“Mother, she likes the blue material just fine.”

I started selling out comedy clubs before I got to town with no advertising. I was selling out theaters just on the rumor that I was going to be there.

Here’s how I operate. When I see something I like, 20 years later, I ask her brother for her phone number. She don’t even see me coming.

I’m not willing to drag my fans down a road I don’t believe in. That’s just my one little principle. I’ve only got one, and that’s it.

There have been times when I played more than others, but I’ve been a road comic for a quarter of a century, so I’ve always played golf on the road because you have a lot of time to kill.

My biggest pet peeve, I guess, is other comedians criticizing Larry the Cable Guy.

I want my fans to feel like we’re always in touch. Because without ’em, I wouldn’t be able to do any of this.

Pace, rhythm and timing. Pace, rhythm and timing is what it’s about. The content’s got to be great, but then it’s got to be delivered. It’s a tricky thing to do, and it takes a lot of work.

You can’t fix stupid.

I don’t do talk shows or go on Dr. Phil’s show. He’s a friend of mine, and, no, he doesn’t give me any advice. He doesn’t give solicited advice.

But I work harder now because I have so much more exposure. And actually the harder you work as a writer, the better you get at it. It’s like anything else. It’s a muscle you have to exercise. I write more now than ever.

As long as I stay engaged with everybody else, then I’ll create more comedy. It’s just when I shut off and stay at home… What helps me is just to keep moving.

Let’s face it: a lot of my material comes from the stuff that happens to me on the road.

I’d rather do a really good small part than a really bad big part.

I’ve got a great cigar collection – it’s actually not a collection, because that would imply I wasn’t going to smoke every last one of ’em.

Television is 15 hour days. Movies are 18 hour days. And it’s 18 hours of doing not a thing.

You know, my first album, some of those jokes I’d done for twelve years because I couldn’t throw ’em out.

You are my blue crayon, the one I never have enough of, the one I use to color my sky.

When you love a man, he becomes more than a body. His physical limbs expand, and his outline recedes, vanishes. He is rich and sweet and right. He is part of the world, the atmosphere, the blue sky and the blue water.

Somewhere over the rainbow, skies are blue, and the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true.

He’s my red adrenaline sky, but I just prayer he never paints me blue.

My sky is too blue for me to be scared of people painting it a little grey.

Let the ocean worry about being blue.

My mind dwells in the blues.

Anyone who sees and paints a sky green and fields blue ought to be sterilized.