The year 2100 will see eugenics universally established. In past ages, the law governing the survival of the fittest roughly weeded out the less desirable strains. Then man's new sense of pity began to interfere with the ruthless workings of nature. ...
Worse than that, however, was the CFO, a dapper-suited, neat-haired new age carapace containing an uninhibited misogynistic bogan, whose actual words to me, in concert with my boss in the same room were: 'To be successful you have to accept that week...
Maturity comes with experience, not age.
At its best our age is an age of searchers and discoverers, and at its worst, an age that has domesticated despair and learned to live with it happily.
Whatever poet, orator or sage may say of it, old age is still old age.
Europe to me is young people trying to appear middle-aged and middle-aged people trying to appear young.
American nuclear reactors are well into middle age. The median age of an operating reactor in the U.S. is 34 years, placing start-up in midst of the Carter administration.
Dressing up is a bore. At a certain age, you decorate yourself to attract the opposite sex, and at a certain age, I did that. But I'm past that age.
.. at a certain age we learned to see right through it, and that age is now.
So age after age — will it be soon, O Lord? — Beneath the scalpel of nature and art, Our spirit screams, our flesh depletes itself, Giving birth to an organ for the sixth sense. ("The Sixth Sense")
I have an abnormally shaped brain. According to neuroimaging, my brain looks like a curled up sleeping kitten. That’s how I make love like meow.
She said, “What?” so I replied, “What what?” She gave me a look that said, “What what what?” and I didn’t respond because I fell in love with her.
We made love like two Inuits make love like two popsicles, and then we went back to our cold lives. That was the best summer of my night.
I unwrapped my love for her like one might unwrap leftovers. Gotta eat up the old stuff first, as a cannibal might say in a retirement home.
If you don’t know how to love, then any old robot or mechanical device would best suit your relationship style. In this situation, vacuum cleaners might make the best lovers.
I blew the love trumpet until my cheeks were blue. Then I paid 34 bucks for a taxicab ride home so I could admire my receding hairline in the mirror.
If you could pour my love like it was a bottle of wine, would you have one glass or two? That was a trick question, because the answer is you’d drink it all—straight out of the bottle.
My friends mess around with my friends—and my friends’ bikes. Sex with bicycles—that kind of love is just too fast for me. I’ll stick to sticking it in statues.
Power lines are great places to hang my clothes—especially since my closet is full of birds. I make love like I have wings and know how to fly.
I need a tube-shaped bathtub, to play the tuba in. I make love like I make music—in a shower that’s in a phone booth that’s in 1981, the year before I was born.
Do I have cat hair on my face? I was trying to grow out my beard. Let’s make love like two meows trapped in a Ziploc bag.
