As a graduate of the Zsa Zsa Gabor School of Creative mathematics, I honestly do not know how old I am.

Let me put it this way. According to my girth, I should be a ninety-foot redwood.

Next to hot chicken soup, a tattoo of an anchor on your chest, and penicillin, I consider a honeymoon one of the most overrated events in the world.

I have paid as much as $300 a night to throw up into a sink shaped like a seashell.

I never leaf through a copy of National Geographic without realizing how lucky we are to live in a society where it is traditional to wear clothes.

As a graduate of the Zsa Zsa Gabor School of Creative mathematics, I honestly do not know how old I am.

My mother phones daily to ask, "Did you just try to reach me?" When I reply no, she adds, "So, if you're not too busy, call me while I'm still alive," . . . and hangs up.