(http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/ photo by Tor Kristensen)
I get messages from God and I just laugh.
It’s a coping strategy.
I’m writing this with one eye.
Backwards. With my left foot.
And I’m really drunk too.
Guilt is a terrible thing to waste.
Everything you see around you is a message.
What are you doing, Honey?”
“Screwing, Grandma!”
“That’s a good girl, just promise me you won’t smoke.”
We all lay awake at night worrying about stuff.
Into every life a little shit must fall.
You give me everything I need.
A Dutchman with a shoe fetish.
The cat tried to eat this.
Young men today have some kind of literacy problem.
The time has come to speak of many things.
In my day we’d take ‘em out back.
Some guys just don’t listen.
Bow to the inevitable—but twist it to your advantage.
A skeleton fell out of the closet.
You’re trying to tell me you need help.
What are you afraid of?
You have to understand the rules before you can break ‘em.
Pain is reality. Everything else is a cheap imitation.
There’s no such thing as a happy ending.
Respect yourself—if you can.
You get what you pay for.
Control your passions.
Submit and rule.
If I weren’t such an obnoxious dink, I’d have a lot of followers.
The Forrest Gump of angst.
I with I could find someone to look up to.
I eat cougars for breakfast.
No one cares what you think.
I write for the critics.
It’s just theatre.
The disabled want you.
That cynicism runs awful deep.
A paroxysm of creativity.
A shovel full of soap, sir.
When revelation hits, she hits with a bang.
Talk your way out of a wet paper bag.
“How do you like your coffee?”
“Unambiguous.”
Get a mouthpiece.
It’s hot, but, it’s the humidity what kills you.
Crime should be reported.
That way we get better statistics.
Don’t get mad, spin the fuckin’ table.
What are you implying?
Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em.
Chicken Soup for Assholes.
A little boy’s voice crying in the dark, wet forest.
I have nothing better to do than to write for you people.
Promise me you’ll look after each other.
Your momma must have had some sour milk.
As dumb as two sticks.
It don’t mean nothing.
“Stuff it sideways.” – Cicero
LOVE YOUR ENEMIES.
It’s a poem—get over it.
“That was beautiful, baby.” – Cicero.
Paddle backwards, fast—like a politician.
Inside the bishop’s palace.
Pull out the big stick.
Ships and sails, puppy-dog’s tails.
Sealing wax, and cabbages, and kings.
Get it out—get it all out.
When in doubt, improvise, adapt, overcome.
Does this mean we aren’t friends anymore?
I played strip poker with forty penguins.
It’s all about you—right?
That’s the best I can do for right now.
Sorry about all that.
The show is over.
Hickory dickory dock; a mouse ran up my foot.
Come one, come all, one size fits all.
We have something for everyone.
Just do it.
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