We all wear uniforms, even if we’re conforming to unconformity. People who try so hard to look different end up looking the same as all the other people who try so hard to look different.
If a woman named Ms. Silver won a gold medal, she’d probably be a little disappointed she didn’t place second. My love always finishes first, while my love always comes second.
I’ll give you a treat to get in your cage. I’m rewarding you for punishing you. Who am I? If you guessed either dog catcher or politician you are correct.
I say eek to Zeke Ekez, the imaginary palindrome politician of my dreams. He looks like me, talks like me, and thinks like me, but I won’t vote for him, because I always vote for myself.
When I see a cop’s lights behind me at two in the morning, and I have my disco ball dangling from my rearview mirror, it’s like, Hey, a party! Especially if I’ve been drinking.
Who I am is unimportant. But who I am is very important. I’ll suppress my ego now, every occurring now, so I can achieve my maximum later.
Earwax is nothing more than sound boogers. I’m too congested to hear anything but I love you. Not that I expect you to flick it at me lightly.
My mother-in-law got so angry at me she vowed she’d never speak to me again, and I smiled and gave thanks for the little miracle God worked in my life.
The cycle of parental disapproval begins at dawn. That’s why I have to get up five minutes before sunrise, so I can berate my grandpa like he was my own child.
Some people say I look like my mom, while others say I look more like my dad. I guess it all depends on what I’m wearing.
It’s tough to lose one parent, but to lose two—in a murder/suicide no less! But it’s OK, soon after the incident I found out I was abandoned as a baby, so they weren’t my real parents anyway.
If I met a man who had eleven sons, the first thing I’d ask is, Are they all yours? And of course the next question I’d ask is, which one plays quarterback and which one is the best receiver?
I want to share my thoughts with you. Press your forehead firmly against mine, and let my mind transfer to yours. You won’t receive love, because that’s a feeling, and best communicated with a kiss.
The sun is a flower, and it burns my goddamn nostrils like the scent of love, which I haven’t tasted since I put on my midnight-black blindfold. I’m just naturally romantic, I guess.
Try my all-you-can-eat vomit soup. Sadly, people don’t want seconds, because they don’t even want firsts. But it tastes great. I tasted it on the way down—and then again on the way up.
Love, like hefty leftover stew, could be eaten with a spoon—or with some homeless guy I just met. I would offer you some, but we haven’t met yet. And whose fault is that? Oh yeah—yours.
I loved her like Monday’s not Sunday. Is it yesterday yet? I won’t know if we were meant to be together forever until six days from now. That’s a long time. Also, that’s a long time.
When I fake smile the corners of my mouth twitch from tiredness, then nervousness, as I wonder if anybody can see my mouth quivering and figure out that I’m faking my friendliness.
It’s hard to find friends I can trust. Most end up either getting shot, stabbed, or I have to tie them up and toss them overboard in the Atlantic Ocean.
I’m a Pisces, and people say that Pisces make the best the best lovers. That’s because Pisces are fish, and it’s like my grandpa always used to say, “The next best thing to making love to a mermaid, is having sex with a fish.
If you were to ask me what’s under my bed, I’d tell you shoes. They’re brown, and they’re still attached to the body that’s been decomposing there since I hid it three days ago.
