She said, “I’m having the stairs rebuilt,” and I replied, “No need to get sexual with me.” I’m a bring my own elevator kind of lover anyway.

I like knocking on strangers’ doors, and when they answer and say hello, I respond, “I have returned, as prophesied.” Then I just stand there staring at them.

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 want to write the Boston Marathon of run-on sentences. And since it'll be so long, I'll replace all the commas with the word Gatorade, to help push people through it.

If I have to beat you up to keep you safe, that’s just what I’ll do. It’s this kind of regard for others that makes me believe I’d be a good politician.

He had a new girl, and I told him she looked like Marilyn Monroe. He smiled because he thought I meant she was beautiful, and I smiled because I meant she looked like a corpse.

Capitalist cycle of profit. The rancher sells a cow for profit. The butcher sells cuts for profit. The restaurant sells meals for profit. And the patrons spend money for profit.

They should make cell phones that are dishwasher safe. My cup runneth over—especially since both our drinks are in one glass because I’m too lazy to load the shotgun.

The mind, placed before any kind of difficulty, can find an ideal outlet in the absurd. Accommodation to the absurd readmits adults to the mysterious realm inhabited by children.

My kitchen sink has no truck attached. My love needs a waterproof suitcase in these Days of Desert and Dessert. Who are you going to come running to when the Ice Cream Man melts?

An octopus has eight legs. You know what else has eight legs? My bed last night. Oh, I didn’t have a foursome, but I did sleep with six prosthetic legs (I have a bad back).

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.

I like cup holders—in cars, as well as in jockstraps. I would have played football, but the only helmet I had belonged to a bicycle that coach said was illegal on the field.

Squeeze out the competition—with hugs. I’m giving out FREE hugs while samples last. After that I’ll have to charge an arm and a leg—or maybe just two arms.

When you carry a gun, everything starts looking like a sword. If you pass the butter too quickly, I’m likely to shoot you. But even if you attack me, we can still be lovers.