He is not drunk, who from the floor, can rise and stand and shout for more

Tonight's December thirty-first, something is about to burst. The clock is crouching, dark and small, like a time bomb in the hall. Hark, it's midnight, children dear. Duck! Here comes another year!

I hope my tongue in prune juice smothers, If I belittle dogs and mothers.

Middle-age is when you're sitting at home on a Saturday night and the telephone rings and you hope it isn't for you.

Commitments the voters don't know about can't hurt you.

There once was an umpire whose vision Was cause for abuse and derision He remarked in surprise, 'Why pick on my eyes? It's my heart that dictates my decision.'

To Tom Carlson or his dog-depending on whose taste it best suits.