Authors of light pieces have, nobody knows why, a genius for getting into minor difficulties: they walk into the wrong apartments, they drink furniture polish for stomach bitters, they drive their cars into the prize tulip beds of haughty neighbors, they playfully slap gangsters, mistaking them for old school friends.

Last night I dreamed of a small consolation enjoyed only by the blind: Nobody knows the trouble I've not seen!

It's a naive domestic Burgundy without any breeding, but I think you'll be amused by its presumption.

Why do you have to be a nonconformist like everybody else?

The laughter of man is more terrible than his tears, and takes more forms -hollow, heartless, mirthless, maniacal.

Humor is emotional chaos remembered in tranquility.

The Old Man ain’t afraid of hell