As the poet said, 'Only God can make a tree,' probably because it's so hard to figure out how to get the bark on.
Basically my wife was immature. I'd be at home in the bath and she'd come in and sink my boats.
Eternal nothingness is fine if you happen to be dressed for it.
His lack of education is more than compensated for by his keenly developed moral bankruptcy.
How can I believe in God when just last week I got my tongue caught in the roller of an electric typewriter?
How is it possible to find meaning in a finite world, given my waist and shirt size?
I am not afraid of death, I just don't want to be there when it happens.
I believe there is something out there watching us. Unfortunately, it's the government.
I don't believe in the after life, although I am bringing a change of underwear.
I don't want to achieve immortality through my work ... I want to achieve it through not dying.