That's what Glocks are. High-precision killing machines that scream "Daddy Issues.

If his drunkenness had legs, it would be Alexander the Great and conquer the known world. Then it would puke for a week into a solid gold toilet it stole from Zeus's guest room.

The place looks like where David Lynch would meet Beaver Cleaver's mom for secret afternoons of bondage and milkshakes.

The ashes of your existence will fertilize the soil for the universe to follow.

When you jump off a cliff, is it better to land on jagged rocks or burning lava? I know this one. The answer is obvious: It doesn't matter where you land. You just jumped off a cliff.

I'm steel-toed boots in a ballet-slipper world.

No wonder Sherlock Holmes did all that coke. Math is hard.