A fuel pump is a fountain drink machine for cars. And people who want to save the environment and get drunk and run to work.
When the fog lifts on this economy, I think we’ll find a lot of people refusing to ever turn off their caution lights.
I need a Caution: Slippery When Wet sign, because I just spilled my ego all over the floor.
The only reason I didn’t feel like a complete fool was because the failure left me feeling incomplete.
The name’s David Davidson, and I am not my own son. I’m also not my own father, if you were wondering.
Take me to Happy Birthday Land. It’s open 364 days of the year, and the one day of the year it’s closed for cleaning happens to be my birthday.
My favorite flower lost its voice, and through aroma therapy and the assistance of both my nostrils, I’m trying to help it get it back.
I met a guy who had an interesting job. He was a meat cutter, or a meat slicer, something like that. I probably butchered his job title.
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.
Only the living can read. This means that when I write, my target market is people of the future. Greetings, people of the moon!
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.