Me winding up as the last man on earth is an unlikely scenario, but an awful lot of women seem to have already thought it through.
Why hang Wanted posters in the post office? We’re not crime-fighting crusaders. We’re buying stamps.
Don’t ask me if I have a safety pin if you’re going to look at me all weird when I pull one out of my pocket and hand it to you.
There should be a “Life of Pi” TV show, where they throw a different D-list celebrity in a boat with a tiger every week.
Yesterday my boss asked why I was tardy and I said, “I don’t think you’re supposed call people that any more.”
Bought a cat collar with a bell on it, and now I can’t sneak up on the cat to put it on her.
I always say “goodbye” to the Wal-Mart greeter, just to close that loop.
They’re not called “butt hole mirrors.” They’re called “hand mirrors,” according to this clerk at Walgreens.
My wife’s been working in our garden for two solid days now. I never realized tomatoes required a big, six-foot-deep hole like that.
Wile E. Coyote’s Amazon reviews of Acme products are pretty scathing.
It’s just a matter of time before they add the word “Syndrome” after my last name.
So, we tip the pizza delivery guy, but not ambulance drivers.
When making small talk at a tweet-up, avoid using the word “fungus.”
Senior sext: CAN YOU READ ME NOW?
Just unfollowed a bunch of people funnier than me. Now my tweets seem, you know, funnier. Tomorrow I unfollow all the good-looking people.