The phone book shouldn’t be arranged alphabetically, but by height. Guess how tall my love for you is. That’s right—taller than Goliath!

If love had feathers and tasted like dog food, then I suggest you wear shoes with your banana pudding. (This statement also defines my political beliefs).

Instead of a Lemonade Stand, I should open up a “You know what I can’t stand?” Stand. I’ll sell rants in small, medium, and large.

In middle school, I got picked on a lot. But boy, it sure felt good to get picked, because who doesn’t like to get chosen and called out as special?

Knocking on a door is so violent. Instead, try talking to the door to get it to open up to you. I should write a self-help book for door-to-door salesmen.

I bought a faucet, but water wasn’t included. That’s like when you buy my love—it’s dirty and used, but soap isn’t included.

The schizophrenic in the sleeping bag with a live chicken and a can of tomato soup spilling onto the sidewalk had no right to steal my street performance.

My bedroom is a fridge with a window, because I can’t sleep unless it’s cold. I cuddle like warm meatloaf, but hardly ever with warm meatloaf.

I’m hungry but I won’t order 18 tubs of ketchup and a spoon. No, I’ll order it because I’m thirsty, and I’ll ask for a straw.

I want to meet and marry a girl with the same last name as me, so I can show how modern and feminist I am by taking on her last name after marriage.


I make love like a stampede of camels running down the hallway of the 14th floor of a hotel. That’s also known as hyperbole—and the 13th floor.

I’ll make birthday to you like turkey on wheat. Hold the mayonnaise—and hold me tightly. My love candle burns bright for you like a black hole.

I knew something was there, precisely because I hadn’t found anything and the space seemed empty. That’s also how I’m searching for love.

I did a finger painting today, and you can hardly even see my brushstrokes. Similarly, when we make love, you won’t even notice that I’m there.

What if guns shot clouds, rather than bullets? Then they’d not only be peaceful, but they’d be delayed water guns. Is there a Nobel Farm Prize?