I asked possible witnesses about the invisible man shaped like a whisper, and nobody saw or heard anything. Which means he was there, and he is probably my father.
I want to go to Martha’s Vineyard. I have an aunt named Martha. And an uncle by that name. Neither one is related to me.
I’d rather fake my own fog, than fake a steamy love scene. Can I interest you in some mist? It’s homemade.
Love is like a zebra refereeing a football game. I should know, because I am the rodeo cowboy riding that zebra.
I make an H2O alternative with my armpits. I left you a ten-gallon sample in your car, as a going away gift.
If I knew what you’d do, exactly when you knew what you’d do, then I’d either be you or I’d be God. And we both know I’m not you.
For me, a website would be user friendly if it gave me a handjob. It’d be doubly impressive if it were also a porn site, or government regulation compliance site.
And out came an insult with the velocity of a whisper. But I could see I offended, so I zipped up my pants and left the wedding reception.
Learning how to love is like learning how to tie your shoes, and that’s precisely why I wear slippers.
I feel like the boy who cried wolf, even though I know even less about politics.
It’s still masturbation if your clone gives you a hand job. It’s also a lot like being a member of Congress.
His first name is Brooks, but his last name isn’t. His last name is Wrinkled, unlike his shirt (he isn’t wearing one).
I went to school to be a comedian. I was always cracking jokes in class. And after they were cracked, the teacher would try to put them back together.
I remember the good old days. You must remember the good old days, because they were the days with the long white beards.
I’ll bet if I write a sentence and mention the word “edit,” people will slow down and scour my words for errors. Did it wrok?
Best surprise ever.” I whispered in his face. Then I leaned in and kissed him hard and deep like it was the last kiss I’d ever get. “Wrong darlin’, best hello ever.” He grinned
The more she tried to recapture the impulse that had set her wanting to put pen to paper, the less it seemed to have ever existed in the first place.
Gina always believed there was magic in the world. "But it doesn't work in the way it does in fairy tales," she told me. "It doesn't save us. We have to save ourselves.
The knowledge worker cannot be supervised closely or in detail. He must direct himself toward performance and contribution
All that pent up longing,” he says, “all that desire to flail and flap around. Them wings have needs.
I’m afraid of my shadow, and my shadow’s afraid of the light. That’s why Noon is my best friend, and I hang out with him at midnight.
