She burst in the door, I burst into song, and he burst into flames. Our love triangle turned into dinner for two featuring roasted marshmallows.
Youth, I didn’t want that illness. Luckily I recovered just in time for middle age. Now I can focus on more important things, like love, a relationship, and my upcoming existential crisis.
I’ll bet you make love like an orca whale sings opera. How do you make love? Bjork Orca asked me. Like an orca whale sings opera, only with more wetness, more shattered glass, and less boredom.
I’ll make birthday to you like turkey on wheat. Hold the mayonnaise—and hold me tightly. My love candle burns bright for you like a black hole.
I knew something was there, precisely because I hadn’t found anything and the space seemed empty. That’s also how I’m searching for love.
Love is like breakfast with Mildred. Who’s Mildred? How the heck should I know? I don’t eat breakfast.
My love is pizza shaped. Won’t you have a slice? It’s circular, so there’s enough to go around.
Francis Bacon has the most delicious last name ever, followed closely by Johnny Scrambledeggs. I make love like those two guys make breakfast out of family reunions.
I had a dream about you. We almost made love in the produce section of your local grocery store, but when I asked if you brought protection, you told me you’d forgotten the coupons at home.
Nine times out of ten I left one out. But the one I leave out is never love. I always put love in—even when I put it in your butt.
My toothpaste tastes like baloney, so I brush my teeth with wheat bread.
Guess what flavor my love is, and what kind of mechanical apparatus I use to make it.
My love is meatloaf flavored. I just wish my meatloaf was also meatloaf flavored.
My wooden love is being eaten my termites. Romance in action.
Whiskey burns—my throat, not a forest. Love burns—my heart, not a forest. As for the forest, it burnt itself. At least that’s what I told the police during their interrogation.
Love is two spirits occupying one bottle of spirit. You’ve got to be 21 to drink of me.
My love was green—new and alive. Her love was red—full stop. Occasionally and cautiously we’d meet in the middle at yellow.
I figured out why I have such big hands. It’s to hold all the love I have to offer the world. So don’t get mad at me when I make you bring in all the groceries, because my hands are already full.
I shaved my pubic hair, glued it on a wig, and declared it art. No museum was willing to exhibit it. I should have sprinkled cheddar cheese on top and called it An Ode To Love.