I’m creative, I make up almost everything. But with all my creativity, I couldn’t make up with my wife.
I could be the man of your dreams. I could also be the alarm clock, stealing you away from the man of your dreams.
The difference between me and a scientist is a little word called “Science.” I don’t believe in it. Science has yet to validate my disbelief in Bigfoot.
It’s hard to type with gloves on. It’s also hard to type with just an erection. It’s basically like typing with one finger, and in my case, a pinky.
The future seems so crowded to me. All I see is me, me, me, me, me and a million other clones of myself.
A feather taped to a vibrator is a tickling machine to induce hunger, and NOT a sex toy. So you won’t have to ask if you see it in my fridge.
My clones better not wear invisible cloaks. How am I supposed to find myself as a person if I can’t even find my clones?
The US is at a point where just when the people imagine things can’t get any worse, they realize their imaginations weren’t big enough.
If I had a clone, he’d better be my equal, and not my better. Can you imagine how I’d feel being jealous of myself?
My love is like one of those wooden Russian nesting dolls (matryoshka doll). I know, because your heart fits perfectly inside mine.
I want to wow you with my loudness. I wish I could turn down your job offer, because it’s hurting my ears.
I submitted a poem last night to The New Yorker. They said it can take up to three months to hear back. I got rejected immediately.
Love is like Atlantis, OK? And I’m just a humble scuba diver searching for treasure that I can exchange for sexual favors.
My advice is to write in the nude. Unless you do your writing in a public restroom, and in that case, I’d recommend wearing flip flops.
Even indecision is a decision.
At my last birthday party I had fun and really let myself go. Literally. I opened the cages where I keep my clones and I let myself go, all 333 versions of myself.
The last time somebody pointed out that cowboys ride horses, not tricycles, I shot him. Of course, I waited until another gunslinger gunned him down, but nevertheless, I still shot him.
He offered to pay me in agriculture, and I said I didn’t want that, I want money. I told him agriculture won’t put food on my table.
I keep an outfit of my baby clothes on a hanger in my closet. It hangs there like a heretical, anorexic midget. I do this to increase my chances of getting laid (wet baloney is the key to better love making).
A man with six fingers on one hand who gets his finger cutoff by the mafia probably doesn’t feel pain, fear, or anger. No, that man probably feels normal.
Good art is like a sexy pair of lips—it has the potential to say so much, but prefers to have you do all the talking about it. Also, good art is fun to kiss and make out with (especially statues and portraits).
