Full House was a show that was done for ten-year-olds. The critics hated it. They said terrible, terrible things about it. But it should have been reviewed by ten-year-olds. That's who it was made for. They loved it. And if they loved it, great. Why the hell does a fifty-year-old guy working at a big newspaper have to tell me I'm a piece of crap?

Apparently my street has a leaf blower gang who tag team all day, so the sounds of the leaf blower are forever blowing from dawn to dusk.

The greatness of a man is only measured by his urologist.

All I've ever done is try to entertain my way through a life that often has a huge amount of heaviness in it.

Paul Riser tells it in an interesting way; he dissects it and tells the structure, you know, 'you don't mention that part here.' But that's what's interesting about it and the people who are absent are interesting too.

I wouldn't hurt a flea. I'd finger a spider though.

Most people argue over who's right, not about what the truth is.