“It’s like Mark Twain once said to his wife, Olivia: “How many times do I have to say it—over the top!” He wasn’t talking about women being overly dramatic. He was in fact referring to the proper placement of toilet paper. And I agree to a certain extent. Women can be very dramatic at times. * Quote and anecdote taken from Dora J. Arod’s biography titled: “Mark Twain’s Mustache—the World’s Greatest Facial Hair. Or Certainly Top Three, and No Lower Than Number Four.”

“I’m like Twain, Nietzsche, and Dali in that I have three mustaches. (I have two of them disguised as eyebrows). Women love men like me, like my clones.”

“A Cyclops on a unicycle juggling three giant eyeballs couldn’t compare to the balanced vision my writing presents. In fact, noted linguist and translation expert Dora J. Arod had these flattering words to say about my writing: “I wouldn’t read Jarod’s writing—not even if he paid me to read it. And he does pay me to read his writing, but that doesn’t mean I do.” Of course the quote continued on, but that was the only part that was praising.”

“Based solely on the mustache, who would you rather be: Mark Twain, Rollie Fingers, or Frida Kahlo?”

“The best description of this book is found within the title. The full title of this book is:"This is the story my great-grandfather told my father, who then told my grandfather, who then told me about how The Mythical Mr. Boo, Charles Manseur Fizzlebush Grissham III, better known as Mr. Fizzlebush, and Orafoura are all in fact me and Dora J. Arod, who sometimes shares my pen, paper, thoughts, mind, body, and soul, because Dora J. Arod is my pseudonym, as he/it incorporates both my first and middle name, and is also a palindrome that can be read forwards or backwards no matter if you are an upright man in the eyes of God or you are upside down in a tank of water wearing purple goggles and grape jelly discussing how best to spread your time between your work, your wife, and the toasted bread being eaten by the man you are talking to who goes by the name of Dendrite McDowell, who is only wearing a towel on his head and has an hourglass obscuring his “time machine”--or the thing that he says can keep him young forever by producing young versions of himself the way I avert disaster in that I ramble and bumble like a bee until I pollinate my way through flowery situations that might otherwise have ended up being more than less than, but not equal to two short parallel lines stacked on top of each other that mathematicians use to balance equations like a tightrope walker running on a wire stretched between two white stretched limos parked on a long cloud that looks like Salt Lake City minus the sodium and Mormons, but with a dash of pepper and Protestants, who may or may not be spiritual descendents of Mr. Maynot, who didn’t come over to America in the Mayflower, but only because he was “Too lazy to get off the sofa,” and therefore impacted this continent centuries before the first television was ever thrown out of a speeding vehicle at a man who looked exactly like my great-grandfather, who happens to look exactly like the clone science has yet to allow me to create”

“One to five, I’m not sure how most people would rate me. But I’m certainly top four to anyone who doesn’t have a thumb.”

“My facial hair is imperative. I put the must in mustache.”