Marching Bands Are Just Homeless Orchestras (5 page)

I didn’t have to chew my leg off to get out of that boring meeting, but doing so certainly sent a strong message.

That Indian dinner was so authentic I think I hate Pakistan.

Screw the Mayan calendar. This Dilbert desk calendar speaks of nothing beyond December 31, 2010.

We need some new mythological creatures. I propose: Scentofawomantaur. Half Al Pacino, half horse. Speaks in hoo-ahs. Nonsequitaur. Half man, half horse, half-grilled cheese sandwich.

I want to live to see great-grandchildren. But instead of taking care of myself, I’ll just push my kids to get married at 9.

The monogrammed initials on your cuffs have foiled my plans to kill you and wear your shirt. Well played, sir.

My wife and daughters are sick while I feel fine. It occurs to me that flu immunity might be tied to sports trivia knowledge.

One thing this bad economy can’t take away from me is the simple joy of eating raw diamonds.

I’m at that point on a huge writing project where I ponder disguises and fake passports.

Now might be a good time to put money in the stock market. I would, but I lost all my money in the stock market.

I don’t crave being driven around in outlandishly long automobiles anymore. Thank you, limousine patch.

My oldest daughter is now a teenager. I’ve prepared for this day by preemptively hating myself for the last 40 years.

To prevent cabin fever, I’m having my doctor inject me with a small amount of microscopic cabins.

My neighbors are stealing my Wi-Fi. I’m changing the password as soon as I get out from under their bed.

Congress is attacking the evil on Wall Street while completely ignoring the nightmare on Elm Street.