I went to a football game once and got punched in the face, but you couldn’t tell because I was already sitting in the nosebleed section.
I’m not a ref, but I assigned her the penalty of clipping, and I told her to drop the scissors and step away from the newspaper ads.
To show the football coach I was ready to play tight end, I wore no pants and had a Q-tip dangling out of my ass.
With intellectual labor your hard work is forever, while with manual labor your hard work is temporary and soon forgotten.
I have a beard of fog that I wear on misty mornings. It’s not cigarette smoke, but I’d understand if you wanted to shave it off and inhale it.
I’d like to file a missing person’s report—on my clone. It’s nearly 2012. He should have been here by now.
I’m not going to lecture you on the error of your ways. Not until you fetch me a podium and a microphone. I’ll also need a screen, a projector, and a laser pointer.
I’m on a government watch list. But I’m not interested, because government watches only work twenty minutes out of every hour.
My skull is soundproof. And thank God too, or else you’d be able to hear all the horrible things I’m thinking about you.
Some people say—not to my face, mind you—that I’m a cowardly son of a bitch. And that is simply not true. My mom is not a bitch.
People talk of the “whispering wind.” But what are these secrets of the breeze? I don’t know, but I don't want a gossip to stand downwind of me.
For dinner I had seared sneer with a glaze of distant gaze, and a side of mashed pride covered in grace.
Do I attribute my success to hard work, or sunscreen? If you want the truth, maybe you should ask my new albino secretary.
She was very close to my heart. Even though we were separated by a distance of 400 years, I was lying on her grave.
I still remember her meandering Mississippi kiss. I sipped it like a riverboat captain in the desert. Ah, to be young and naughtily nautical.
Knowing where you come from is just as important as knowing who you aren’t. You aren’t your own clone.
At first sign of crisis, the ignorant don’t panic because they don’t know what’s going on, and then later they panic precisely because they don’t know what’s going on.
Mr. Williquosi, I didn’t mean to stab you in your gums with your fork. I was merely trying to spoon-feed you information.
I don’t think our president is doing a good job, but I think he’s doing a great vacation.
I can kick the can down the road, and I can also kick other modal verbs.
I’ll steal bodies, not to be Corporal Corpse, but to have access to a never-ending supply of laughter still left over in their lungs.