We made love like two kangaroos arguing over the cargo capacity of a purse on sale. But I said, “No—it’s less money, yes, but it’s also less space than we need.” Whatever we do when we do it, we must remember that we do it for the children.
Buy one I love you for $3.99. Buy twelve for $48.00. That’s a savings of twelve cents—directly into my bank account. WARNING: CHOKING HAZARD—Objects not intended for individuals who tend to put forever objects in their mouths.
I love you—but not now. I mean don’t bother me now, not that I don’t love you now. Also, now for me isn’t now for you, as my watch is five minutes fast, and that’s why I always seem so futuristic.
The six squares of our love didn’t add up to a cube. Still, I took the oddly-shaped box down to the post office and tried to mail it into the future, when I’d be more prepared to open it.
I’m older now than my dad was when he was my age. Wait, that’s not right. That’s not my dad at all, that’s just some stranger hanging around in my memory.
They call alcohol spirits, because it’s the spirit turned liquid. Would you drink my soul if you knew I’d use it to get inside of you? After all, most men buy women alcohol so they can get inside them too.
One word I’d use to describe space is lonely. The only way I’ll board a space shuttle is if I had a babysitter with me. You know, to watch the baby I’ll make with her.
If love were a collection of collections, would your relationship be banged-up baseball cards, or famous art? My love for you is famous art. You just have to wait for my death so my work can be honored posthumously, bringing in money precisely when I...
I had a dream where I lost Cap’n among the hundreds of black and white cats and they all looked nearly identical to him. It was such a sad dream that it made me drool out of my eyes.
My cat has long hair. Like a hippy. It gets annoying because I can’t get him to shut up about Vietnam. I can’t relate, because I wasn’t there. Neither was he, because like I said, he's like a hippy.
When the going gets tough, the tough give thanks for their mountain bike. I’m so rugged even cavemen would call me Xtreme. At least that’s what that Neanderthal barista who made my drink said under his breath when he uttered—or muttered—“Th...
There are billions of conversations happening every second, and it’s too bad I can’t listen to more than about half of them at one time. Most are just he said she said chatter, and I want to tell them to go sip on gossip and leave the coffee talk...
Exuding confidence can ooze onto everyone around you. But it’s sticky and goo-like, so remember to periodically wipe yourself down. I use a squeegee, because I don’t like squeezing sponges. The only time I like to squeeze is when hugging a person...
I eat fog soup (out of a can). You don’t think I make it fresh, do you? You don’t need a spoon or straw to enjoy it—you need a pipe to inhale it.
Newt Gingrich, buddy, the people of the United States don’t like you. And the only reason the rest of the world doesn’t despise you is because they don’t know you. Thankfully you won’t have to experience that global derision, as you have reac...
I wish I had eyes that changed colors from blue to gray, and then after I cried, to all the colors of the rainbow, because then I’d just sit in front of the mirror writing poems that alternated between extremely sad poems, to poems about light refr...
Some people sleep their lives away. But I also want to sleep death away. If I sleep long enough, maybe death will think I’m already dead and pass me by.
It is my wish to die of unique causes, perhaps in a high-speed tricycle crash, a bizarre stapling incient, or as a result of inadvertently sucking my brains out through my ear while trying to untwist the vacuum hose.
My dreams have wings. But not soaring eagle wings, more like the wings of a butterfly—colorful and easily ripped off. The last time my dreams got ripped off was when I shopped at Walmart, the place where freedom soars like a caterpillar under the f...
She works in the corporate business center, and I work in a satellite location. She calls it the “moon,” while I call it the “office.” I like to think of my office as God’s cue ball. I’m calling in now, The Big Three’s hitting the two b...
I’ve found newspapers only useful as kindling material for campfires. It’s been said that newspaper articles are written at a fifth grade reading level. If so, I can’t figure out why journalists would write something that the average high schoo...
