There’s truth and honor in a mustache. And that’s why I started flying one on the flagpole outside of my house.

A blanket could be used as a warm topping on a hamburger, sort of like processed cheese, only tastier and healthier.


A brick could be used to smash my bottled up rage, and a blanket could be laid down beforehand to catch the shards. 


A blanket could be used to reveal hidden mysteries. Quick, get naked and get under, and I will illuminate the night.


A blanket could be used to confuse and disorient. Think of it not as a bed adornment, but as a really big blindfold. 


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

A blanket could be used to express my feelings towards her. You see, I’m not tired—but I am tired of her.


Sleeping in a tinfoil suit keeps me warmer and helps prepare me for my voyage to the moon. Would you care for some licorice?

I want to write my own eulogy, and I want to write it in Latin. It seems only fitting to read a dead language at my funeral.

A blanket could be used to cover my couch. Nobody should see that I constructed my sofa on the bones of my ancestors.


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.

A brick could be used as a child’s game to improve memory. I forgot how exactly, but then I never played much. 


A brick could be used to enhance your social status. Just affix it to the hood of your car, like a Mercedes ornament.


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.

A brick could be used to crush the Fruit of Desire and make the Juice of Destiny. Drink it before I lose my erection.