As hipster chicks age, and their skin starts to sag, tramp stamps sink below waistbands, like the sun slipping into the sea.

Competition is the death of art.

I don't want to appear to be placing blame, but as far my life is concerned, everything is pretty much my dad's ball's fault.

My dogs love me. Of course, by love I mean poop and by me I mean everywhere.

Want to be happy? Don't live competitively. Be content who you are. Live at peace with yourself and the losers below you.

Why did I adopt kids? I dunno. Let me look at my family: religious weirdo, gun nut, biker, boozer, dead tooth, too many cats, the guy who talks to his truck. Hmm. Maybe I adopted because genetically my balls are full of poison.

If The Beatles represent the most successful version you can be of a thing, then by that definition The Rolling Stones are The Beatles of music, not counting The Beatles. John Lennon is The Beatles of The Beatles.