The term 'working mother' is redundant.

It is my theory you can't get rid of fat. All you can do is move it around, like furniture.

The woman who says, 'My kids are all speaking to one another and they love us' is a psychopathic liar.

It takes an uncommon amount of guts to put your dreams on the line.

House guests should be regarded as perishables: Leave them out too long and they go bad.

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.

Humorists can never start to take themselves seriously. It's literary suicide.