Sometimes I ask myself, "Do I have the courage to do the right thing when it matters most?" And that answer, I'm afraid, is silence.
Every time I eat an English muffin I feel like I become more grammatically correct, more refined, more cultured, and an all-around gentleman.
I don’t quite know how to respond to people who say that I dance like my genitals are on fire. I usually just blush and brush aside their flattery.
If you’re going to hit on me, please wear boxing gloves. I get it though, because when I’m dancing it looks like I’m fighting. In the face of violence, I’m just that gentle and sensual.
Dancing? Not only do I have two left feet, but they’re different sizes. And I don’t put them in shoes—I store them in glass jars in my basement.
I asked her out on a date, and she said, “Sorry, I can’t see you.” “That’s no problem,” I replied, “I won’t wear my invisible cloak.
If I grew an inch a day, in 365 days I’d be one year tall. I’d be over three basketball hoops high, but I’d still only be able to palm a Sunday once a year.
In life or death situations, my father has only been there once for me. So I'd like to tell him thanks for not pulling out when I needed him the most: conception.
Some men want to go out with a bang. Personally, I'd rather not die from sex. I mean, what will my wife think when the police tell her?
I moved my hand in and out of the shadow and pondered life and death. Then I put on my lipstick, pulled up my pants, and got back to work.
Of all the ways to murder someone, slowly, over the course of about 75 years or so, is the best way to not get caught. Nobody, not even Sherlock Holmes, would suspect a thing.
I want to end my life by eating so much Viagra that I go out like that movie and Die Hard. If you want to watch, I just made popcorn.
My heart beats to the rhythm of the windshield wipers. I’d better never drive in the desert, unless I want to die. Our relationship has one too many cactuses in it to be deserving of my love.
Sure, I’d fake my own death. But only if I had the following items: duct tape, seven slinkies, a parachute, and a mannequin that looked like me.
He seemed to swallow the lie I fed him. I hope he’s not still hungry. If he is, I’ll give him the illusory dessert known as the American Dream.
Night—it’s the only thing that will cover up one of my black moods. Good thing my depression isn’t an every day kind of thing. It’s an after day thing.
I’m sure you could win with a design that I’d cast off as trash. Such is the curious case of the annual Garbage Festival. Plus, I’m just that good. Or am I that bad?
In real life I was alone, but in my dream I was in a crowd, and that’s why I farted. But being the gentleman that I am, I blamed it on your dad.
I make love with my eyes closed, because I make love in my dreams. If you wanted to go for seconds, we could, because I make love buffet style.
My hush is lush. It’s drunk on its own greenness, just as I’m drunk on my blue silence. What would you say if I asked you to turquoise?
When she’s cuddled close, I feel there’s nothing I can’t do, and I can’t do nothing about it, because my heart is her heart for as long as she wants it.
