I make love like you wouldn’t believe. Seriously, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you, so why don’t I show you?
I have the ostrich of an asshole. I also have the asshole of an ostrich. With these two things, I have everything I need. Well, aside from love.
Gas masks could be converted into blowjob machines—and finally put your mom out of business. That’s capitalism. That’s war. That’s love.
Love is like walking while riding a bicycle. It’s pretty hard to do when you’re curled up like a cat, sleeping in a wheelchair.
A cat’s meow can be a scream, a laugh, a sigh, a hello, a yes, and even an I love you.
The best present is wrapped in fur. And when you shake the package, it meows. Give the gift of love, before it runs away and gets run over.
We both tried to speak at the same time, and ended up remaining silent the whole night. That’s when I realized we were in love.
My tears are salty. I shouldn’t eat potato chips while drinking my Cry Water, because it only makes me thirstier for your love.
I tried to rinse off in the Shower of Love, but you had used all the hot water. So I just stood there, crying, and peeing on my feet.
Dragons breathe fire, but what if fire breathed dragons? I make love like that—instead of it being hot, it’s cold and scaly.
I’ve just walked ten feet in the wrong direction, and I’m too tired to turn back around and trudge back. Oh, the lengths I go to for love.
Love is a door leading to a better existence. But knock before entering, because behind that door I think grandpa's taking a shit.
My dad and I aren’t close, despite the fact that he’s standing in my shadow. My love for him must make him chilly.
The smell of silence looks like the ghost of my grandpa. My love is deeper than six feet of dirt, and considerably easier to shovel.
I’m a sex lover and fan of family reunions. Those two things are unrelated, just as all my sex partners are unrelated (at least to me).
I can see how being invisible would be a good love-making strategy. It’s the ultimate fantasy—because all you can do is fantasize.
My sense of fashion is unmatched. Also, my socks are unmatched. My feet have grown cold, but my love for you has not.
Love is like trying to put out a fire with a pair of scissors. I have a thing for redheads with short hair.
We made love like I made breakfast—a breakfast for one. Still, when I eat alone is when I have the best conversations.
The sign outside of the prison said, “Free Johnson,” and I said, “Why would anybody want dick for free?” What kind of lover would that make?
My impression of love: I found her—lucky me. I found her—unlucky her. She’d probably agree with me, which would be a first.
