Love is a fur helmet in a new sport called Petting, where physical contact is the object of the game. Even when you lose, you win.

The fastest I’ve ever fallen in love is 17 miles per hour. But I was safe, because I was wearing a bicycle helmet at the time.

I listen to helloes at 65 MPH. Anything faster is just asking for a goodbye. I’m too love and in young to do anything but drink coffee out of a helmet, while wearing a helmet....

I eat footballs, and I shit touchdowns. And I always wear a helmet when I make love.

I wear a helmet when I write, because if you’re doing it right, writing is dangerous.

A car crash could be considered art, and I’d like to install one in a museum. Helmets would be sold at the admission booth.

Should I take off my helmet before I make love? I’d better not, because my bicycle’s breaks are worn out.

Dinner for two—plus one.

Do they make chin straps with knives attached? If they do, I need one. You can never have too much safety—especially when falling in love today requires wearing a helmet.

I have a 12:34 representational time dance. I do it at 3:33 every other Tuesday (twice a day). If you’d like to participate in my choreographed dance routine, bring a football helmet and a half...