I picked up a hitchhiker. Later on I picked up some common sense and soda. The soda was all-natural, like the hooker from earlier.

He actually caught himself saying things like “Yippee,” as he pranced ridiculously round the house.

If I saw a hitchhiker wearing a tie-dyed shirt, I’d assume he’s been waiting for a ride since the 1960s. I think that kind of patience is groovy.

Roasted Roadkill and Hitchhiker’s Surprise” (this recipe is a secret concoction handed down from my great grandfather to my grandfather, who told it to my dad just before he ran him over).

As a rule of thumb, hitchhiking is no fun. If you’re going to stand around waiting to move, you may as well get paid to hold a pawnshop sign.

A road that’s narrower than the width of my car’s wheels could only be lover’s lane. Hitchhikers make the best lovers.