If anger were money, only a fool would greedily save it up. And a wise man would let it slip out of his heart like change slips out of his pants pockets.
She told me she might not be there when I get back, and I got so angry I said something stupid. I told her I might not be there when I get back either.
Somebody once asked me where I come up with my stuff. I replied, "Who knows? Where does yellow snow come from? It's just a gift from God I guess.
I’d love to try to sell a blank white canvas to an art dealer. And when he asks what it is, I’d tell him, “It’s a landscape painting of Key West, from the perspective of an optimistic blind man.
I collect hair. I keep most of it on my floor, but my most valuable patches I display on the bodies of a few cats I have roaming my house like walking art displays that meow.
I’m an artist. I’m a cave painter. Archaeologists and art critics of the future are going to call me a genius. They’re going to say I was so far ahead of my time that I was way behind my time.
I wish art was like money in that the more I made, the more interest it developed and plentiful it became. Money makes money, and if art made art, there’s no prison in this country that could hold my creations.
If you see me sitting at a dining room table with a clean plate and bowl in front of me, you’ll know it’s because I’m a starving artist. I’m also thirsty, as my cup is also empty.
She was a tall drink of water, and I was a glass half full kind of guy—half full of lust. Actually, my glass was half full of Kool-Aid powder, which is why I lusted for her.
When all the birds and all the fish join forces, the politicians will be forced to chew on and swallow their own slimy, wormlike words. But until the time that the sky and the sea blend into one, I’ll leave my fishing pole in a tree, disguised as a...
Ah, the good ol’ days. I remember those days. That was before your time. It was before my time too, because I didn’t have a watch, and I hadn’t been born yet.
I like to call in sick to work at places where I’ve never held a job. Then when the manager tells me I don’t work there, I tell them I’d like to. But not today, as I’m sick.
I didn’t have time to bury the money. All my precious time was taken up burying the body. I should have left the body and hid the cash. Damn! Now I’ve got no body, but no money, and nobody to blame but myself.
I went through and underlined all the funny lines in his book, and by the time I was done, I had underlined his whole book. That would be great if he wrote a humor book, rather than a book on investing.
I collect things that collect dust. Like dust jackets. Despite no fingerprints in the dust on these books, most of the dust jackets say things like, “This book is impossible to put down!” Well, apparently it’s also impossible to pick up.
I would have enjoyed “Naked Lunch” that day, but the cafeteria served us all clothing. I like my meals a little more scandalous. I should eat in the library, along with the other gluttonous nudists.
I’m the sort of businessman who goes in to buy a lime, and comes out with a lemon. I’m shrewd like that. I’m the same with cars. If you ever need help buying a used car, let me know.
Some of the higher-ups in the organization don’t know anything about the company—including which floor they are on (the top one). It makes me angry enough to go out and start my own elevator repair business.
I’d give up three days just to get three hours with the woman I love. Of course this instinct is the reason why my investment decisions always look so great—for the people on the other ends of the trades.
The way my vacuum cleaner sucks up cat hair, I shouldn’t have been surprised when it huffed up my mustache. But I was surprised it sucked out all the love and romance in our relationship.
Sometimes I wish I had been born with cat fur, whiskers, and a tail, though I guess I am grateful that at least I was born with my very own litter box.
