To live a more authentic life, I’ve started studying the world’s best counterfeiters, the Central Bankers. But I can assure you, my love for you is not inflated.
I want to scrape earwax out of your ears like the last of the chunky peanut butter in a jar. I’d love it if you ate one of my world famous Listening Sandwiches.
Women get lonely, while men merely get horny. I should know, because I’d feel lonely even if I were surrounded by 11 clones of myself.
I was in Love once. I think I stayed at a Holiday Inn. Or maybe I was in Loveland, Co. But either way it felt great to be so directionless and unaware of my surroundings and so utterly lost.
I need love. Here’s a list of other things I need: eggs, butter, flour, and sugar. I’m making a cake for the woman I love—and another one for my lover.
I have two hands so I can provide companionship to myself by holding one hand with the other. As a lover, I am self-sufficient.
This morning my car wouldn’t start. I guess that’s better than if my car wouldn’t stop. As a lover I’m a bring-my-own-bicycle kind of guy.
I built a Name Machine. It’s a vending machine that dispenses monikers. For 50 cents, now you can be called Don G. Lover, just like your mom.
I’m not a firefighter—I’m a firefly fighter. My bravery may come in small flashes, but I am sure it doesn’t go unnoticed by lustful women and campers everywhere.
Why spend ten dollars to buy one item that does two things, when for five dollars a piece I can sell you two items that each does one thing?
I tried to knock my wife up, but she’d only let me ring the doorbell. And she made me dress up like the pizza delivery boy while I rang.
Pineapple juice doesn’t come in a can—it comes in a hard, spiky shell called a pineapple. Pineapples are great and all, but of all things to grow, up is the most profitable.
Men will tolerate what they are used to, even if it’s intolerance. That’s why I still drink milk, even though I’m lactose intolerant. Mamma didn’t raise no bigot.
There’s bacon in my bed. Extra crispy, like the fresh dollar bills stuffed in the mattress. I make love like I make sure I’m prepared for the next financial crisis.
She asked for all my love, and I said, “Sure, let me just go to the nearest ATM.” I wonder if she knows it’s all fake and inflated.
I’m two quarters the way to having 50 cents. That’s right, I have one quarter. But I’m also one quarter in love, and I feel rich!
I rearranged the letters of the word “neologism” to make the word neologism itself a neologism, as well as an anagram. The new word I made? It happens to be the name of the spaceship I’m building: Moon Legs I.
At five in the morning, I was half asleep. The whole left side of my body was taking a nap. Seems I’m also always half in love, from my waist down.
If you were to ask me what kind of musical sound I aspire to produce, that noise would be a wet nipple sliding across a cheese grater. I’m a sucker for love songs.
If I had my clone take a test for me, it’s likely I’d misspell my own name. And I’m terrible at remembering people’s names—even if that person is me.
It’s hard to maintain dignity while wearing a coat made out of peacock feathers and pants made out of geriatric human flesh. Still, every other weekend, I have to try.
