You go ahead. I'd rather not be shot out of a tube into a pool filled with a bunch of nine-year-olds' urine.

Before I proposed to my now-wife, I was understandably nervous. My father suggested that I take stock of all of my experiences and relationships with women, from my earliest memories to present day, and see if I had learned anything that might inform my decision.

If it's not bourbon or sweatpants, it's going in the garbage.... No, don't get creative. Now is not a creative time. Now is a bourbon and sweatpants time.

Oh spare me, being stuck in your bedroom is not like prison. You don't have to worry about being gang-raped in your bedroom.

When it's asshole-tightening time, that's when you see what people are made of. Or at least what their asshole is made of.

[The] majority of the girls working there had major emotional problems. And not cries-too-much emotional problems; more like stabs-her-boyfriend-with-a-steak-knife-then-falls-into-a-corner-and-starts-whispering-to-herself emotional problems.

There is no definitive guidebook on how to pick the right partner, and even if there were, I'm way too dumb to write it.