I’ll make birthday to you like turkey on wheat. Hold the mayonnaise—and hold me tightly. My love candle burns bright for you like a black hole.
Francis Bacon has the most delicious last name ever, followed closely by Johnny Scrambledeggs. I make love like those two guys make breakfast out of family reunions.
Nine times out of ten I left one out. But the one I leave out is never love. I always put love in—even when I put it in your butt.
I shaved my pubic hair, glued it on a wig, and declared it art. No museum was willing to exhibit it. I should have sprinkled cheddar cheese on top and called it An Ode To Love.
I can throw an orange like a baseball, but I can't eat a baseball like an orange. It's like that with love too, only with less velocity and fruiticism.
I’m unreliable, admittedly, so you can’t believe me when I say I’m unreliable. I’m also in love, so that may contribute to my unreliability.
I love with the heart of two men. Well, I would, if that damned neurosurgeon would go ahead and replace my left brain with the heart of a midget.
I’m a fake fact factory. The things I make are the things I make up. Also, as a side business, I make love. Actually, I just made that up.
Women, who understands them? Not men—and certainly not women. Perhaps only cats do. But who understands cats? Perhaps only Orafoura, the last remaining Cupid and sole savior of earthly love.
The cup had a lot of volume, so I poured in a lot of noise and sipped it up to my ears. And what I heard didn’t smell like coffee, but it did taste like love.
Coffee, it’s not my cup of tea. Being in love isn’t really my cup of tea either, but when it’s steamy I’ll sip it dutifully.
I’m Scissor Tongue when I’m with her, snipping out snippets of dialogue before I even speak them. Being in love is best when you’re silent.
I whirled in the room like a tornado wearing a tracksuit. I wasn't wearing a tracksuit, but I did have a smirk like a zipper. I loved her like my fly was open to criticism.
I coiled my empty straw wrapper around like a snake. Then I bit it before it could bite me. My love is as dangerous as my drinking habits.
I live dangerously, but I love safely. I always buy magnum condoms, because they’re the only ones that’ll fully stretch over my front door’s handle.
Since my love is so foggy, I could never date a woman named Misty. Or Steve, because that's my dad's name, and that'd be strange.
I think it was love. She was the kind of woman I’d like to spend the rest of my life with—if I’d just been told I have six months left to live.
I showed my concern by showing her my penis. Was that not appropriate behavior at a funeral? What better way to display a lifetime of love that’s been zipped away from the eyes of world?
Fish strips—where food meets getting naked. My love is also nourishing and nude, and if you want to see it, you’re going to have to get in line with the rest of the starving perverts.
I make love like a sandwich ate at my best friend. It’s only happened to me once, and I very nearly didn’t have to pay for it.
I walk like a guitar being strummed, and I love like cheese being forced through a grater. I like my nachos covered in melted music.
