Enough About Me
I don’t really love Satan.
We’re just good friends.
I used to steal “Shoplifters Will Be Prosecuted” signs.
I once walked through the Mercedes exhibit at the New York Auto Show shouting, “Where’s Hitler’s staff car?”
I don’t drink alcohol anymore, but when I did, everything I drank had a screw top or came in a mylar bag, so my idea of letting wine breathe is throwing up.
I am constitutionally incapable of resisting a free tote bag.
I once placed pictures of naked women—taken from a tasteful women’s magazine article, not a nudie mag—in random places in the Salt Lake City airport because its magazine stands cover up photos of women in bathing suits.
When valuing gift baskets, I go by weight.
I don’t write notes in books I give as gifts, but I always check hotel room bibles for messages and write ones for future guests.
Barry Goldwater once sang “Happy Birthday” to me—along with everyone else in the dining room at the lodge at the north rim of the Grand Canyon.
I was at the Francis Bacon exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art on the day of Michael Jackson’s funeral: I’m certain it was a less weird place to be.
I drink filtered water but eat Slim Jims, occasionally at the same time.
I came in second in a sweepstakes contest where first place was a trip to New Zealand and my prize was a Sundance branded pen, journal and umbrella.
I realized I wasn’t paying attention to my appearance when I was walking home one day and a guy tried to give me bottles and cans because he thought I was homeless and needed to recycle them for change.
I was ordained by the First Universal Church Triumphant of the Apathetic Agnostic, which was torn apart by a schism formed between those who believed in promoting the religion and those who were apathetic about it.
I wouldn’t kill a sacred cow—but I might draw a mustache on it.