A blanket could be used to express my condolences. I’m sorry to have to tell you I’m sorry, but that’s life, you know?


A brick could be used to sell tickets to a new sport called Glurping. If you think it sounds disgusting now, wait until you see it live!


A blanket could be used to warn your enemy that you are coming—and that you are warm. Where’s the cold war when you need it?


A blanket could be used to lure politicians to your side of an issue. Which is your side? Easy—the side I’m not sleeping on.


I want to lose weight by eating nothing but moon pies, which have significantly less gravity than earthier foods such as fruits and vegetables.

77 degrees in the fall feels cold, and 77 degrees in the spring feels hot. That’s why I’m selling year-round-nudity for half-price.

A brick could be used for pressing grapes into wine, and a magician could then cover up that wine with a blanket and turn wine into water.


A brick could be used as a Red Beard Replacement, for those of us who can’t grow facial hair, but desire the respect a beard brings.


He’s as tall as a tree, but he fights like a rose bush. What’s with all the scratching? I should cut him down in the name of romance.

A blanket could be used to cover up Jude McNude. But despite his last name, he isn’t nude, merely cold. No, I’m the naked one.


I love the sound of the trees in the breeze. If the forest is so clearly musical, why can’t it play the guitar while I sing Nirvana covers?

A blanket could be used to attract a potential mate. I’ve already got my mate. I bought her in a mannequin store (she was on sale). 


A brick can’t cure cancer. But who knows, maybe a brick combined with a blanket could. I’ll have to ask Dr. Burzynski about it.


A brick could be thrown, like a football, only instead of a wide receiver, I’d recommend sending out a politician to catch your pass.


A blanket could be used to feed the homeless. I mean warm the coldless. I mean coldsome. I wouldn’t know, because I’m homefull.