The ultimate act of cowardice is the fat-headed wrestling guy sitting behind the frail kid in math class, clipping him on the ear, saying: 'What are you going to do about that, faggot?' That is cowardice. When the bullets start flying past that jock's saucer-shaped ears, that's not cowardice. That's payback.

Sex is a very narrow avenue. You only have so many holes and parts, and eventually, you run out of things to do.

There’s a fraudulent root element of comedy in that we say things night after night as though they are rolling effortlessly from the brain and off the tongue when in fact they are crafted over weeks and months and years.

If you're going to kill yourself just do me one favor: say it was because of my act. Can you do that? I need the press.

I am a very mediocre intellect, at best, and I am smarter than most people I know - and that terrifies me.

If I were money-motivated, I would spread insidious lies that marijuana is dangerous and addictive and leads to dancing with white women, that your children are at risk of riding that freight train straight into hell or an opium den. Then I'd parlay that fear into a chain of overpriced "rehab" centers that can cure them and shake Satan from their souls. But I am not that ambitious. I am a drunk.

Some people just join the military because they need college money. Then they're idiots and college wasn't going to help.