Love is the walrus I crayon with like it’s the Eifel Tower. I know, love doesn’t make much sense to me, either.

There is something beautiful about watching two people lovingly act silly together; behaving as though no one else existed.

Yesterday I shat rainbows until my anus started bleeding from a unicorn’s horn. 
Ah, the joys of being in love.

My love for her is as nuanced as a Nancy, and I wish her name were Nancy so I could more effectively convey my love for her.

I just yawned. Now that is exciting. Almost as thrilling as making love to me thirty minutes after I’ve fallen asleep.

Somebody left a pair of baby shoes on a bench. I would have taken them home, if only they weren’t too big for my feet.

Oh don’t be such a fuss pot,” said the fairy, “or I’ll call you Fussy Pants, instead of Silly Pants!

When I’m old and I brush my teeth and her dentures, I’ll smile because that is love—and that is disgusting.

Your unborn children cry in your testicles. I can hear them when you masturbate. Your mother loves me more than she loves you.

My mustache can be your toothbrush for the one-time low cost of $1.23. Each mustoothbrush is made from 100% recycled material.

You promoted me for my ruthless stubbornness and dog-headed determination, not my tech savvy. Plus, I’m a damn good shot.

I wish my nipples spiraled around and could play records. I could spin love songs while you made love to me like you were a DJ.

If I told you I’ve worked hard to get where I’m at, I’d be lying, because I have no idea where I am right now.

The best part about falling in love with a slab of meatloaf is now I get to use my ketchup-dispensing backpack when making love.

I’ll carry Carrie like my hands are full of empty. But at least my heart is full. But not with love—with cholesterol.