Elizabeth Taylor’s so fat she puts mayonnaise on aspirin.
Two is company; three is fifty bucks.
I’m telling you that at eight she knew more about reproduction than Xerox.
I was my own buddy in camp.
It’s obvious that women are smarter than men. Think about it – diamonds are a girl’s best friend; man’s best friend is a dog.
If you have more than a couple of kids, you’re not parents – you’re hoarders. And hoarding is a disorder, not a gift.
I’m tired of dealing with crazies. When did it become my job to manage your mental illness?
I find that kind of “look at me” narcissism terribly inconsiderate. If you need attention that badly, set yourself on fire.
The act of creation fascinates me. You can only sit with blank page and wait. You cannot press a button, cannot program it.
I hate weddings. Weddings are nothing more than catering with virgins. Sorry, in the old days it was virgins; now it’s baby mommas.
Tyra’s always standing up for herself and her “race” over perceived slights. For example, she’ll say, “You just pushed me because I’m black!” No, I pushed you because the train was coming right at you, you bulimic twit.
I have never learned how to tell somebody something good about myself; that should be a secret they must find out .
Laughing made me feel safe. I was not going to be enveloped by the seediness that coated this world like dust.
Liked” was the kiss of death. “Loved” or “hated” interested him. At least the performer had aroused emotion.
I had a blind date with a dentist – and he told me to come back in six months.
Maybe that is why in my comedy I try and puncture the hypocrisy all around us, why it is almost a crusade with me to strip life down to what really is true.
Humor doesn’t come out of the good times, it comes out of the anger, pain and sorrow. Always the anger.
I hate Arizona. It always eight hundred degrees outside and everybody’s always saying, “But it’s a dry heat!” So’s the inside of my microwave.
When you begin to losing your audience, do not get loud; get quiet, make them find you and come back to you.
I said, “Is there!” I told him there is a Mafia school where they teach them math – if Johnny has ten fingers and they cut off two, how many does he have left?
Somehow, some way, every person in the arts has to find an accommodation with disappointment and embarrassment. They are the pollen in the air we breathe.