The paramedic called the press and sold me like a loaf of bread. This was news, and he wanted to be the one to report it.

My success rate is 100 percent. Do the math.

I'm tired of pretending like I'm not bitching, a total fricking rock star from Mars...

I have Tiger Blood running through my vains.

I so desperately wanted to be Mr. Somebody. Instead, I was the little brother, included to a point.

I got tiger blood, man. My brain fires in a way that is - I don't know, maybe not from this particular terrestrial realm.

You have this great big fantasy life, and it looks like a non-stop 24/7 party. But what do you do when you get to the end of the Internet and there's nothing left to buy? There's just a picture of Wayne Newton flipping you off.