I’ll bet I could find some hurtful words in a pile of sticks and stones. Something like an insincere and deceptive “I love you.

A fish called Gilbert. But I just call him Gil to save some breath, so I can spend more time underwater petting him like I used to do to grandpa before he drowned.

I can see myself in my teacher’s eyes. I look like a pupil.

#Networking is people looking for people looking for people. As for me, I’m more of a birdwatcher.

What is life without death? That’s like asking what is peanut butter without jelly? Or a baseball game on TV and changing the channel? Or government without taxes? Actually, I like those last two.

There’s fool’s gold—pyrite—and then there’s fool’s gold—gold owned by idiots willing to trade it for worthless dollars.

Son, I’m dying,” where I visualize the day my estranged dad calls me out of the blue to tell me he is dying, and in as many ways as possible I’ll offer up various responses...

You’re first place in my heart. And here’s a second-place ribbon from my third grade shuttle run to prove it. I’ve kept it all these years to remind myself that I’m a winner.

My #love stories have happy endings, because I stop the tales before dejection, dementia, and death occur.

She made my heart melt, like butter. I loved her over a juicy corn on the cob.

I heard God in the silence. I recognized his voice precisely because it was inaudible.

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.

Men are the fleas in the gray beard of God, and I’m just itching to meet Him.

Sometimes I feel like I’m living in my father’s shadow. But then he takes a few steps, or bends down to stretch his back, and I get to enjoy the sunlight for a few moments.

A woman I had sex with is carrying my child, because God has made it so that my hands are full. They’re full of hope for the future.

Love is a feel-good feeling, like feeling a cat’s fur while my hair is on fire and my grandpa is reciting the pledge of allegiance while staring at my star-spangle-bannered boxers.

When I was a little boy, I used to work in a sweatshop. We made deodorant.

Witty sayings don’t grow on bumpers the way babies do. I was raised by a single rush hour.

This is my logo for Bethany

I am the Magic Chicken of Desire. Just add water. And a brick and a blanket.

We’ll make plans on sticky notes and we’ll stick to them. We’ll get married, but only after we buy some milk, cereal, and a book of baby names.

Coffee is the anti-sleep, and I drink it like I eat ice, because I’m thirsty—and hungry for alertness.

A blanket could be used to attract a potential mate. I’ve already got my mate. I bought her in a mannequin store (she was on sale).

Like a pair of dead batteries, I felt energized. Love is the light in my Can of Darkness.

The best part about being kidnapped is being blindfolded and getting kicked into the trunk of a car. Boy, normally I have to beg my friends to treat me that well.

A blanket could be used as a Portable Night Generator. Just stretch it over your head, blocking your eyes from the sun in the sky, and voila! Nighttime.

My first inclination is to make my business all about me, but my second instinct is to make my business all about everyone else, because everyone else is where all the money is at.

Nothing is and isn’t; nothing is and isn’t—nothing itself is, and at the same time, nothing isn’t.

A blanket could be used as a TV screen. How? No—why? Even better—why not? Why not wrap yourself up in your favorite TV shows and let the screen warm your body and soul?

Money’s a tool, like a wrench, and until I make more I need to tighten my belt.

I want a trophy wife. I’ll keep her on the shelf next to my future Nobel peace prize. (I plan on inventing a gun that shoots love, not bullets.)

A blanket could be used to stop terrorism. Unless that terrorist has a small knife, or really sharp teeth, and is able to chew through the cloth separating him from our American freedom.

I look like a million bucks, but I feel like shit. Thanks, inflation!

After a long day of screaming at the trees, I smell like a skyscraper. Would you care to ride on my elevator shaft?

A blanket could be used to mimic the mating call of my crumpled-up clone. Isn’t silence seductive?

I’m two quarters the way to having 50 cents. That’s right, I have one quarter. But I’m also one quarter in love, and I feel rich!

Mainstream news wants to keep you as a useful idiot. Instead, try being a non-useful idiot.

A brick is a duplicate. It is a physical copy of the idea for a brick. And what’s the big idea? A brick represents unity, a notion of hey, let’s build something together. Like a...

Love is the walrus I crayon with like it’s the Eifel Tower. I know, love doesn’t make much sense to me, either.

We were in Paris. We were in love. We were with other people at the time and wouldn’t even meet for two years.

I put out the Greg Call, which sounds like a whistle-quack, and a few dozen Toms responded. The only time I need a Tom is tomorrow.

I saw her from across the room, and I knew I was in love. I also knew why I’d seen no urinals, as I was clearly in the wrong bathroom.

I keep my love in the fridge, next to my meat, because you simply can’t beat it.

A brick could be used to say hi to Pink Floyd.

There’s lots of love in Ocala. Must be something in the water. That’s probably why I have to pee so much.

Love is an empty bottle, and it makes my heart thirsty thinking how fast I chugged it

A blanket could be used as a bathtub tarp, keeping all the body’s heat in, and the police’s and murder victim’s wife’s eyes out.

I’m like a sexually active bumper sticker. Canned vagina is always so hard to open and eat. Honk if you’re a lover—and in a hurry.

I am the Guillotine of Love, and I will never lose my head over another woman again.

A brick could be used as a pillow, if you first wrap it with a blanket. But if you’re shivering from being cold, don’t worry—I’ll cover you with my naked body.