I remember the second time I took Agatha out. I wanted to go to Dairy Queen, and she wanted to go to Burger King. In the end we settled for wieners and clams at Johnny Hermaphrodite’s.
On my first date with Agatha, I wore tight green Spandex, which made my skinny legs look like asparagus. Knowing no heterosexual woman could resist such a temptation, I set out to seduce her.
If you look up to see a shooting star, you might miss the silver dollar on the sidewalk. But no matter where you look, or where you travel, you’ll never get lost or arrive late to your own death.
If I die, who’s going to take care of my shadow? Or will it return to the night, from whence it came? While I sleep at night I keep my shadow folded neatly in my underwear drawer.
The first time I saw Agatha she gave me a double wink. Most men might have interpreted it as a blink, but I saw it as a sexually developed ambidextrous double wink. Such talent! Such desire!
I made a graph of my emotions, a chart, and when I looked it over I was amazed to notice that the day Agatha broke up with me looked identical to the stock market crash of 1929. I thought I was the Irving Fisher of love.
I believe the love shared between two people shouldn’t be secretly shared with a third. Not even if I am vacationing on the moon, and that third person is my clone.
I told my doctor my penis was as thin as a spaghetti noodle. I asked if there was anything I could do to bulk it up, and he said, “Yeah, tell your girl to twirl it on a fork before she puts it in her mouth.
I could name my penis Steve, and it would be appropriate, as it is sort of shaped like my dad’s face, whose name is Steve. Not just his face, but his whole body and person is named Steve. And he’s a dick.
I applied for your love like a recent MBA grad might apply at Walmart today. I grew a beard on my chest and laughed through my ass just to get your attention.
Agatha had so much love she could fill a room. A room filled with strange men, which she often did. I don’t care if every single man in that room looked exactly like me, they were strangers.
To me love is like a cup of soapy dishwater. Sure, I’ll drink it, but I won’t swish it around in my mouth while you try to stuff filthy silverware down my throat.
A customer facing crucial decisions: What should I wipe myself with? What should I brush with? His personal hygiene was deteriorating rapidly as he stared at the rows of possibilities, sweating profusely. Would he ever bathe again?
If I could convert my love into clay, and then shape it, I wonder if Agatha would expect a Rodin or a Branscusi. In reality it would be neither, as my love sculpture would look exactly like the Grand Canyon.
I left my phone number on a napkin, along with trace amounts of spaghetti sauce and garlic bread grease, hoping she’d call me. And when she didn’t, I panicked and filed a missing person’s report with the police.
While we’re at it, why don’t we add a third emotion to this list: lust. You are probably unaware that Linnaeus lumped the tomato into the same genus as the potato, a food with a reputation for its widespread availability and easy satisfaction of ...
I recently heard of a group called The Lipsticks who only sing Kiss hits, which reminds me of something weird I saw yesterday. I saw Elvis. And he was impersonating me.
What do you take me for? That fool Socrates, who upheld the law at the cost of his own death – just to be ironic? I suspect that act was actually the result of his secret embarrassment of his hideous nose.
For our third date, Agatha said she wanted to pay separately. And I wouldn’t have readily agreed had I known she also meant she wanted to eat separately too.
I’m on the west coast. I am Lewis and Clark. I am Lewis Clark. Like the time I got a Denver Omelet in Dallas with a girl named Charlotte Washington.
Speeding along I-10 last summer, heading west, I chased the sunset, thinking if I kept up I could extend my day indefinitely, or at least until I hit a major body of water.
