Psychiatrist are like mind hookers. Give them 200 dollars and they just screw with your head.
The most powerful person in your life is the one that knows all your secrets and all your lies.
Jealousy – the Auschwitz of emotions.
My dad don’t like lies. He says it hurts people in the long race. He prefers the truth. That hurts them instantly.
Obama says he’s bringing 10,000 troops home. The Republicans are calling it a failed jobs program.
All of Dad’s relationships ended exactly the same: subpoena, beep of a moving van backing up the driveway, pile of his clothes burning on the front lawn.
Texas is a hell hole, man. Dirt, cactus, lizards, dirt, cactus, the Bush family...
Being a parent is a life sentence. From the day that kid is born until the day you die. And then some. Mum, there is nothing to forgive. You gave me life. And, hey, you’re not crazy anymore. Everybody thinks I am. Real funny, mum.
Losing builds character. You know who said that? A loser! Guy who got his ass stomped every day, basketball, football, baseball, lose, lose, lose and lose. All right, I’m talking about me.
Being a teenager is the worst thirty years of your life. Peer pressure, acne, final exams, seven little tiny hairs on your upper lip. Luckily, the girls never noticed your infantile moustache, ’cos they were hyptonised by the fire engine sized zit on your forehead.
When you’re born, you’re pure. Unspoiled and trusting. Some say, it’s the only time we’re perfect. You’re also born covered in blood and placenta. No one gets nostalgic about that.
Satan called – he’s changed the sheets, fluffed the pillows and laid out the complimentary chocolate. Hell is ready for John Edwards.
When you’re born, you’re pure. Unspoiled and trusting. I believed everything and everyone. Then, I met my parents!
My father, never chooses me for anything. Unless he needs a human shield. Thirty years and all I am to him is a hunk of meat to block buck shot. Told you dad needed me. Who’s the best man now?
My father, never chooses me for anything. If you needed a kidney and I offered him mine, well, pfft. Well, he’d take it ’cos he was dying. It’s not that he doesn’t love me, ’cos he does. It’s just that special kind of love that feels like neglect.
Nobody’s really happy. And as soon as society realises that you can’t trust anyone and that hardship is a natural part of existence, the sooner the therapists will realise that they are worthless! Sorry. They have worth deficit disorder!
Sometimes, to help someone you love, you have to commit a felony. But, you don’t want to go to prison for that. Hey, dude, what are you in for? Armed robbery? Murder? And then, you have to say, Love. And, that’s definitely going to get you, you know, picked last for prison kick ball.
How do we help the church get their respect back? I have a plan: pedophile crucifixions.
Anyone look back at their high school career and just shudder at what you got away with and didn’t die?
I have pictures of my daughter, in the hospital, at three seconds, six seconds, nine seconds, and then fifteen seconds, ’cause dumbass couldn’t get the camera ready fast enough. Yeah, ha ha ha. She wrote that in the photo album.