sugar, oil, and gold, then I’ll bring the guns. Be expecting me at 8:00, because I plan on surprising you early.
A picture is worth a thousand words, but is 400% less valuable, because a picture only captures one of the senses—sight. However, words can describe the other four senses, making writing four times more potent than photography.
I’ll bet if I write a sentence and mention the word “edit,” people will slow down and scour my words for errors. Did it wrok?
Even if there were only seventeen syllables left in the universe, I still don’t think The Mythical Mr. Boo would write a haiku. Especially not if those syllables were groups of “oh,” “no,” “ah,” “ouch,” “ugh,” “eek,” and “...
When I write I am an avocado, and in a team sport setting, I am guacamole. And not to sour cream on your dreams, but with my love life, I am a nacho.
When a writer has deep thoughts, I expect him to also have a deep voice. And if he doesn’t, he should remain silent and let his writer’s voice do all the speaking for him.
I can tie a cherry stem into a knot with my tongue. Now, if only I could do the same with my shoelaces, I wouldn’t have to banana pudding my way to success.
One thought I think every person eventually thinks is, “Holy shit, I’m going to die!” Sorry, I just turned thirty yesterday, so my mortality is on my mind.
I have the worst kind of history—a non history. I wasn’t born poor, oppressed, rich, famous, or any other such extreme. I was born in the middle, and I desperately want to hide it.
