It’s a popular fact that 90 percent of the brain is not used and, like most popular facts, it is wrong. . . . It is used. One of its functions is to make the miraculous seem ordinary, to turn the unusual into the usual. Otherwise, human beings, fac...
Let us account for all we see by the facts we know. If there are things for which we cannot account, let us wait for light. To account for anything by supernatural agencies is, in fact to say that we do not know. Theology is not what we know about Go...
Leave the cage open. If you love someone, give them a chance to leave. You can always lock them up again should they return to you.
Scoop out my soul with a spoon like it’s a cantaloupe, and I’ll tell you that love is breakfast. And I’d love to make breakfast to Agatha one more time.
I collect information. But not just any information, I collect misinformation. I am the museum of misinformation. I’m also the artist and curator. And Docent.
My name is Davis Davis. And don’t call me Mr. Davis! How would you like it if I called you Mr. Archibald, or whatever your first name is?
We all must die, but only I put the “must” in mustard. Sadly, the only man alive who understands what I mean is dead. RIP Mitch Ketchup.
The x-ray of your skull shows a large, flobby mass floating inside. I have to consult my colleagues to be certain, but it looks like a long sausage snarled into a lump.
I’m not growing old for free. I’m charging myself with the task of becoming someone better every day. And by better I mean younger.
The past is the past. I believe that people can change, under the right conditions (like plastic surgery).
I’m a romantic. I like cold coffee and orgasms that arrive fifteen minutes after I’ve put on my clothes and paid the lady.
For our fourth date, I said I wanted Italian, and she said she wanted Chinese. We decided to compromise and meet at the movie theater after we’d both eaten.
Her dad died unexpectedly, so I hid the flowers, because flowers are reminders of spring and life, and also of headstones and death. Also, I hid the flowers because they were for another woman.
I have thought carefully on how to leave this world, and I have concluded that I should exit the same way I entered: through a vagina. But not my mother’s.
Agatha loved military men. Actually, she loved men in uniform. And my bowling league outfit used to drive her wild with desire.
My life is a code within a code, and I’ll crack both like two eggs and eat my existence like an omelet.
The sunset faded and blended from pink to peach to mango in a smoothie in the sky. For as long as she doesn’t love me, I will love her.
Napoleon made war like I make love—from a height of about 68 centimeters. (I wear platform shoes while I’m on my knees)
I define myself and grow as a person through emotional torment, so if you love me, you will inflict as much pain on me as you possibly can.
What did I know of love then? What do I know of love now? I went from mustard to ketchup, but I’m still leading with my hotdog.
I am the Love Ventriloquist. And if you say I’m not, I’ll say it so it sounds like you said I am.
