Basically I wake up in the morning and I think everything's going to be great. I'm really kind of optimistic, and I look forward to a new day. I pick up 'The New York Times,' and I look at the front page and realize that once again I'm wrong. I start to fixate on stuff.

I would like to play Pebble Beach at some point. I keep waiting for them to call and ask me to that little pro-am thing, but I'm not big enough.

Johnny Vassilaros is the man who has created the finest cup of coffee ever served in the city of New York.

I don't care who wins because I go to sporting events to scream. It's the one place on the planet you can shout anything you want. You can bellow at will, and nobody will bother you. I yell things like, 'My life sucks! Dan Quayle is a schmuck! If I don't have sex soon, I'm going to explode!' Parents turn to their kids as I leave the stadium and go, 'Hey, there goes a great fan.

On the plane was a Time magazine and there was a 30 page article on diabetes, and I read every page. By the time that plane landed, I had diabetes.

See... What I felt they should have done, for our first public works project, is build a giant wall... across the entire border of Canada. Because that's where the cold air comes from.

It's 'Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon, except there's just one degree, and Kevin Bacon is Hitler. Can I play? Let's see. Mother Teresa had a mustache. Hitler had a mustache. Mother Teresa is Hitler!