Who the hell called them pot holes and not rodents?
My luck can best be described as:
Loses $50 but finds a lighter.
Shit. It’s empty.
I like dogs, but it’s like having a permanent baby.
A cat is like having a permanent teenager.
You have 3 meals a day?
Are you a millionaire or an inmate?
What idiot called it a transplant and not re-organ-izing?
Day 8 of quitting smoking: I have 376 gallons of blood to donate. Various types. None is mine.
Thanks to this face I’ve been forced to work on my personality and wit for decades.
My autocorrect changed epi to epic so this death is gonna be awesome.
Teenagers. Can’t live with them. Can’t get rid of them without bringing the cops around.
Dear Grocery store clerk,
What part of me searching madly and paying in nickels & dimes suggests I can donate a dollar to the food bank?