Writing jokes for others is like having babies for someone else. It's sad. Like the woman who gives up her baby but needs to be close so she secretly becomes the maid in the household.

You know what I hate? Indian givers... no, I take that back.

I was walking home one night and a guy hammering on a roof called me a paranoid little weirdo. In morse code.

I told my wife she looks sexy with black fingernails. Now she thinks I slammed the car door on her hand on purpose.

My parents were very protective. I couldn't even cross the street without them getting all excited, and placing bets.

I thought I was raptured up into the air today; turns out, it was just my gas oven exploding.

Christmas seems to start earlier and earlier every year. Like, this time, it's on December 25th.