I watch basketball like I watch baseball: I don’t. I’d much rather watch grass grow. Actually, golf isn’t that bad.
She probably thinks I have the clothes of a millionaire. And I do, but they’re still on his body, which is still in the trunk of my car.
I just bought a can of brown paint. It’s more expensive than coffee, but I really hit the wall after I chug it.
I wish my stove came with a Save As button like Word has. That way I could experiment with my cooking and not fear ruining my dinner.
If liquid courage smelled like cologne and gushed out of my penis, I’d make a better fire fighter than I’m not right now.
If a woman asked me how far I’d go on a first date, my reply would be 69 miles. Round trip, not one way.
The ultimate weapon is Lady Gaga’s music. Why kill the enemy when you can play her music and they’ll want to kill themselves?
I’m creative, I make up almost everything. But with all my creativity, I couldn’t make up with my wife.
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.
Perhaps the most important thing I learned was about democracy, that democracy is not our government, our constitution, our legal structure. Too often they are enemies of democracy.
