Eugene’s got a fake ID, and he actually gets away with using it because he looks like he’s thirty-six, thanks to his devotion to tasseled shoes and his ridiculous carpet of chest hair.

I have hair on my chest. And it’s purring.

If my chest grew cat hair, I wouldn’t know whether to pluck it or pet it.

If I were hairy, would you vacuum my chest before we made love? I’d probably have enough chip crumbs in it to feed the homeless, because I’m a charitable kind of guy.

To forgive is Godly. To begrudge is manly. I don’t even have any chest hair, so you know where I stand.