Grandpa used to like gravy on everything, including his pancakes. If love could be eaten, I’ll bet he’d prefer it with gravy on top. And I’d have to agree. Love would taste better with gravy.
Love is like holding a baloney sandwich for a friend. That was over two years ago, and I’m still holding it. I wonder if he’s coming back any time soon. He must be starving by now.
I want to write a song about the only girl I’ve ever loved. And the chorus will say something like, “I really want to see you tonight, so I hope you leave your blinds open.
I’ll tell you what love is. Love is walking up and down Archer Road in Gainesville, Florida and feeling like Cupid. Too bad the cops took issue with me hitch hiking with a bow and arrow.
Love is a gift you receive by giving. The more love you give, the more love you get. Try it out today, and try it out with me. Go ahead—give me all your love.
I’m such a terrible speller that sometimes I misspell words so bad that they become unreadably readable. For example, I might misspell a simple word like “Love” and have it come out as the properly spelled “Hate.
Love is a universal language, and I have just created its alphabet. In written form, the letters are invisible; when spoken the words are inaudible; but when touched, the sentences are smooth, like freshly shaven legs.
Two butterflies in two socks could walk faster than I can run. A love song will jog your memory like I jog like Roger Bannister in a wheelchair.
Exchanging currencies from one country to another needs conversion, but not translation. Money, like love, is a universal language. However, you can’t debase love, no matter how much of it you pump into the world.
Just because I’m in love, doesn’t mean I think about her 24/7. No, I only think about her 23/7, because I need an hour a day to contemplate my mortality.
In the park I saw an empty bench, and I thought, “That’s like my love for her.” At first I was sad, but then I smiled when I realized I’m more of a sofa kind of guy.
Being negative, that’s no good. Also, being no good is no good. By your silence I can tell that you love me. Either that or you’re a disciple of Helen Keller.
When I write, I have a sort of secret kinship of readers in all countries who don't know each other but each of whom, when they read my book, feels at home in it. So I write for those readers. It's almost a sense of writing for a specific person, but...
She told me she loved me. She told me a lot of things. Some of those things were true, and some of those may or may not have been true. It’s kind of hard to tell, because to be honest, I wasn’t listening.
He met her because I didn’t show up that day and he went in my place. If they get married, I should be the best man. I am Invisible Cupid, so where’s my monument to love?
I pee in the sink, so I can save time by washing my hands at the same time that I am urinating. I’ll bet you’re wondering where my favorite place to make love is.
I sorted my sordid sort ofs from my maybes. Then I made love like never before. Seriously, I’d never made love before, and I have to say, it didn’t cost me as much money as I expected.
I told her, “I admire your mustache madam, but I wonder, what’s for dessert?” Knowing her and knowing me, she probably thought I meant I love you.
I wore a hat, to compensate for the fact that my pants were unzipped. When we made love, she asked if I brought a condom, so I showed her my tube socks. I brought two, for twice the protection.
My meeting was at 9:00 AM, and I walked in the room at 9:01. She said, “You’re late.” I stopped, my jaw open and slack, because I knew she was right. I was late—but for what? I was late for love.
When the sky is blue, I think of her. When the sky is gray, I think of her. When the sky is black, I think of her. But when the sky is orange, I think of juice, and how I am thirsty—for her love.
