Couples should be able to share their dreams with one another. That’s why for just $69.69, you’ll like what I have to sell you. It’s not just one tube and two suction cups you each attach to your foreheads—it’s the Dream Tunnel.


My closet’s so full of memories and fearful homosexuals that I have nowhere to hang my clothes. Well, that and I don’t know how to tie a noose. I’m making meatloaf on a stick if you want to come over later and help me prosecute my entire wardrobe.

You know what’s a chain reaction? The direct relationship between how fast I pedal, and how fast my bicycle travels. I’m the kind of lover who notices the small details, like the fact that my bike has no brakes and I’m rapidly approaching a cliff.

Rachel got up and did this happy little shuffle, like she was some cheerful farmer chick who'd just stepped outside to find the hick she was in love with coming up the road with a calf under his arm or whatever.Why was she dancing? No reason.Just alive, I guess.

I killed a man for his shoes, and then I realized his feet were much smaller than mine. So I walked around barefoot for a week, in honor of a man who died a senseless death. What a tragedy he didn’t wear larger shoes, so that his death could have meant something.

We made love like two kangaroos arguing over the cargo capacity of a purse on sale. But I said, “No—it’s less money, yes, but it’s also less space than we need.” Whatever we do when we do it, we must remember that we do it for the children.

Remember the Hottentots?" asked James. "They've become the Khoi now, which means that the Germans will have to retire that wonderful word of theirs, Hottentotenpotentatenstantenattentater, which means, as you know, one who attacks the aunt of a Hottentot potentate.

I've knitted myself a hat, it's plum red with an appealing lace pattern, I figured that a few air holes would be nice now that it's spring. I put it on and feel like a cranberry in the snow, and I wonder if they can see me from the moon. Me and the Great Wall.

A stranger to myself and to the world, armed solely with a thought that negates itself as soon as it asserts, what is this condition in which I can have peace only by refusing to know and to live, in which the appetite for conquest bumps into walls that defy its assaults?

I want to hire someone to stand outside my door and knock three times, with each knock being three years apart. At the end of the nine years I’ll reply, “Who is it?” And without delay or reply, the person on the other side of the door is to find a new job.

I cover my bedroom windows with tinfoil, because it keeps out the morning sun, and it makes it seem like I’m living on a spaceship. Neil Armstrong once called me to learn how to walk on the path of love, and I told him, “One giant leap, followed by one small step.

If somebody were to ask me what it means to me to be American, I'd respond, "It's like eating scrambled eggplant with a dozen 1969 moons sunny side up at noon." If they asked me to clarify, I'd respond, "It feels like I'm just one of 300 million empty stomachs.

I was the captain of the latent paranoid softball team. We used to play all the neurotics on sunday morning. Nailbiters against the bedwetters, and if you've never seen neurotics play softball, it's really funny. I used to steal second base, and feel guilty and go back.

I turned on my faucet, and out slithered a clear garden snake. It was too cold to shave with, so I grew out a beard and patch of broccoli. Sometimes my love is liquid, and sometimes it’s foggy enough to steam broccoli, or facial hair if you don’t like eating vegetables.

[Waiting for Godot] has achieved a theoretical impossibility—a play in which nothing happens, that yet keeps audiences glued to their seats. What's more, since the second act is a subtly different reprise of the first, he has written a play in which nothing happens, twice.