What a shock that a guy who makes $2 million a week behaves exactly like I would with $2 million a week. As far as I’m concerned, if you make $2 million a week and you don’t have a hooker in your hotel room, you’re creepy and I don’t trust you. And I don’t do drugs at all, so for me it would just be more prostitutes. That’s how they would find me. I would be dead on the floor, flattened by a pile of prostitutes. I’d look like a cat in a hoarders’ house.

You 50 year old one-breasted bag of meat. Just hang it up and be grateful some of your friends are still living.

My whole existence is spent just trying to not shove bad food in my fat face. It's like a constant struggle. I'll do really good for a while, and then I do bad, then I do really good.

I hope you accidentally drink leukemia at a picnic.

They don't tend to feature the kind of vaginas I like in adult films. I tend to like a thick, heavy pussy - the kind of pussy that looks like it just smoked an exploding cartoon cigar.

The funniest people I know always seem to be the ones surrounded by darkness. And that’s probably why they’re the funniest. The deeper the pit, the more humor you need to dig yourself out of it.

There's a trench coat and a tragedy in your future.