Don’t sell yourself short—sell yourself medium, because it’s taller. Did you know my love is refillable? For just .99 cents.

I meet people to know I’m not alone, and I network like an astronaut on the moon. Tom James is the Neil Armstrong of #Networking.


We're the new power, come to replace the old. Cameras in the head, children with microchips, spin doctors rewriting reality as it happens.

I leave my door locked and unlocked. You know, for stopportunities. As a lover, I’ve been known—and unknown—to be like Zeno.

My friends call me Two Socks Kintz. They used to call me Barefoot Orafoura, but then someone gave me some socks. That was mighty kind of them.

I used to sell hellos by the wave until I found out Dark Jar Tin Zoo was reselling them on eBay as goodbyes. Now I’m a yawn distributor.

Which half do you want me to cut in half, Mr. Halfofhalf?
The name’s Onequarter. Johnny Onequarter. And don’t you forget it.

Her love was like cigarette smoke stirred into coffee. I drank it so fast it made me cough, but she’s not offering a refill at any price.

I’ve changed, and she’s changed, but we haven’t changed together. We were in separate dressing rooms the whole time we dated.

I can smell a whisper from two secret admirers away. Of all the Men’s rooms, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into this one.

77 degrees in the fall feels cold, and 77 degrees in the spring feels hot. That’s why I’m selling year-round-nudity for half-price.

I am an elevator in a one-story building. I am ascending. But my love for you is still on the ground floor, waiting for you to push the button.

My love is ripe for the peaching. Let me make Georgia to you all night long—and if I have the endurance, maybe even up to South Carolina.

They should make suitcases shaped like human bodies, for discretely transporting dead cadavers. And I should get a friends and family discount.

If mannequins had mustaches, I feel there’d be more love in the world. I’ve recently started growing my own vegetables and clothes.