My girlfriend does her nails with white-out. When she’s asleep, I go over there and write misspelled words on them.
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.