“What do you do if you’re in the car and your girlfriend touches your crotch then asks you to remind her to get kitchen scissors?”

Everyone I love I pay.

I don’t feel like I’m with you. And I say, You know what? That was your mother’s gripe, too. And she was right. And you’re also correct. When you cop to something, you get to the next level. In this case, the next level is: I just learned something from my twelve-year-old.

I think comedy is on an organic upsurge right now because when I started, it was 1978 at The Comedy Store and Letterman had just stopped emceeing his morning show.

My humor was kind of from my dad and all the stuff that we went through, which was a lot of death. My humor was an escape.

I don’t censor myself, but I don’t want to force my sick-skewed version of the world, either.

I have no agenda, nothing to control.

In the creative sense, I’m looking forward to collaborating with people I have mutual respect for to create some really good work.

Sometimes I wish I hadn’t said something foolish. It is then that I realize the power of mime.

Think well of yourself and others will too. Unless those others are in government, banking, or show business.

It’s 103 comedians, or however many it is, and how would everyone tell it. It’s enough people of substance that it makes you think of the people who aren’t there that are alive.

Wise men say, only fools rush in. Wise men are so slow.

If you’re a host of a video show and you’re on the cleanest show on television for eight years, people want to say, ‘Well, that’s what that person does.’ That was the dilemma for me, career-wise.

I am stressed because once I am flattened out so thin to be able to slide under a doorway, I may never be able to ever be unflattened so I could be regular sized again.

Friend of mine just told me he used to be a bad alcoholic. I calmed him down. Told him he was a good alcoholic just a horrible drinker.

I’m completely changing my diet. My nutritionist recommends I must now stop eating food I have already eliminated.

My haircutter figured out I whine less if I’m under general anesthesia. I just hope when I awaken they haven’t given me a Brazilian wax.

It’s in the kitchen that confidences are exchanged, that family life takes place; it’s among the remains of a meal or when your’re elbow-deep in peelings that you ask yourself what life is all about, rather than when you’re sunk in an armchair in the sitting room.

I miss my wife, I miss my home, I miss my dogs, I miss my kitchen, which is something I like to do outside of this is cook.

From my earliest memory, times of crisis seemed to end up with women in the kitchen preparing food for men.

The place I like best in this world is the kitchen. No matter where it is, no matter what kind, if it’s a kitchen, if it’s a place where they make food, it’s fine with me. Ideally it should be well broken in. Lots of tea towels, dry and immaculate. Where tile catching the light (ting! Ting!)” (p. 3).

A lot of Thanksgiving days have been ruined by not carving the turkey in the kitchen.

Reading is performance. The reader–the child under the blanket with a flashlight, the woman at the kitchen table, the man at the library desk–performs the work.

The worst mistake of a woman is to go to the kitchen, because then she never gets out of there.

It is Sunday, mid-morning-Sunday in the living room, Sunday in the kitchen, Sunday in the woodshed, Sunday down the road in the village: I hear the bells, calling me to share God’s grace.