If you don't have a job, you don't have a fear of losing it. You fear having to get one.

Instead, we were given a publication called the Weekly Reader, which was like a newspaper for four-foot illiterates.

If you can't swim, the idea of being in nine feet of water is terrifying, much less the ocean.

Sometimes I think that the amount of time you live on earth is just an inverse reflection of how good you were in a previous existence. For example, infants who die from SIDs were actually great people when they were alive for real, so they get to go to heaven after a mere five weeks in purgatory. Meanwhile anyone Willard Scott ever congratulated for turning one hundred two was obviously a terrible individual who had many many previous sins to pay for and had to spend a century in his or her own unknown purgatory even though the person seemed perfectly wholesome in this particular world.

It was the kind of love you can only feel toward someone you don't actually know.

We all eventually become whatever we pretend to hate.

Everybody is wrong about everything, just about all the time.