Language is the proper way to communicate, followed closely by five balled up fingers forming a fist and flying at a face. Violence is never the answer—unless the question is: What the fuck are you going to do about it?
I hear what you say in what you don’t say, you see, because I’m a Helen Keller kind of communicator. Love is just as visible as invisible.
People say I can handle pressure, but there is one sporting competition where if I were in the finals, I’d surely choke, and that’s the hotdog eating competition.
In golf, you don’t beat the other golfers—you beat your self-doubt. That’s why I don’t play, because I can’t beat anyone—not even myself.
When I win, it’s because I’m skilled. When I lose, it’s because my opponent is lucky. But when I fall in love, it’s because I’m lucky and she’s skilled.
Winning the lottery is all skill, and that’s why I don’t play—because it would be unfair to all the other competitors. I’m like that as a lover too, always thinking about the other competitors.
Too many people talk about the weather, and not enough people talk about agriculture. When somebody says to me, "Beautiful weather we're having,” I always reply, "Irrigation and crop rotation.
Dinner was good. The conversation was great, but the food was bad, so it averaged out. I wish I were as good in bed as I am in the kitchen.
During conversation, I have no problem making eye contact—with myself in the mirror. Or with my clone, if he’s not rolling his eyes because he knows what I’m going to say.
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.
