I always said that I wouldn't use a teleprompter, and if I start to sing real flat, I'll hang it up.
My head hurts, my feet stink, and I don't love Jesus. It's that kind of morning.
Bryl-cream, a little dab will do you.
When reality looks too ugly, fantasize.
There's a strange sense of pleasure being beat to hell by a storm when you're on a ship that is not going to sink.
There's a little bit of fruitcake left in everyone of us.