Worry is to human beings … what a condom is to a man with erectile dysfunction.

I had sex with a statue a few months ago. The sex was so still that I’m still wearing the condom.

Speaking of which, about assuming you had a condom—I just meant that you, with your experience, would be prepared for responsible sex, even if it were on the fly. An intelligent man is prepared for...

I had a dream about you. A stadium full of children in glowing white robes were singing your name like little angels, and I wondered who you were to be deserving of such praise. Then...

You want me to wear a condom?!

I’ve decided I like making love on rainy days. Ever since she asked me to wear a raincoat.

I make love like I sell sausages to strange women. One at a time, and always covered with a condom (to keep the flies away).

Love is like meatloaf—don’t make it after midnight, unless you’re wearing a condom.

Gloves are condoms for the hands. My bare handshake might impregnate you.

Love is a banana. First you peel it, and then you roll on the condom.

You won’t ever catch me wearing an oven mitt, because what’s wrong with a regular condom? If I’m wearing an oven mitt, I’m too late, because you’ve already got one in the oven.

Riding a bicycle makes you impotent. That’s why I carry a bicycle seat in my pocket—because it’s better than wearing a condom.

I’m so silent I can hardly hear myself think. But that’s why I bought the scissors and the condom.

A blanket could be used to hide my shame and cover my insecurities. But so could a camouflaged condom.

The difference between a retiring man and a used condom is that the condom isn’t given a golden watch to inspire the illusion that it still matters to whomever that has just used it.

Would it make you more comfortable if I wore a condom while I shook your hand? I could wear it on my penis, or stretch it over my hand. I don’t know these things. I’m...