“Maybe I’ll make a huge color tapestry from my belly button lint.”

Not any specific one, but I was a huge fan of Frank Jacobs, I guess he wrote the plurality of the song parodies for MAD, Sam Hart, a few others, but that was also where I was first exposed to the art form of song parodies.

People that were a little nerdy in high school would look up to me and know it gets better.

About four or five months ago, at a dinner in New York, John made the very nice offer of my being guest editor for an issue of MAD and I thought about it for about half a nanosecond and decided that was a pretty good idea.

Now with internet culture it seems like everyone is doing music parodies. And they’re not all good!

My brothers and sisters hated me because I was an only child.

Not only are they just great, nice guys; they’re some of the best musicians you’re likely to find.

So then why get upset if somebody like me Tries to look at the world just a bit differently?

What kind of morons do you have working at newspapers in Austin that would base an entire review of an artist’s performance on whether or not they had a good seat?

In fact, when I come up with an idea for a parody I try to resist the urge to Google the idea to see if someone has done it already because the answer is almost always, “Yes, of course they have, they’ve thought of it!”

People say releasing an album is like giving birth, but it’s more like having a gallbladder operation.

I’m very analytical, I’m very precise.

I think that was the genesis of my polka medleys, because every rock song I played on the accordion just sounded like a polka and my friends thought it was funny.

Midget wrestling on channel 3, it costs me 50 bucks a month.

I like the guitar-driven music of Nirvana at its peak. At that point, I thought there was a lot of really exciting music coming out.

And then I’ll try and arrange them in a way that they would tell a semi-cohesive story.

I’m a music fan, and I can listen to the radio, or music, without thinking, “How am I going to screw this up?” [Laughs] If I’m really actively trying to think of a parody, then I’ll have my antenna out, and be a little more proactive about it.

It is a difficult matter to argue with the belly since it has no ears.

Opinions are like belly buttons; everybody has one. I never knock a man for his opinion.

Swollen in head, weak in legs, sharp in tongue but empty in belly.

One man’s theology is another man’s belly laugh.

I was learning that among friends, a smile can be better than a belly laugh.

I asked these Indians: “Do men ever make Chicha?” My question was met with gales of laughter. The women howled. Bent over in hilarity, one replied, “Men can’t brew. Chicha made by men would only make gas in the belly.

Isocrates was in the right to insinuate, in his elegant Greek expression, that what is got over the Devil’s back is spent under his belly.

So many complaints boil down to the belly ache of the fragile, mortal, ignored ego in a vast and indifferent universe.