You wouldn’t try to mow your lawn with an electric razor, like it was a green beard, so why would you try to deny the existence of nonexistence?
Earwax is nothing more than sound boogers. I’m too congested to hear anything but I love you. Not that I expect you to flick it at me lightly.
I asked possible witnesses about the invisible man shaped like a whisper, and nobody saw or heard anything. Which means he was there, and he is probably my father.
My mother-in-law got so angry at me she vowed she’d never speak to me again, and I smiled and gave thanks for the little miracle God worked in my life.
The cycle of parental disapproval begins at dawn. That’s why I have to get up five minutes before sunrise, so I can berate my grandpa like he was my own child.
Some people say I look like my mom, while others say I look more like my dad. I guess it all depends on what I’m wearing.
It’s tough to lose one parent, but to lose two—in a murder/suicide no less! But it’s OK, soon after the incident I found out I was abandoned as a baby, so they weren’t my real parents anyway.
If I met a man who had eleven sons, the first thing I’d ask is, Are they all yours? And of course the next question I’d ask is, which one plays quarterback and which one is the best receiver?
I want to go to Martha’s Vineyard. I have an aunt named Martha. And an uncle by that name. Neither one is related to me.
I want to share my thoughts with you. Press your forehead firmly against mine, and let my mind transfer to yours. You won’t receive love, because that’s a feeling, and best communicated with a kiss.
The sun is a flower, and it burns my goddamn nostrils like the scent of love, which I haven’t tasted since I put on my midnight-black blindfold. I’m just naturally romantic, I guess.
I’d rather fake my own fog, than fake a steamy love scene. Can I interest you in some mist? It’s homemade.
Try my all-you-can-eat vomit soup. Sadly, people don’t want seconds, because they don’t even want firsts. But it tastes great. I tasted it on the way down—and then again on the way up.
Love, like hefty leftover stew, could be eaten with a spoon—or with some homeless guy I just met. I would offer you some, but we haven’t met yet. And whose fault is that? Oh yeah—yours.
Love is like a zebra refereeing a football game. I should know, because I am the rodeo cowboy riding that zebra.
When I fake smile the corners of my mouth twitch from tiredness, then nervousness, as I wonder if anybody can see my mouth quivering and figure out that I’m faking my friendliness.
It’s hard to find friends I can trust. Most end up either getting shot, stabbed, or I have to tie them up and toss them overboard in the Atlantic Ocean.
I’m a Pisces, and people say that Pisces make the best the best lovers. That’s because Pisces are fish, and it’s like my grandpa always used to say, “The next best thing to making love to a mermaid, is having sex with a fish.
If you were to ask me what’s under my bed, I’d tell you shoes. They’re brown, and they’re still attached to the body that’s been decomposing there since I hid it three days ago.
I know that man started animal husbandry thousands of years ago, and I think it’s disgusting. Men and animals should never be allowed to marry. Or have sex. And maybe not even engage in necking, unless it’s a man and a giraffe.
If I were king, I wouldn’t pay you the money I owe you. I’d give you a far more valuable gift: the gift of life—your own. Yes, you’d get to keep it!
