I have a paper cut from writing my suicide note. It’s a start...
The early bird gets the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese.
Why is it lemon juice contains mostly artificial ingredients but dishwashing liquid contains real lemons?
Why buy a product that it takes 2000 flushes to get rid of?
One day a guy tried to rob me on the street, and I had no money. So I charged him.
Why do we put suits in a garment bag and put garments in a suitcase?
Very rarely do I talk off the top of my head on stage. I’m not an improv guy. I’m a writer-guy who presents what he’s written.
How come abbreviated is such a long word?
Isn’t Disney World a people trap operated by a mouse?
Comedians are sociologists. We’re pointing out stuff that the general public doesn’t even stop to think about, looking at life in slow-motion and questioning everything we see.
I don’t go off and sit down and try to write material, because then it’s contrived and forced. I just live my life, and I see things in a word or a situation or a concept, and it will create a joke for me.
I’m standing behind a wall of jokes. You don’t know about my personal life, my girlfriends, or what I do when I’m not on the road. There’s this guy, this comedian, and this is how he thinks, but people really don’t know anything about me.
I love eating chocolate cake and ice cream after a show. I almost justify it in my mind as, ‘You were a good boy onstage and you did your show, so now you can have some cake and ice cream.’
Whatever happened to preparations A through G?
Why do they sterilize needles for lethal injections?
I’m actually writing a short story about a photographer who went completely insane trying to take a close up photo of the horizon.
So I figured I’d leave the area, because I had no ties there anyway except for this girl I was seeing. We had conflicting attitudes: I really wasn’t into meditating and she wasn’t really into being alive. I told her I knew when I was going to die because my birth certificate has an expiration date.
I donated my body to science... fiction.
The other day I... uh, no, that wasn’t me.
I just found out I have an IQ of 208, and I don’t know what that means.
Harold under his breath: “Ms. Yuka, I would love to kiss the backs of your legs while you were in line in a bank.