Whenever I'm out of town for at least a week, I feel like I should write a postcard or something, but you can be a genius, you try and write a postcard you come across like a moron anyway: 'This city's got big buildings. I like food. Bye.'

You know, I want to teach, but I don’t want to read?

Now the Thanksgiving meal is just so unnecessarily difficult. I mean even mashed potatoes - it's like the most difficult kind of, you know, medieval idea. All right, instead of just cooking them, why don't you spend, like, eight hours peeling them and then we'll have to mash them up. It feels like prison labor, really.

I've had plenty of friends tell me that their first time doing stand-up, they do well, and then they tank for a while after that. Kind of like the first time you do a drug, you're like, "Huh! This is pretty darn good," and then you spend all your money trying to get the same high.

When our bed is made, it's covered in 40 pillows-like we're stockpiling ammo for the global pillow fight.

I never have free time, I don't know about you. You ever go to the cash machine, there's two people in line in front of you and you get kinda flustered, you're like "Forget it! I'm not standing here for 40 seconds. I got things to do, okay?"

It's not as if ten years ago, we were like, 'I wish I could take low quality photos of my dessert.'