Did you ever have one of those days where you feel like a tired, old whore whose uterus is about to fall out? I think I’m in touch with that emotion.

There are some images you don’t want floating around your pretty little head. Trust me, it’s like a Mapplethorpe shoot in there, except with less cock.

And you’re no Brett fucking Ratner. But that could be a compliment, and in that case, I didn’t mean to.

You have a dog named Cat Stevens? Holy fuck!

“Life is complicated, man.” That’s what you got?

Once upon a time, I wrote a book. People seemed to dig it, so I wrote another and one after that. That’s when Hollywood came knocking at my back door. As soon as I cashed that check, I wrapped my lips around the mighty erection that is the film industry and sucked hard, just like a good whore should. Unfortunately, I had to be taught not to orphan the balls.

It’s a “broner”. The word I’m looking for. Unintentionally man-inspired boner… broner. Duly noted. Broner!

Don’t look a gift piece of overpriced pop art in the mouth.

Good morning, Hell-A. In the land of the lotus-eaters, time plays tricks on you. One day you’re dreaming, the next, your dream has become your reality. It was the best of times. If only someone had told me. Mistakes were made, hearts were broken, harsh lessons learned. My family goes on without me, while I drown in a sea of pointless pussy. I don’t know how I got here. But here I am, rotting away in the warm California sun. There are things I need to figure out, for her sake, at least. The clock is ticking. The gap is widening. She won’t always love me “no matter what”

Honey, to quote The Clash, should I stay or should I rock the Casbah?