“If they’re from Canada, they drive on the wrong side of the road. That’s how you can tell you’re in a foreign country because they drive on the other side”

“You and I have something in common. If we both shaved our heads, you’d look like a fuckin bowling ball with eyes.”

Sometimes I want to spray-paint my feet black and go see my podiatrist, just to see the look on that fucker’s face.

Some people aren’t happy unless they’re experiencing some kind of trauma on a daily basis. For instance, a guy I used to know would go about doing things in the most complicated ways possible. He would make soup, serve it on plates and eat it with chopsticks, bitching about the process the entire time. He would later go insane trying to invent the world’s first silent bicycle horn in hopes that the defunct silent film genre would someday experience a resurrection.

Ok, so maybe it was wrong of me to create a Facebook page for my friend entitled, “Smokey Joe’s Dildo Tonic.” I realize that now. I’ve got a team of two Venezuelen refugees in my basement tirelessly trying to remove all traces of said profile. They’re working hard, but I can’t really guarantee that he won’t become a legend overnight.

Life is a series of experiences. Some of them are planned, but most of them happen seemingly of their own free will with no order or reason. The measure of personal success comes from not how you receive and deal with things, but how you charge forward and cultivate your own experience.

” You sure you want another?”
“Yep. I’m tryin to kill this herpes I got.”
“You know that wont- ah, nevermind.”

She said she wanted to get really hot & heavy. I invited the local chapter of Weight Watchers, and we all sat in the hot tub.

The more my glasses slip down my nose, the more it seems that visible reality slides further away. Maybe I can hang on and tumble all the way down the bunnyhole… Perhaps I should just go to bed and begin the nightly wrestling match with my pillow.

Books you never want to see on the family coffee table:
I’m O.K., You’re O.K., and so is Your Father’s Post-Op Vagina