I am always shocked that there are still a handful of defenders of the dubious practice of abstinence, surely the worst idea since chocolate-covered ants.

I'm not sure why writing for others became harder. Probably a reluctance to give away anything you might conceivably use yourself caused a block. I did it, but it remained hard when it had once been easy.

By the time I was in the fourth grade, I sounded exactly like my father on the phone.

Perhaps the saddest irony of depression is that suicide happens when the patient gets a little better and can again function sufficiently.

The mob became unruly and the police were forced to resort to sex.

I haven't ever found any great writing on that wonderful and often unappreciated art form, the insult.

My IQ is somewhere between Spiro Agnew's and Albert Einstein's.