Is a wind farm a field full of talking politicians? If so, I wonder what they grow? Probably the national debt.
I’m wise when it comes to your issues, and a fool when it comes to mine. Emotion is the blindfold we cannot see or feel we’re wearing.
Love is like a summer rainstorm in winter. Where I’m from that’s called romance. Where you’re from that may be called snow.
Dear mom, My lieutenant is a prostitute. Can you please send me more lunch money, as her rates have recently increased.
My grandpa never read the newspaper. Not because he was particularly optimistic, but because he was illiterate. He taught me to read by watching TV.
My ex girlfriend said she’d never cheat on me. Well, she did—with an accountant. Now I owe money to the IRS.
We broke up because we weren’t going anywhere. I kept telling her, Hitchhiking takes patience.
A man who claims to be 32 degrees is one freezing freemason. That man must make love with all the warmth of a shadowy secret.
I want to be a part of your world. Or, if that’s too much to ask, I’d accept being a part of your globe.
If love had the texture of a turtle, and the taste of a rabbit, would you say we’re moving too fast in our relationship?
Love is being able to be yourself, with another human being who makes you want to be better than yourself.
My name is my reputation. And all I have in this world is my name. Well, and my penis, which shoots out millions of other names.
If I were in Steve Prefontaine’s shoes, I’d have done the same thing he did. Except for all that running. I wouldn’t have done that.
In the long run, even a marathon looks like a sprint. This is how I can love with such Roger Bannisteresque intensity.
I walk slowly when I’m being introspective and nostalgic. Some might call it moping. But I don’t. I call it love.
I don’t need to actually make my product safer. All I need to do to make it safe is put a warning label on the package.
When I was growing up, I’d walk to school in the snow. In Florida. Uphill all three ways.
I know the secret number of the universe. It’s one, for the individual in search of the secret number. But the secret itself is love, and lies outside of one.
I make love like a flamethrower would make a good ice machine. But that’s OK, because I like ice water.
The two sisters wouldn’t sleep with me. But it’s cool, because they were nuns, and I didn’t have my clerical costume on.
When sex is Freon any occasion, it usually involves something dripping and toxic. At least that's what my mechanic tells me.
