Mel Gibson’s father doesn’t think there was a Holocaust? Great. I don’t think there’s a movie. We’re even.
My body is a temple, and my temple needs redecorating.
My daughter refuses to call me mother in public; my little grandson calls me Spongeslob Squarebottom, and nobody else ever calls me at all.
People are arguing whether Mel Gibson’s “Passion of the Christ” is anti-semitic. Well, whether it is or it isn’t, it doesn’t matter, because I’ve been in touch with his accounting firm, Rosencrantz, Levy and Stern, and they’re screwing him out of his profits.
The psychic scars caused by believing that you are ugly leave a permanent mark on your personality.
They almost had to cancel the Oscars tonight because all of the designers and stylists are still in line in San Francisco trying to marry one another.
Tonight I’ll be interviewing Ken Watanabe, Keisha Castle Hughes, Benecio Del Toro and Djimon Honsou – and yes, those are actors, not caterers.
How to fool yourself into feeling younger: When you go to restaurants, always check a coat and a skateboard.
There is nothing funny about aging: It is rotten and depressing. Anyone who tells you otherwise just hasn’t been paying attention.
Better laid than never.
I’ll lie still for a lot of things – but sex isn’t one of them.
That girl had a great way of making friends, and strangers, and anyone else who was around.
I felt a comedy ego beginning to grow, which gave me the courage to begin tentatively looking into myself for material.
I could stop and live carefully but that’s ridiculous. I don’t want to live carefully.
Happiness, at my age, is breathing.
Never buy a fur from a vegetarian.
A female salmon lays three thousand eggs a year – and has yet to receive a Mother’s Day card from one of them.
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.