To call New York's traffic at holiday time a nightmare is to understate.

I get a kick out of people saying I was funny.

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

Once I left out what I then considered my best line because there was a suspected column rat in the house.

Every time I nostalgically try to regain my liking of John McCain, he reaches into his sleaze bag and pulls out something malodorous.

I don't feel old. I feel like a young man that has something wrong with him.

Every writer knows that unless you were born gifted with either supreme confidence or outsize ego, handing in your work holds, in some cases, admitted terror. If that's too strong, at least fairly high anxiety.